It had been a long time since the little black phone on the Administrator's nightstand had rang this late at night. No, this early in the morning. So few people had her number. For a few years, she was convinced that the ringer had gone dead entirely. She wasn't about to give the phone up, however. It was an antique, painted with smooth lacquer. It had a rotary extension on the top of it, golden and shiny. Its ring was charming. If it hadn't been so late at night, perhaps it wouldn't have annoyed her.

She reached over, lifting the earpiece from its cradle. "Saxton, it's four in the morning. I'm not in the mood."

The voice on the other end of the line was not a burly Australian seeking amorous attention. It was pleasant enough, she supposed. Low, sultry, feminine. There was something off about its speech patterns, like the voice had to plug in crucial words into its sentence. Clearly nothing human. "Hello. I am entity [DAISY], generated by the Rosebud Integrated Intranet. Please speak now to have your identity confirmed."

The Administrator was not pleased to be dealing with a computer this early in the morning. Not like it had a choice in calling her. It was part of a computer network set up by one of the Engineers. He'd originally intended it for use in battle, but after interference from his superiors and the other team, he implemented it solely as an emergency broadcast system. She could dock his pay later for the disturbance, but she decided to be civil with the machine. "Go ahead."

"Wait, please." It took a few seconds for the system to run its check. In the meantime, it played some smooth jazz that the Administrator found to be oddly soothing. The voice interrupted an alto sax solo. "My voice recognition process has determined that you are [THE ADMINISTRATOR]. Is this correct? Please answer yes or no."

The Administrator grumbled. "Yes."

Daisy began relaying data to the Administrator. "There [HAVE] been [FAILURES] reported with systems at [BADLANDS]. Electrical power is [OFFLINE]. Telephone connections are [OFFLINE]. Cable connections are [OFFLINE]. Radio communications are [FIFTY PERCENT][DAMAGED]. The cause of these alerts is [UNKNOWN]. [SEISMIC ACTIVITY] has been reported in the area. Weather conditions are [NORMAL]. Additional normal but unscheduled activities have been reported. Would you like to hear more? Please answer yes or no."

"Yes," the Administrator said. She picked a cucumber off of her left eye, placing it on the nightstand. She was quick to fling the other vegetable slice aside as well.

"[NINE] respawn activations have occurred at [COLDFRONT]. Respawned individuals in order are from team [TEAM NAME NOT FOUND] : [PYRO], [DEMOMAN], [SOLDIER], [HEAVY], [MEDIC], [ENGINEER], [SNIPER], [SCOUT], [SPY]." Daisy took a break from her listing to remind the Administrator of what she already knew. "Please note that respawn activation in any location other than the stationed troop zone only occurs when a respawn generator has gone unresponsive for more than fifteen minutes. Contact should be made immediately with team [TEAM NAME NOT FOUND] to confirm a respawn generator failure. Do you understand? Please answer yes or no."

The Administrator growled. This was not only an unusual failure, but a catastrophic one. "Yes."

Daisy presented the Administrator with an option. "I have a subordinate listed under your name. Would you like me to contact [MISS PAULING] with this information? Please answer yes or—"

"Yes!" The Administrator huffed. Damned repetitive thing.

"I will contact [MISS PAULING]." Daisy continued droning on. "Black box data has been collected for this failure. The last two minutes of video and audio data from [BADLANDS] headquarters will be forwarded to your personal computer and your monitoring station at [TEUFORT]. Do you need me to repeat any portion of this message? Plea—"

The Administrator stopped it before it got too far. "No."

Daisy concluded its report. "Thank you for your time. I am sorry for any inconvenience this event causes you. If you wish to review this report, please consult the automatically created document in drive [P]. You may now hang up. This is entity [DAISY] of the Rosebud Integrated Intranet, now ending transmission."

The line went dead, a cold tone ringing through the earpiece. The Administrator placed the phone on its cradle. She grimaced, wiping vanity cream from her face. Even if managing this war was her occupation, she hated starting it so early in the morning. She took fifteen minutes to prepare herself, going through her usual ritual of selecting a suit and donning her make-up. She unrolled curlers from her hair, flinging each one into the bathroom sink with disdain. Emergency or not, she had to look her part. It was rare that she ever let anyone see her as anything but her role.

