REDs Under The Beds – A Team Fortress 2 Fanfic

I very much like to believe that I own the Team Fortress 2 characters, but Valve's lawyers don't agree with me...

As you may notice, I chose not to write the character's voices in Accent. This is partly because I don't trust myself to write, for example, a Scottish accent, and partly because your imaginations are perfectly capable of supplying them yourselves!

Somewhere in the world, the Announcer lit a victory cigarette. It was a moot point, since she would have lit one whether they won or lost. Nor could the REDs see her, so they didn't know she was having one. But the point was that the REDs would commence their victory celebrations. Ceasefire had officially begun.

These parties were highly destructive affairs. If they didn't end up with alcohol spilled over the computer terminals, darts and bits of broken glass stuck in the world maps on the walls, and at least two skulls bruised or smashed in, they didn't consider the event to deserve the moniker of 'party'.

Several hours in, the Sniper had somehow progressed from a couple of beers to leaning heavily against Truckie and belting out "Waltzing Matilda" at the top of his lungs. The Engineer was playing acoustic guitar with understandable difficulty, and the Pyro was leaping around like a prawn on a hot barbie, playing air guitar on his axe. The others had decided to have another one of their "anthem wars" with him, each singing their own country's anthem. The Heavy sang an off-key rendition of the Russian Anthem; the Demo slurred "Flower of Scotland"; and the Soldier was determinedly screaming the lyrics of "Star Spangled Banner" in a monotone.

The Medic chimed in with "Das Deutschlandlied" until the Soldier launched himself at his neck, ranting about krauts. As far as he was concerned, anyone who preferred something that sounded like a bowel disorder (re: bratwurst) over a good old artery clogging American goddamn cheeseburger couldn't be trusted.

The Spy was sitting a safe distance away with a glass of some kind of whiskey, shuffling a deck of cards in each hand and looking incredibly bored at the wrestling match going on. He already knew that "Le Marsellaise" was the catchiest, most rousing, and best anthem of any country, so there was no need to treat these philistines to it.

The Soldier suddenly collapsed onto the floor, inciting bouts of laughter from everyone in the room. The Sniper squinted at him, and then noticed the large hypodermic syringe sticking out of his back.

"What did you do to him?"

"I injected him with a potent paralytic," said the Medic, who was grinning vindictively.

The Sniper was silent for a few seconds. "Won't that stop his breathing and all?" He had experience with this kind of thing, after all – namely, he tipped his arrows with that kind of stuff.

"That's possible, ja."

"As much as I wish you could permanently put the Soldier to sleep, I think you oughta keep him alive for now, mate," Sniper said firmly.

The Medic looked annoyed, but conceded. "Alright, help me drag him to the infirmary," he said reluctantly. They grasped the bulky body, and dragging it around the body of the snoring Scout and a pyramid of empty beer bottles, they managed to the Soldier onto a bunk in the infirmary.

Ow, my head. Was that me just singing in an off-key voice ten minutes ago? I think I'll call it a night. The Sniper tipped his hat and left.

The Sniper dragged himself out of bed. Whether or not he had a hangover didn't change his early waking time at all. He blearily brushed his teeth, and then ran half a can's worth of Ritzy Rick's Hair Fixative through his disheveled bed hair. He went downstairs and put some decaf in the percolator.

One by one the others started trickling into the kitchen, attracted by the smell of the coffee, and they started fixing themselves breakfast. The hung over Scout dropped a dangerous amount of aspirin tablets into his can of Bonk! Atomic Energy Drink, which promptly fizzed all over the table.

The only person missing was the Demo, and he'd probably slumber until the bedtime for everyone else.

"Hey Digger, glad to see you fresh off the ventilator," said the Sniper to the Soldier, who'd just walked in. And glad to see that the Doc's drunken medicinal treatment didn't make you worse. The Soldier glared fiercely at the Medic, but sat a safe distance away. "Traitor," he whispered. The Medic just flipped him the bird when he wasn't looking.

Damn Soldier could barely cooperate with the Medic most of the time. His severe WWII psychosis/PTSD made his eyelid twitch every time he even heard a German accented word come from the Medic's mouth. Surprisingly, he'd been completely oblivious to the whole subsequent "Reds under the beds" Commie scare, and he was perfectly matey with the Heavy. The Sniper found his mind drifting to what the Vietnam War equivalent could be – "Chinks under the sinks"? That'd be a good slogan. He suppressed a chuckle at his stupid thoughts.

"What's the plan for today?" asked the Engineer.

"The monthly supply delivery is arriving in a bit. Someone will have to sit up at the delivery bay to get it. Other than that, sit back and wait for the usual word from the Announcer," said the Sniper. He avoided looking directly at everyone else, opting instead to take a sip of his coffee. Watching the blokes shoveling food into their mouths with reckless abandon made him feel physically ill.

"Why can't we get a holiday for once, jeez," said the Scout. "I miss the fine Boston chicks."

"Mm mmf mmf mmfmm," said the Pyro gleefully.

"You're just jealous because your ma hasn't got time for you since she's been seeing me," he retorted. The rest of the conversation was the usual banter.

