Final Author's Note:
Well, I finally used a nearly normal author's note title. I am so ashamed of myself.
Alas, we have come to the end of a (not so epic) journey. I have been your written-filth-creator.
This is the final chapter of Team Fortress 2 is Weird, in which Team Fortress 2 will be weird, but no more or less weird than canon. (I just love Valve writers. Please don't sue me. #fairuselaws) Thanks again to all of you who managed to make it this far without leaving in utter disgust or boredom, and apologies to those who didn't. (This has honestly gone on for far too long.) If you dislike metafiction, I apologize in advance, humanity's subjective aesthetic values have struck again. (Not sure if I should mark this as crossover, but...nah.)
I've really nothing else to say besides thank you all for letting me infiltrate the world of TF2 through ridiculous fan fiction. Generic well wishes of utmost sincerity!
Featuring Merasmus, Saxton Hale, the Director, Miss Pauling, and original character, the Publicist/PR Manager!
Team Fortress 2 is Weird
The nine classes from both teams lounged about in the lounge (rather redundantly, I might add).
"Well, what else are we to do?"
Shut up.
Miss Pauling, who was still hiding from the Department of Labor, had called them for an impromptu meeting.
"We hired a PR manager after the last debacle," said Miss Pauling.
"What debacle?"
"Honestly, I don't know anymore," Miss Pauling said, sighing. "I think this is about the time the Medics killed all those people for their organs? I'm not sure. Anyway, I want you guys to meet your new PR manager, the Publicist. He's going to help us defuse some of the ... um ... debacle-ness."
"Thank you, ma'am. It's good to meet you, gentlemen. I am the Publicist."
"We don't need a stinking peer manager!" yelled Soldier. "Everyone loves us!"
"But have you seen the player base for your game? It has..." the Publicist paused for rhetorical effect. "...dwindled."
"What game?"
"Mann Co. developed a game to showcase you and your work! Didn't they tell you?"
"Oh yeah. No, we didn't like that," Sniper said. "We felt it was trivializing our experiences as mercenaries."
"Really?"
"Nah, we just couldn't negotiate Pyro's contract, so we gave it a copyright strike."
"But what about the fangirls?" fretted the Publicist. "They'll riot! They'll storm the base! They'll cut off locks of your hair as a souvenir! You'll all be BALD!" he declaimed emphatically, voice quivering with emotion.
"What about it?" the Engineer replied, a bit tersely. Heavy fixed his gaze, unwavering, on the Publicist.
"BALD?!" bellowed Soldier, glowering at the cowering PR manager. "Not a bad idea! In fact, I'll shave off the rest of my hair this instant!"
"Uh, Soldier–" Demoman said.
"Don't try and stop me, soldier!"
"I was just going to hand ye a razor..."
As Soldier took the razor from Demoman, Miss Pauling said, "You know, there's a bigger problem here. The fangirls have probably all gone to Overwatch."
Scout gasped. "You take that back!"
"Come on, people can like two or more things at a time," Engineer said.
Scout immediately brightened. "That's true! I think Immanuel Kant was a real pissant, but I also subscribe to the utilitarian overtones of..."
"Are you sure you put his brain back right?" Engie whispered to the Medic.
"Engineer, I am shocked. Are you suggesting I am incapable of carrying out my duties in a proper manner?"
"Yes," Engineer replied bluntly.
"Fine, I left some of the old brain in. Come on! Can you blame me?"
"But yeah, no one likes anyone better than us!" Scout cut back in. "I mean, look at us! Eh?" He spun around for inspection.
"I'm starting to understand less and less why people even liked any of you in the first place," the Publicist said.
"Come on! I mean, Over-what was that game again?"
"Here," said the Publicist. "Look for yourself."
"I don't see anything– wow, Tracer is way better-looking than me. And Widowmaker's better-looking than Snipes and Spy combined. And Mercy's way better-looking than–"
"We get it!" Medic cried.
"Shush, they'll hear you!" the Publicist hissed.
"Who?"
"The message boards on the– never mind, you don't need to know." The Publicist hauled a gigantic brown briefcase bursting at the seams with folders onto the table.
"Wow," the Scout said, dumbfounded. "It's not blue or red. They even make briefcases that colour?"
"I have compiled a number of possible ways to improve your team's visibility and reputation management," said the Publicist. "One, release comic strips about your lives. Unfortunately, that takes a helluva long time and frankly it's a dying medium."
"You're a dying medium!" yelled his cartoonist from the other room.
"That brings me to step two, release short films about your lives. Unfortunately, my colleague, the Director, has not been responding to the messages I sent him. So that leaves us three, writing short articles about your lives." The Publicist pulled out a notepad and pen, looking at them all expectantly.
"What are ye waiting for?" asked one of the Demomen.