After clipping her earrings on, she left her boudoir and entered her study. There was no reason for her to report to the main barracks quite so soon. She pushed the lights on, rolling the switch upwards until they were no brighter than a candle's soft glow. Her computer was already on, but she had turned the monitor off to conserve some power. She pressed a button towards the lower right-hand side of the screen. It flickered on, green and black text greeting her. Using this interface was a hassle, but it was better than using a typewriter, at any rate.

The Administrator tapped a command to open the communications program. Sure enough, an automatically generated message was waiting for her. With a few more commands, she began opening and monitoring the attached files. For the most part, they were dull. A two-minute shot of a garage. Then a two-minute shot of the kitchen. A two-minute shot of the locker room. So on and so forth, all empty. Disappointing, particularly the locker room one. Some were torn up, sure, but not a lot of evidence in the way of what had done it. It looked like something had burrowed through the ground. The trails were familiar to her, something she'd seen before. Could it have been them? Last she knew, they were further northeast, and due to—

Her thoughts stopped cold. The two-minute footage of the infirmary had the perpetrator caught on tape. There was a terrible crashing sound as the burrower breached the tiled floor, clinking following as ceramic erupted from the ground. A horrific scream followed. She watched the carnage without blinking. Two men were in the room when the onslaught began, and neither left. Tendrils with draconic mouths tore at skin, dragging those unfortunate enough to be standing next to the creature into its maw. Mandibles closed and crunched around flesh and bone. The monster was choking on the larger of its kills—that obese Russian—but had digested half of him by the time the footage cut out. It hadn't gotten to the German doctor. The monster appeared to have killed him all the same, a chunk of flesh torn from his throat.

She knew this monster. She'd named him Sigma.

It was the worst decision any pet owner could make. Given the footage, she had no choice. The Administrator had a suspicion that her flock of Mongolian Death Worms had developed a taste for human flesh some time ago. It hadn't bothered her all that much, to be honest. As long as the feds weren't coming after her, and as long as they stayed away from the bases, she had no reason to be concerned about this new addition to their diet. Now, they had made the mistake of making one of the Mann brothers' bases their own personal nest. That would not do. That could get her fired. If she truly loved anything in the world, it was her occupation. No, the power that derived from her job.

That was it. The worms had to die.

Nothing was ever working right around here.

The Scout growled, poking the start button for the television set. He wobbled the nobs on the side, trying to get other channels or volume or anything at all. What a load of crap. Without his shows, the weekend got to be too long. Mornings were particularly unbearable.

Everybody around the camp had their own thing to do on the weekends. The Demoman could go through entire weekends without poking his head out of his room, spending most of it hammered and reading Tolkien knock-off novels. The Soldier never treated the weekend correctly, either. He spent most of it running himself through custom-made obstacle courses or cleaning guns, sometimes sneaking off to the nearest bar with the Demoman to make time with ladies. The Medic would spend most of his time tended to that flock of flying sandwich stealers or experimenting with new medical procedures. Usually, the Heavy would help with both. If there was one thing that nobody did, it was interrupt whatever the hell those two were doing together. The Engineer was usually up by now, off to fix whatever had broken over the week. If the Sniper hung around, he would spend most of his time sleeping in his van and poking his nose into what everyone else was doing. A lot of time, he just drove off into the desert and didn't come back until Sunday night. The Pyro? Well, he was a bit of a movie fan, but not the good stuff. Really crappy, poorly dubbed kung-fu flicks and 1950s sci-fi schlock. So, he'd go hit up the cinemas or watch late night programs just to see them. As for the Spy, well…

The Scout just hoped that he wasn't having any new little brothers or sisters anytime soon.

"Such a load 'a crap." He stomped through the hallways, off to the garage. They were oddly silent. Everybody else was still asleep, most likely. What a bunch of lazy slackers. He flung the door to the garage open. "Hey, Overalls! What's up widda—"

Weird. No Engineer. No Sniper van either, but that wasn't a big surprise. He shut the door, shaking his head. Maybe he was still asleep. He rushed up to the Engineer's room, giving the door a good couple of pounds. Nothing. Fricken' A. Perfect. Their Engineer was absent without leave, and the television had broken down. Fantastic.

Well, he still had his comic books. The Scout scratched his chin. It had been a while since he'd gone through them all. Maybe he could go out and play ball with that pitching machine the Engineer had built for him. Might be a little loud, though. Couldn't wake up those bums. No, didn't want to be rude or anything. Jerkfaces.