The Engie rushed off after brekkie to set up his sentries and dispensers. It was a ceasefire, sure, but you were allowed to set up the toys. As long as the BLUs weren't stupid enough to set foot in RED's base, it was good and dandy.

The Heavy lumbered off, muttering about giving Sasha a bath.

The Soldier stomped away, no doubt to the Battle Room to push plastic figures around a map and devise a couple hundred more permutations for the next battle's strategy.

"Well, I have nothing to do today. How dull," said the Medic to the almost empty room. "Sniper, I have a fine idea for you. Our talented Engineer has a schematic for a bionic sniper eye…and I am a talented surgeon, if I do say so myself. The procedure would only take a few hours…"

"No thanks. How about you wait for the delivery truck, there's a good bloke."

The Medic sighed, still wistfully gazing at the Aussie, no doubt imagining a lump of metal and wiring in the place of his eye. "Very well. I need the walk anyway."

"Take Scout as well, he's full of energy, he could use a walk too."

"You mean a babysitter," the Medic muttered below his breath.

"We really should confiscate his Bonk! on ceasefire days," the Spy said, rolling his eyes.

"Hey! No one touches my Bonk! Unless you want a fistful of my…fists, buddy."

Deciding he had to be the responsible one, the Sniper didn't ask the Pyro to incinerate all of the garbage that was lying around the Communications Room, but went around methodically picking everything up. Ugh. Afterwards, he sat down at one of those computer terminals, put his feet up, and read a book. He was the official recipient of radio messages, because he didn't trust the others to take messages.

The Scout's voice started issuing from their radio. "Hey Snipes, you there pal? How much longer this gonna take? I've been to morgues that were more freakin' active than this place."

The Sniper pressed the button to reply and glanced at his wristwatch. "Should be here around this time. Just sit tight for a bit. It usually comes within the half hour."

"Aww, man. I'm bored. The Doc is boring. I wanna…" The Sniper muted before he could hear the rest.

Time slipped away. He was still reading when a harsh voice came from the loudspeaker. "Requesting communications with RED base. Requesting communications with RED base." The Sniper put down Saxton Hale's 50 Ways To Pop A Human Head, changed the channel, andpressed the button. "This is RED Sniper, say your message, over."

"This is a mandatory protocol informing you of a power struggle contingency that has occurred within the corporate structure of Reliable Excavators & Demolitions Limited. You are to be advised to continue the ceasefire until further orders."

That was a mouthful to mull around the noggin – Sniper took a moment to digest what she said. "So this 'power struggle' thing won't affect us, then?"

"Our interim leader has ordered to freeze external support and logistics to your base. Therefore the delivery truck that was scheduled for tomorrow has been cancelled until further notice."

"Do you know how long that'll be?"

"That's for us to know and you to shut your mouth about, minion," barked the ever charming Announcer.

The Sniper was thinking that he should protest. To burst out in "but"s and "you can't"s. However, he knew that they had plenty of food, medical kits, arms, and other supplies stored up. And he was a sensible guy. There was no need to lose his head over this.

"Alright. Sniper out."

He looked at his watch. Forty five minutes had passed. He changed the frequency once more and pressed the button. "Scout, just come back to base."

"I'd already freakin' left half an hour ago, pal."

"Whaaat? But my new Bonk! was supposed to come today!"

"You mean your monthly postcard from your mommy."

"Shut up."

"Never mind the pansy soda, what about my Scrumpy!"

The whole team was gathered in the Communications Room now, and the Sniper had just spilled the news to them. None of them were taking it very well.

"Do the BLUs know about the situation?" asked the Engineer.

"Oh yeah, who says those freakin' BLUs won't come over here and try to bust our ass if they know RED's in the shit?" said the Scout.

Everyone else started talking at once. The Spy cleared his throat. "I don't think the BLU Command would do that. After all, it would not do to anger the new RED leader once they have sorted out this mess."

Yes, we should sit tight. The Spy's got his head screwed on right, even if he is a wanker, thought the Sniper. He calmly voiced that thought (apart from the wanker bit). Predictably, the Scout let out a howl of protest.

"Butbutbut my Bonk!"

"Well you'll just have to ration that out for the rest of the time, son!" barked the Soldier. "In dire situations a man must do whatever it takes to survive! I'm almost positive Sun Tzu said that!" The Soldier probably has 'WWSZD' engraved on his dog tag, the Sniper wryly thought.

"But I have none left, moron! I plan out my drinkin' schedule around those monthly deliveries."

"I don't like the smell of this situation neither, but a trooper must put his duty above everything else. So stand down you filthy cockroach, you dirt-crawling worm!"

"Who the hell you callin' worm –"

"Scout, Soldier, break it up!" yelled the Sniper. "Just...go and distract yourself for a while. How about you go hit yourself some baseballs in the delivery bay?"

"I've already hit all my balls into the desert," the Scout griped, but he stomped out of the room.

Chrissakes. It wouldn't be Team RED if they weren't chucking a wobbly over the stupidest things. The Engie noticed his annoyed expression and shrugged. "As usual, you're welcome to my dispensers. Plenty of metal, ammo and healing juice. And I'm the guy who threw out the Scout's baseballs. My sentries are NOT to be used as baseball launchers."