The scene: Mann Co's Bigrock facility. A ragtag group of mercenaries, once employed by two squabbling brothers, have been brought here by their Administrator in the middle of an all-out war against a horde of robots created by the third brother, who had been raised by eagles and now seeks to rule the world. Having routed the would-be invaders, the mercenaries now wait impatiently, as they were instructed. Deep in the mines and mere feet from the now-empty carrier, the BLU Demoman, wearing his old uniform out of sheer habit, takes a long drink from his bottle of scrumpy. He either doesn't notice that it's already empty, or he doesn't care. After letting out a contented belch, he turns to the RED Spy standing beside him with his arms folded. "Did that shoutin' lady say WHEN our new guests'd be arrivin'?" he slurs.

"No, she did not." the Spy replies, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "Although I hazard a guess that the real question is not when they arrive, but why. There are schemes within schemes, and she does not tell us even half of what she knows."

"Ahh, you worry too much, ya chain-smokin' French bastard," the Demoman says, clapping his new comrade on the back. The Spy grimaced. "But y'know what? I think I like you anyway. Even'f you did kill me."

"You are a Scotsman and a perpetual drunk besides." the Spy mutters. "I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies..."

The BLU Sniper surveys the cavern with a practiced eye. The robots may have been driven back for now, but if there's anything he's learned in his career, it's that the only safe place is as far from the battlefields as humanly possible. So he keeps his Headtaker close by, and bends an ear to the wind every now and again to try and catch the tell-tale horn of an approaching convoy. This time, he hears something different. A murmur of voices, unlike any of his friends or foes alike. He turns around, hand stealing toward his Bushwacka. There's a glimmer of light in the corner of his eye and he dives for his rifle. Slowly, he peers over the railing through his scope. The light is coming from the caves and grows brighter by the second. "Now what in the name of Saxton Hale's bristled chest-hair is goin' on in there?" he whispers.

The RED Scout and his sister pass the time by playing catch. Instead of the customary leather-bound ball, they bat the decapitated head of a robot Spy back and forth in front of the base. "Hah! Seven hunnid 'n' twenny one ta seven hunnid twenny two!" his sister brags. "I win, I win, IwinIwinIwin! Again!"

"No fair, I got sand in my eye!" the boy complains.

"Ya want me to lick it 'n' make it bettah?" his sister retorts.
"What are you, insaiyan?"

She takes a long drink of her Atomic Punch. "Maybe. But who's complainin'? I get da job done." It was her job to serve as a distraction and cash-collector during the invasions, a task she was very much suited for. (For reasons none of the higher-ups cared to explain, the robots all seemed to run on money, which she had been told many times was to be used solely for the war effort.) Her Blaster might not do as much damage as her normal scattergun, but once she got it up and running, she could run circles around the robots, almost twice as fast as her brother, taking swats at exposed circuitry with her ever-present frying pan. And if the Pyros got too hot to handle, safety was a sodacan away.

Her brother softened up tougher targets from afar with his Sandman and cleaver combination; reluctant though they might be to admit it, the RED Engie's sentries and the BLU Soldier's haphazard barrage of rockets both benefited from his assistance.

A familiar voice comes over the loudspeakers, a cold, impersonal, endlessly sarcastic voice. "If you're quite finished lounging about, the frontlines report that our visitors have arrived. I'm sure I won't need to remind you to be on your best behavior."
The Scout rolls his eyes. "Behaviah, schmahaviah. What's so special 'bout a bunch of bigwigs beamin' in from headquartahs?"

His sister points behind him. "Those don't look like no bigwigs I evah saw." He turns and lets out a very loud, very impressed whistle. His sister promptly sprints over and slaps the back of his head, sending his Fed-Fightin' Fedora (with added sparkles) flying. "Hey! What was dat all about?" he demands as he scuttles after it.

"Didn't ya heah da 'dministratah? She said ta be polite...but ta hell with dat. Dat guy's dreaaaamy!"

"He's old enough ta be ya frikkin' dad!" her brother shouts, brushing the dust from his prized headgear.

"Aw, he can be my dad any day!" she grinned.

The RED Heavy and BLU Medic, despite their former violent opposition, had become fast friends. With their own partners on other assignments, it fell to them to take the brunt of the enemy fire. The Medic always had difficulty choosing between his beloved original medigun, dubbed the Quick-Fix upon his invention of the main one, and the Kritzkrieg. ("Zere is something about ze sound of robots screaming zat fills me with endless joy!" he'd confided to Archimedes one evening.) The Heavy didn't much care; death was death. All he cared about was preventing shrapnel from scratching his beloved Sasha.

He was currently attempting to teach the Medic how to dodge. To this end, he'd fastened a pair of brass knuckles upon his massive fists and began firing punch after punch after punch at almost imperceptible speeds. As the Scouts put it, "It's like one o' my Japanese animeys!"

"Left! Right! Left left! Right left! Right left right! Left left right left right left right!" the Heavy is bellowing. The Medic does his best, but even a glancing blow from the Eviction Notice stings like the dickens. He's no stranger to pain, having inflicted much upon himself and others in the name of SCIENCE, but his mediguns are being refueled, so every time the Heavy lands a hit, he's forced to retreat to rebandage himself.

The RED Engineer and BLU Pyro are forced to entertain themselves while they wait for their guests. The Engineer tightens a few bolts here and there, recalibrates the targeting programs on the big and little sentries alike; while the Pyro giggles to itself, juggling its Triboniophorus Tyrannus with surprising dexterity.

"I just don't know what y'see in that thing," the Engineer sighs as he wipes the sweat from his brow. "Actually, now I come to think of it, I don't know what y'see per-ee-uhd." The Pyro looks up at him, its gas-mask-covered-face betraying no emotion it might or might not be feeling.

"Murr hurr murr muhhmyy?" it mumbles.

The Engineer ponders what that might mean, when his Pip-Boy bleeps at him. "Unidentified target? Guess that'll be those dang visitors we been hearin' so much about." He walks over to his teleporter. "I'll be right back, y'hear?" The Pyro shrugs non-committally, but as soon as the Engineer fades from sight, it scrambles for its hatbox. It stops to admire its reflection in the dispenser's viewport as it tries on various bonnets and frilly wigs, with an occasional mutter to the squishy green blob that it's placed atop the hatbox. The blob says nothing in response, but the mysterious masked menace doesn't mind.