As he went back to his room, the Demoman emerged from his dorm. He was equally cranked up. The Scout snorted. "'Sup, Rummy?"

"Phone's not workin'." The Demoman mumbled, "I was gonna call me mom, but—"

"Really? TV's dead, too." The Scout scratched his head.

The Demoman grumbled, then leaned back into his room. He flipped his light-switch off and on. "So that's it. No power."

The Scout scrunched up his face. "I thought we had a generator or somethin' around here. 'N case 'a dhis crap."

"I dunno, laddie. That's a question for the Toymaker." The Demoman shrugged his shoulders.

"Pfft. Good luck. Overalls ain't in dhe garage or his room." The Scout shook his head.

The Demoman asked, "D'ja check the loo?"

"Dude." The Scout raised his hands. "I don't look for other guys in dhe bathroom, 'kay?"

The Demoman groaned, then snatched the Scout by his shirt and dog tags. He dragged the protesting young man downstairs to the community locker room and bath house. It was dark, footsteps echoing off the tiled floors. The Scout stood in the doorway, holding the door open so light could get in from the windows in the hall. It was fair to say nobody could do anything in that much darkness. He flicked the faucets on. They still had water, but it was running cold.

"Dunno what to tell ya." The Demoman stepped back into the hall. "Wouldn't go to the bathroom alone, I guess."

"Dhat ain't helpin'. Let's keep looken'." The Scout led the way to the kitchen. The duo didn't stop there for long. The Pyro was trying to work with the toaster, but his breakfast kept springing back up. He was so fixated on getting it working that he didn't even notice the other two people with him. They sighed, leaving him to his fruitless task. They swung next to the infirmary, where sixteen slumbering doves were roosting on top of expensive medical equipment. Nobody could get past them without disturbing them all. It went on like this, every public room empty save for a few stragglers who didn't know what the hell was going on with their appliances.

The duo went to the front of their base, sitting down outside on the steps leading in. The Spy was out there, smoking quietly and observing the rising sun with half-opened eyes. It surprised the Scout that he was still here. "What're ya doin' here, Frenchie? Thought ya were gonna go spend time with my mom."

It was hard to say which Spy was with his mother at any given time. Originally, she'd been seeing the other Spy, but that had been an attempt to secure info on him. Then his team's Spy won her heart. Then the other Spy started pretending he was his team's Spy. On and on. Three-way love triangle? Try a tangle. Maybe the other Spy was ahead of him, this time.

The Spy did not say why he was not with his mother, at any rate. He looked down, his gaze steeled. Whoa. The Scout poked around the Spy. "What's dhe madda wit'chu?"

The Spy huffed, taking another smoke. "You do not wish to know, little rabbit. So, scurry along."

"Can't be all that bad. What's the problem?" The Demoman asked.

The Spy lifted an eyebrow. "You do not see?"

"Well, dhe electricity's out. Water's cold." The Scout made a face. "Can't think how much crappier dhis could get."

The Frenchman pointed his cigarette towards the horizon. "Tell me. What is out zhere?"

Both of the Spy's visitors turned to face what the Spy was looking at. There wasn't anything too out of the ordinary. Just dirt roads. Mountains. The air was clear enough to see at least ten miles in that direction, if a bit cloudy. Further out than that was the enemy base, more towns. Nothing much to see.

The Demoman shrugged. "Nothin' much."

The Spy scratched his nose, taking a sniff. "Tell me, zhen. Where are zhe power lines over by zhat road? Zhe enemy radio tower? What do you zhink zhose clouds are?"

Now the Demoman and the Scout could get the picture. Besides the Spy's tobacco, it smelt like another kind of smoke. Ash. Short-circuiting electronics. Some of the roads further back were missing power lines, poles lying snapped on the ground. The tower that was on the edge of the horizon was gone. Something black burned just beyond that. Those weren't just normal clouds in the sky.

"Is dhat coming from dhe enemy base?" The Scout asked.

The Spy nodded. "Oui. Whatever it is, it is coming for us. And vizh zhe respawn generator offline, we are in serious merde. If you pardon my French."

The Scout was about to ask why the Frenchman knew that, but he found his own answer. "Oh, right. Dhe electricity's down. Yeah, guess it wouldn't work without dhat."

