"Come oooooon!" Scout whined, staring at the burly Russian sitting on a small wooden chair. The Russian seemed less than eager to move from his location or give in to the boy's demands any time soon.

"Nyet," he said. This answer did not please the Scout, and he brought himself closer into the Heavy's face. He looked straight into his eyes, hoping to see a shred of emotion.

He didn't.

"Come ooooon!" he protested. At that point, the Sniper and the Engineer reappeared in the room, the Texan carrying something resembling a cardboard shoebox in his hands. They both looked at the Bostonian shouting at the Russian, who couldn't have cared less about the Scout's presence.

"Come ooooon! Don't be a fag! Come on, man! A fatass baldie like you's gawt to have a bunch-a lame Christmases."

The Russian yawned loudly, to irritate the Scout. The young man responded by making a series of angry spasms, punching the air as he groaned through his teeth. He finished his outburst with a stomp as he looked at the Heavy one final time. The other teammates found it particularly humorous.

"Ya mean to tell me that you…you of all people… are the one to break the bad Christmas story streak?!"

"Da." The Heavy showed no emotion giving his response.

The Medic rolled his eyes at the young Bostonian plopping his body hopelessly on the red couch with a sigh. The strength of impact the young man's body had made the Medic jump slightly from his position on the couch, but he hardly felt it. He was too busy rubbing his temples in frustration.

"You Dummkopfs are trying my patience vith zis Christmas talk. I really, really do not care for it."

The Texas noticed the large cardboard box in his arms, a small enclosed envelope taped on it. He walked up to the doctor, who looked up to the box as if it were a bag of foul-smelling garbage.

"This here's fer you, Doc. Stretch found it."

The doctor looked over to the Australian, who sat on a large armchair and stretched his arms up.

"It wos left in one of the crates outside, mate," he said, his words mixing with a relaxed sigh. Everyone on the team was looking at the cardboard box. The Scout seemed quite anxious to take a look at its contents.

"Da German Grinch gawt a present? No fair, I wanna present! No fair! I wannit, I wannit, I wannit!" he yelled as he reached his arm out to grab the box. The doctor stood up and held the cardboard container up. The Bostonian kneeled on the couch and reached up to it, but failed to grab it. Every attempt at capturing the elusive mystery box resulted in an angry grunt.

"Aw, forget it!" Scout said before plopping on the sofa once again. "It's probably some German crap. Like a German version of a crappy present…like a wool sweater with a swastika… or a box of dice for playin' Nahtzee, or, uh… is there such a thing as an anti-draidel?"

He asked, looking around the room. The Spy slapped his forehead in disbelief as he saw the Soldier place his hand under his chin, pondering the existence of an anti-draidel. The Medic huffed angrily.

"It is not a Christmas present, Dummkopf! I…" he looked at the box and shook it to clarify its contents.

"I…I actually haff no idea vat it is."

The doctor detached a yellowed note taped on the box. He read the first few lines, his eyes moving across the paper rapidly.

He squealed.

"What was noise?" Heavy asked, while the rest of the team tried to control their chuckles. The Medic quickly hid the note behind his back, a small smile forming across his nervous face.

"Herr Heavy, vhy don't you vant to tell us about your Christmas?" he clumsily changed the subject. The Scout moved his gaze from the secret note and focused his eyes on the Heavy, his young Bostonian mind not being able to focus on two matters at once. The Heavy looked at the doctor, crossly.

"American Christmas never celebrated where Heavy from. Never had such customs. No Christmas trees or presents in my family. Were not greedy like you."

The teammates who had already told their stories were now staring at their feet in silent humiliation. The Heavy leaned back on his surprisingly sturdy chair.

"My father was counter-revolutionary. When he was killed, me, mother, older sister and five younger sisters were deported to gulag."

"Yuck!" Scout stuck his tongue out and narrowed his eyes in disgust. "I hate gulags. My Ma tried making one, dis one time. Tasted like crap. It was all greasy and shit."

"Gulag is labor camp," Heavy explained.

"…oh."

"Pardon me, if I may," Spy interrupted; "But according to your file I once took a peek at, you are the youngest of four. Two older brothers, a sister and yourself. There ees no evidence of the younger sis-."

"Youngest of four, correct. Youngest of four that lived."

The room felt as if somebody had slapped everyone in the face. Heavy hardly looked affected by this, and continued talking.

"We left three months later. Gulag burned down in December, 1941. My sister set it on fire."

There was a small hint of pride in his voice as he said that. Medic smiled as he carefully read the note taped to the shoebox.

"We all escaped. I was sent to assassination camp for young boys around December's end, by sister. She wanted me to train, become ruthless killer like her and brothers."

"Whoa, mate! A killer camp fer kiddies, this oughtta be good," Sniper smirked as he fidgeted in his seat. Almost immediately, everyone looked up at the Russian.

"That same day, something truly evil happened."

"Ooooh!" cried the Soldier; "Is there senseless violence in this story? If there is, I want to hear it!"

"Senseless as it ever can be," Heavy replied. The Soldier squealed with joy, in a manly way.

Khabarovsk Krai, December 25th, 1941

"Now remember, brother. This is the very assassin camp your brothers trained in. Your father spent years perfecting his skills. Your great grandfather was turned into a nefarious killing machine here. Here you will find how cruel life is. Here you will discover the limits of your strength. You will learn many ways of combat. You will learn to rely on yourself and yourself alone."

"But, sister! How long am I supposed to stay here?"