"You have to talk to me," said the Publicist. "Tell me about yourselves. You know, who you are as a person, what you like to do, how many robots you can take down in an hour, how many innocent people you've slaughtered, so on and so forth."
"We already did that with your colleague," the Engineer said. "Besides, I think you're irrevocably biased as a journalist in this case."
The Publicist drew himself up. "Do you mean to impugn my impartiality, sir?"
"Yes. You've heard many rumours, I'm sure, and you've come in with certain expectations about us. Well, whatever they are, they ain't true."
"I don't really care if they're true or not. My job is to take whatever you say and put a positive spin on it. For example, I can say your immoral murderous vandalism sprees and blatant disregard for classical physics is done out of a healthy skepticism of dogmatic authoritarianism and a concern for the rising human population."
"I'm not sure that'll improve their reputations," Miss Pauling said.
"Pfft. We're writing for Teufort, a town of lead-poisoned imbeciles. Of course it will."
"That's very hurtful, you know," the cartoonist called from the other room. "I'm friends with some of those lead-poisoned imbeciles."
"Either way, we're not playin' this game with you," Scout said. "But if you want to play D&D, I am totally up for another game. Right, Miss Pauling?"
"Scout is partially correct. We are not marionettes to be paraded about the public for their amusement," Spy interrupted.
The Publicist sighed. "Maybe not, but if you want to stay relevant, you should be."
Before they could continue, the center of the lounge floor began to glow bright green and wisps of smoke curled up from the edges of the moth-eaten carpet. A howling chasm appeared in its place, as howling chasms were wont to do. It would be strange if one didn't appear, in fact.
"IT IS I, MERASMUS!" the howling chasm announced. "OH WAIT, I HAVEN'T MANIFESTED PROPERLY. GIVE ME JUST – ONE – SECOND – YEOWCH! MAVERY! LET GO!"
Heavy frowned. "Who is Mavery?"
"SHE'S MY PET CAT. SHE'S ADORABLE AND CUDDLY – OW! NOT THE FACE!"
Scout blinked. "Since when did you have a cat?"
"SHUT UP, JEREMY, IT'S BEEN LONELY SINCE TOM DIED!"
The Publicist adjusted his toupee. "Now, that's all very interesting, ma'am, but I have business with these men. Could you come back later?"
"SILENCE!" declaimed Merasmus, who had still not manifested properly. "FOOLS! Your petty squabbles are–"
"Hey, you think we could team up with those Ovalwretch people?" Scout asked. "Wouldn't that solve this whole mess."
"Ha! You thought you were rid of me?" Merasmus, who had finally hit the right wavelength to manifest, jumped up and down, trying in vain to get their attention. "You are just a bunch of baboons with brightly coloured hats! As mere mortals, you can never defeat the eldritch horror that is MERASMUS! I WILL DESTROY YOU ONCE AND FOR ALL!"
"No, Overwatch is an organization aimed at promoting the public interest and ensuring the security of the planet. I don't think you'd qualify."
"FINE! I know how to destroy you all anyway." He floated to Soldier. "They've been lying to you. All of them. These cardboard cutouts of characters are not your friends."
"How dare you accuse Salty Pete, Iron-Eye, and Pepper-Pot Pete of treason!" shouted Soldier.
"What? No, not the real cardboard cutouts–" Merasmus pointed a long, bony finger at the other eight classes. "Them!"
"I know they lie! They tell themselves every day they aren't ugly as–"
"NO!" screeched Merasmus. "I mean they are not from where they say they are! Half of them aren't even American." He jabbed his index frantically at Sniper, Medic, and Pyro. "He's from New Zealand! He's from Germany! And I don't even know what that thing is!"
"Medic's not German," scoffed the Scout. "He's from some place called 'Doucheland'."
"Deutschland," Medic corrected before he could help himself.
"That's what I said. Doucheland."
"IT SOUNDS NOTHING LIKE THAT!"
Engineer had to restrain Medic, who was brandishing a Blutsauger and screeching "He's doing it on purpose!"
"Demoman says he's Scottish all the time..." babbled Merasmus.
"That just means he likes to drink scotch," scoffed the Soldier. "Hell, it's not beer, but it's good enough."
"That is true," belched Demoman.
"I can confirm," the former-RED Medic said. "I've stopped measuring the percentage of alcohol in his blood; I find it far more practical to measure the percentage of blood in his alcohol."
"Heavy is from Siberia, you found him there! He also has a PhD in Russian literature, whatever that is."
"That is clearly just a part of a mission to infiltrate the enemy from within!"
"I AM CONFUSED BY SUBPLOT!" bellowed one of the Heavys.
"Heavy! Did you just use a first-person pronoun?" Miss Pauling cried in joy. "Oh wait, no, he's just a Spy. A bad one at that. Oops."
The former-RED Spy rolled his eyes and elbowed the "Heavy."