"Not zhe brightest color on zhe palette, are we?" The Spy smirked.

All three men stood at the front of the Badlands base, not sure what to do. They'd have to investigate what was going on. Still, they had to wonder about this invisible force pushing towards them. The world felt silent and motionless for the moment, but it tore at their minds, like the ground was threatening to crack beneath them.

The Scout leaned back against the barracks wall, shaking his head. He'd been looking for the wrong guy this entire time. The problem wasn't failing electronics. It was an invading threat. That called for a completely different kind of problem solver.

"I'm gonna go find dhe Soldier."

The sun was casting warm hues through the sky. Indigo night gave way to a brilliant violet, scarlet, and orange dawn. Thin, dark clouds scattered ribbons of gold light around their edges. Stars and planets faded away. It was gorgeous. The Engineer wasn't sure when he'd woken up and how long he'd watched this celestial show, but he continued his marveling. He huddled underneath the heavy plaid quilt, cool desert air seeping in through poorly calked windows. It would be toasty soon enough. If the temperature was the only thing he could complain about, then he was going to have to take up more offers from the Sniper to go camping.

A smile crept its way onto the Engineer's face. Warm skin was touching his back, a long spine against his own, separated only by a thin layer of fabric. Maybe it was out of habit or paranoia, but the Sniper had a tendency to sleep back-to-back with other people. He'd seen the Australian huddled against others, usually when the heating system failed in colder bases. Funny, though. He thought the Sniper said he was going to go sleep out in the van's cabin. Something about guests getting the cot. He'd folded the bed out from the place where it was tucked away, and they had sat together against the frame of the camper for hours. Talking. Laughing. Drinking. Or, maybe…

The Engineer chuckled. Maybe.

It was during his admiration of the view that a horrific screech came from one of the cabinets in the camper. The Sniper shot upright, instantly awake. "Bloody hell!" Half of his hair was mussed, sticking up and out at odd angles. The Engineer suppressed a laugh, rolling off of the cot. He was used to weird electronic noises.

"Just the radio, Mundy." They hadn't driven that far off of the Badlands base, but the Engineer wasn't completely comfortable taking off without some way for their team to communicate with them. He'd whipped together a transceiver for these getaways. He'd rigged most of the team's vehicles to work with these radios, but the Sniper's got the most use by far. He picked up the transmitter, pressing down on a button to the side. "Did not copy that, stranger. Please say again. Over."

A woman's voice was on the other end of the line. "Sorry. I dropped the transmitter. This is Miss Pauling, looking for Mister Mundy. Over."

Well, well. Miss Pauling. There were worse people he could have interrupting his little vacation. "Roger that. Good morning, Miss Pauling. This is Mister Conagher. What can I do for ya? Over."

"I'm trying to get in contact with your base." She stopped for a moment. "I thought I had Mister Mundy's frequency. Is this your channel? Over."

The Engineer played with the transceiver's power source. He'd equipped it with a fairly small solar panel. He angled it through the window as they continued their conversation. "Right channel, wrong fella. How can I help ya? Over."

There was an awkward pause before Miss Pauling continued. "I got a phone call from some robot named Daisy this morning. The Administrator received the same message. Your team's base in the Badlands is in danger. Over."

Conagher leaned against the cabinet, watching the Sniper rummage for a fresh shirt. "Danger? From what? Over."

"Didn't you receive an emergency broadcast message? Over." Miss Pauling fretted.

That caught his attention. Emergency messages were supposed to go out through all channels available. Phone, radio, even televisions. Did he sleep through it? He looked at the Sniper, eyebrows raised. The Sniper shook his head. Neither of them had heard anything. "Negative, Miss Pauling. I'll have to investigate why it failed. Over."

Miss Pauling sighed. She sounded disheveled. "Get back to your base. Be prepared—it sounds like power, telephone lines, and cable is down for the entire area. The respawn's probably off, too. We were able to get in contact with the other team, but they had to be revived in Coldfront. Over."

Coldfront? Good Lord. That was nearly two hundred miles away, up in the mountains. Conagher and Mundy exchanged concerned glances. The Sniper grabbed his keys, ready to get the van started. He jumped out of the back quarters of the Land Rover, closing the door behind him. In the meantime, the Engineer continued conversing with Miss Pauling. "Okay. Wilco. Over."