The twelve-year-old's sister looked into the distance, as she took one careful step across the crackling white snow. His mentor was renouncing her duties as a guardian. A young girl merely two years older than her brother was soon going to leave him completely alone.

"You will stay here until the blue moon comes twice. When my father's enemies lie in their blood, I will come and get you. By then, you should be fully trained, and ready to join the family business with our brothers and me." She clutched a large Kalashnikov securely in her small, white hand. Greasy blonde locks of hair fell out of her white ushanka. Her brother looked at her back.

"Where are you…going now, sister?"

The girl turned back to him.

"I am going to Germany. The non-agression pact we signed with them hardly applies to me. Our father died in unknown circumstances. As far as I'm concerned, everyone is a suspect. Farewell, brother."

And just like that, she disappeared into the blizzard, shielding her face with her right arm. Her brother tried calling out to her, but it was futile; she was already out of his sight. He nodded to her, looking at the deep footprints she left in the snow. He thought of the fate the Germans will have to suffer through after his dear sister comes to their homeland.

Woe betide those who anger Natasha Drukenski.

The young boy then turned around and began walking through the thick snow. This was no camp in a traditional sense. It was in a forest, deep in Dzhugdzhur Mountains. It was a survivalist camp, every boy would arrive with only some scarce rations, twenty bullets and a bottle of vodka. The boy huffed and adjusted the large rifle strapped on his back. He held a small bag in his right hand. His heavy boots marched through the snow, which was beginning to become thinner as he walked into the lush evergreen forest.

His face was becoming red, and he looked around the forest. This was survival of the fittest, a battle of brawn and brains. The winner was the last one standing. His family had a history; every single male in his family survived this training camp. And now, it was his turn.

A small spotted sparrow flew on the boy's right shoulder. It chirped loudly, much to the boy's irritation.

"Leave, sparrow," he commanded; "You're giving away my position!"

The bird cared not about the boy's command. It fluttered its hazel-brown wings and rubbed its small head against the boy's chin. It cooed softly, before jumping down the boy's stretched-out arm. The young boy smiled.

"What is it, little bird? You need something? Maybe a little vodka?"

He almost laughed at his suggestion. Then he realized that this small creature was the only thing that made him laugh ever since he had escaped the gulag earlier that month. Without thinking, he put his gloved hand into the bag. The sparrow tilted its head to the side in interest. Soon it watched the boy unwrap a sandwich, rip off a small, barely visible crumb of bread, and give it to the bird.

"Here you go, comrade."

The small bird pecked at the bread from the palm of the boy's hand. It chirped thankfully and flew happily into the air. It landed on a small broken fence. It was as white as the snow, falling around them in large flakes. The boy looked at the bird as he chewed on his sandwich before tossing it in the bag. The sparrow looked at him and opened its brownish beak. It seemed to form a small smile.

The boy smiled at his new friend as well.

And then, tragedy.

A sharp knife flew by the small bird's neck, and into its plump feathery chest. The boy almost dropped his sandwich in bemusement. He ran over to it, and watched the crimson blood pool on the cold, icy surface of the wood's ground. The bird managed to chirp, faintly. He looked up, trying to find out where the lethal weapon came from. And there, he saw another boy, standing behind a tree.

This boy wasn't aiming for his competition. He aimed for the poor defenseless bird. The two young boys looked at each other, their eyes locked. The killer ran away, thinking that Drukenski would go after him. But the young boy had something else on his mind. He picked up the bird in his hands. The bird's bloodied body slipped off the knife's blade as he did this.

He didn't make a sound. He listened to the wind, whooshing through the woods, and later, the bird's last breath. It then closed its eyes, peacefully. The boy thought about the killer, wasting his weapons on something as innocent and harmless as a little bird. He looked at the knife's bloodied blade. He could see his stiff expression on it. He was angry. Only cowards try and kill harmless creatures.

This boy hated cowards.

"All you deserve now, my friend, is a proper grave."

Under the broken fence, he dug out some of the frozen dirt. He pushed the red snow aside, along with some bullet shells. After ten minutes of digging, the hole he made was roughly the size of one of his fists. Still, he could place the bird's carcass inside it. For a second, he thought that he could feel its heartbeat. Just for a second, and then it was gone.

After piling up the snow back on its small, lifeless body, the boy took out one of the shells, and jammed it into the dirty snow, as a reminder never to be a coward himself. He hunched over the small grave and felt cold, icy drops trickling from his eyes. He wiped them off and grabbed his rifle, marching through the snow again. He needed to find the cowardly boy. Life had to go on, despite this.

Silence.

Scout's faint sobbing broke the harsh silence, coming in short, silent bursts. The Bostonian covered his face with his bandaged hands in shame.

"Zat…vas… horrible." The doctor tried not to think about the small sparrow, reminding him so much of his beloved Archimedes. The Engineer placed his hand on the Scout's jerking shoulder, trying to comfort him the way he used to comfort Sarah when she was younger and prone to nightmares.

"That… that's not even a little bit funny, private," noted the Soldier.

"No. It's not," Heavy agreed. He then stood up abruptly, mumbling about cleaning his Sasha. He slowly moved towards the door, not saying another word.

The team looked at the Heavy in cold, harsh silence. The door closed behind the Russian with a slam, which made everyone flinch. They all felt truly and utterly terrible. The Scout nodded to the Texan who then retreated to his place.

Quiet.

Everything was quiet.

"Ey, 'hoo wonts ta hear a story of me blowin' up half-a Scotland?" the Demoman interrupted.

The team looked at the drunken Scot angrily. However, they really wanted to hear this story so they let him speak.