"I dunnae think we even have a subplot," said the Demoman. "What are ye going on about?"
The former-BLU Spy brushed himself off. "I simply borrowed the girth of the Heavy to get your attention," he sniffed haughtily. "What are we even discussing anymore? Is it really about whether we should capitulate to the whims of the masses, or are we just prolonging the inevitable realization that we aren't really relevant?"
"Oh, you all are very marketable," said the Publicist. "Potentially even relevant. Just not right now, because you're all being uncooperative pains in my–"
"ARE NONE OF YOU PAYING ANY HEED TO MERASMUS?" Merasmus bellowed in frustration.
"Ma'am, I'll need you to keep your voice down," Miss Pauling said irritably. "And please speak in the first person; you're coming off as very obnoxious."
Merasmus (quite literally) exploded in frustration. "YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS. AND I DON'T TAKE CREDIT OR DEBIT. SOULS ONLY. YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS WITH YOUR SOULS!" With that, the howling chasm collapsed into itself with a schlorp, leaving the carpet slightly more worn than before.
"You know, Frenchie makes a good point," the former-BLU Scout (who was still covered in wizard-ash) said, earning him a glare from the Frenchman in question. "We've made less and less sense with every update...what even happened in this last chapter of our lives? Nothing? Yeah, nothing! It was basically all filler!"
"That is true," mused Heavy (a real one this time). "But last time something happen, Sascha break. I think this 'filler' is better."
"But this is entirely substanceless! What is the use in getting up every day to go through the same empty motions, especially if it would be for some unseen, fickle audience that cares not about our well-being beyond their own selfish interests?" the other Scout chimed in.
"Do you seriously believe that your existence has been contrived for the amusement of an unseen audience?" Miss Pauling asked in exasperation.
"No, but my fictional game-self was! Wait, I've confused myself."
"I hardly think the life of your virtual incarnation is relevant to this discussion," said the Publicist tiredly.
"Wait, was this jus' a team-building exercise in disguise?" Sniper asked in disgust.
"No! This is me trying to make you interesting and palatable to an audience. I am trying to find something positive – anything positive – to report about you, but you won't give me anything. All I have is that you get accosted by annoying wizards and argue about nationality! Why do you even tolerate each other?! How can you even stand living with yourselves?"
The room went silent, except for the sounds of a pianoforte in the other room. The cartoonist, no doubt, had bored of eavesdropping on their conversations.
The former-RED Scout said, as the orchestral strains of the diminutive instrument reached a miniature crescendo. "You know what, you're right, new guy. We may live a life of meaninglessness, but that just means we have the duty to find meaning in our lives for ourselves. We may have made no sense at all, but at least we made no sense together. As a team. More platitudes and truisms. And that's why we tolerate each other. Because in this messy world of chaos and uncertainty, the only certainty we have is seeing each others' ugly mugs every day, and getting ours punched in. Put that in your article." With that, he sauntered out the room, tripping over the carpet to the solemn plinking of the pianoforte. The other mercs, after a momentary hesitation, moved to leave.
The Publicist tapped his pen against his blank notepad.
"You know, that's not half bad. I could begin with that."
"All right," Miss Pauling cut in. "I think that was a very productive session. We'll try again tomorrow. Let's try again tomorrow?"
She looked expectantly around the lounge room, which was now mostly empty.
"Alright, thanks for coming!" she called after them.
She sighed and flopped down on one of the chairs the Publicist pulled out for her, and picked some wizard-ash out of her hair. "I guess I should've just made up stories for you to tell."
"That would have been immensely preferable," agreed the Publicist, mopping his face with a handkerchief. "I think I'll have to defer all the writing to my interns and take the credit for it again to make up for the time we wasted today."
"Well, tell them to make it wacky. Like, so wacky that you almost can't believe it. Because I really don't want people to believe the stuff that goes on here."
"I've seen worse," said the Publicist dismissively. "By the way, how opposed are you to metafictional intertextuality? I personally treat the fourth wall as more of a obstruction than an often crucial component of fiction, and I'm really phoning this in."
"Yeah, go nuts."
"Should any of them achieve hypostasis?"
"Uh...no?"
"You have no idea what that is, do you? Never mind. Some people will never reach anagnorisis."
"Okay then," Miss Pauling said. "So, about your contract..."
"Oh, of course! Nine pieces for nine classes, and perhaps one to wrap it all up, yes? I can deliver them all within a month, if I use my interns."
"Yes, very good. My boss would like to discuss the details of payment with you within the next two months..."
"Ah! In person? How magnanimous of her."
"Yes," she said, discreetly running a finger over her new pistol. "When the time comes, could you actually meet me in front of those abandoned mines? You know the ones. The Administrator likes to record her business deals, and apparently the acoustics there are incomparable..."