Miss Pauling drew a breath, her voice shaky. "I'm going to have to go find the team at Coldfront. In case you are unable to contact me, I need you to communicate this message to your teammates. Are you ready? Over."

The Engineer replied quickly. "Ready. Over."

Miss Pauling gave him her command. "This is the Administrator's demands. Do not leave the area. Get the highest-caliber weapons you have available. There are five Mongolian Death Worms moving through your area. You are to make sure none of them leave. Suppress as much structural damage as you can. It goes without saying that you don't want to fail her on this one. Do you understand? Over."

The Engineer scratched his head. What in the name of Yahweh was a Mongolian Death Worm? "Say again? Over."

"You'll know it when you see it." She glossed over the details. "Make sure Mister Mundy knows about this as soon as possible, all right? Over."

"Got it." The Engineer scooped the transmitter off of the cabinet. "Anythin' else? Over."

Miss Pauling ended her transmission. "No. If you can call me back, do so. Over and out."

The Engineer exhaled, puffing air out the right corner of his lips. He got into the front cabin of the Land Rover, placing the transmitter on the dashboard. The Sniper already had a cigarette lit, eyebrows pressed down in concerned thought. He offered one to the Texan, who took it in turn. The Engineer buckled up as the Sniper drove back towards the main road.

"So?" The Sniper asked, hoping to start a conversation.

The Engineer shook his head. He drew another drag. "What d'ya know about Mongolian Death Worms?"

Hot panic flashed in the Snipers' brain. If Truckie was talking about what he thought the Texan meant, then—not again. Pinpricks of pain ran along his spine, following injuries long since healed. His knuckles went white as he clenched the steering wheel. There had been a very good reason he'd never told anybody about what attacked him. The only one who'd had an inkling of what he'd fought was most likely the Medic, and even he was mystified about the injuries the Sniper had sustained. "'Member that one time ya found my van cracked like a tin 'a sardines?"

"Ya mean, the one time ya went missin' for five days, and ya came back lookin' like somethin' a Pharaoh's mummified cat threw up?" The Engineer nodded. "Ya gave all of us a pretty good scare that week, Stretch."

The Sniper gave a nervous smile, sharp teeth chewing on his lower lip. "I was—well, I was huntin', yeah? Turns out, the bogey that attacked my van was a fairly large…" He struggled with the last words, stammering. "Y-ya know, worm might be a good word for it."

Conagher didn't need to see that monster to fear it. The damage it had done was horrible enough. This van had less than forty percent of its original parts thanks to that beast. Mundy hadn't been conscious enough after the good doctor had healed him to tell much about the story. Of course, that had more to do with the amount of alcohol he'd drank that night than anything else. The next day had been business as usual, so his curiosity about the event faded as his work increased. As long as he had his teammates alive and relatively happy, the Engineer was satisfied. He didn't have to know everything.

"Sounds like they've moved into our area." The Engineer placed his mechanical prosthesis against his head. "They might be headed for our base."

The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "They?"

The Engineer bobbed his head. "Five of them."

A lesser man would have whipped the van around and run for the nearest border into Mexico. Instead, the Sniper went lead-footed. The Land Rover hit a hundred miles easily, climbing on as it barreled back to their base. His last encounter was not pleasant by any means. That time, he'd been foolish and gone after it alone. He knew what the team was up against, and he wasn't going to let any of them face it like he did. Teammates had to stick together, after all, even if death only meant respawning in some random base.

Even then, death to giant man-eating monsters was preferable to whatever punishment the Administrator would have in store for them if they failed.

Author's Note

So, I saw somebody had a request on TF2Chan for a Team versus Graboids story. I figured, "Hell, I've done that before. I could do it again." I guess that makes this a Wonambi sequel, and possibly a Rosebud one as well? I try to write everything in one continuity.

The name of this story comes from a very strange country music song that was written in 1976. Crap. Time paradox! If you've seen Tremors, you've heard a snippit of this song. Remember the part where Val and Earl found that van in the ground? That was the song playing on the radio.

Where in the hell did I get the term "Mongolian Death Worm"? Because that's what Graboids are based on. That's why.

And yes, I'm going to parody that one scene. It is one of the most goddamn American things put to cinema. You either know what I mean, or you don't. If you don't, go to YouTube and search for "Reba McEntire Tremors." You'll know it when you see it.