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No. 4244
Before you ask what I was smoking, this fanfic was based on the ending of Monkey Island 2 (plus a smattering of Futurama. I didn't beta it, because I was determined to get the first part published before Halloween, but I gave it to my little sister to proofread. I promise that I will properly beta later parts.

Sniper wasn’t a superstitious person, but he couldn’t help getting the niggling feeling that this would be a bad day. He’d accidentally broken the bathroom mirror, which had gotten him yelled at by the rest of the team, and he’d seen a black cat cross his path when he went to check the intelligence room. He didn’t even know there were any cats in 2fort.

And now one of the ears of his costume was outright refusing to stick. He sighed and decided to go without. The battle was going to start soon and he couldn’t mess around with a bloody ear all day.

The kitchen was a jumble of activity. The Demo was wearing a tricorn hat and a sailor’s jacket and taking swigs from a Scrumpy bottle that had a “Grog” label stuck on it. The Medic, who was dressed in black Grim Reaper robes, was busy adjusting the Heavy’s costume. The large man was squeezed into an uncomfortable looking nurse’s uniform with a tiny miniskirt that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Sniper decided not to ask.

“Nice koala costume, but I thought they had two ears,” said Engie, raising a fluffy eyebrow. He was also wearing a gravity-defying wig and a false moustache. He was meant to be Einstein or a generic mad scientist or something.

“It was supposed to be a drop bear costume,” said Sniper glumly. He took a sip of his coffee, but he had gotten so obsessed with fixing up his costume that it had gone cold.

“I could help you with it. I’m sure I have some sort of glue that’s strong enough.”

“That would be much appreciated,” said Sniper, trying to edge around Spy to get to the microwave. The guts of his disguise kit were spread out on the table and he was tinkering with it. The Engie’s attention was immediately drawn back to it. It was clear that the Texan was highly frustrated.

“Look, just let me -”

“I assure you I’ve got it all figured out, labourer.”

Sniper suppressed a sceptical snort. Spy’s stuff never worked. He had no idea what he was trying to invent today, but he knew that whatever it was, it had very little chance of behaving the way Spy would like. He turned the microwave dial. A minute’s good nuking would get the coffee hot enough for his liking.

“Well I tell you, you wired up that circuit all wrong.” The Engineer’s impatient fingers stretched out to grab the kit, but Spy batted them away.

The Soldier suddenly barged in. “The battle starts in fifteen so get your womanly asses ready! No more inventing, innovation or imagination from this minute forward!” he said thickly through his mouthguard. An American football helmet had replaced his regular one, and he wore large shoulder pads.

Spy clucked impatiently and put the kit back together. “Very well, it should be working now.” He turned it on. Nothing happened. He waited. Red sparks started coming out of it. Spy groaned. “The theory is sound. I don’t know what happened.” The Engineer snorted.

Meanwhile, Sniper squinted at his coffee mug inside the microwave. What were those glowing blue sparks...?

“Uh, guys...?”

Everyone ignored him. Spy and company were too absorbed in his project to notice. He shrugged, deciding to open the microwave and grab the mug before it exploded. Spy turned at the sound, eyes widening, his cigarette dropping out of his gaping mouth. “Don’t open that...”

But it was too late. The emancipated blue sparks shot towards the red sparks, and vice versa. It was too bad that the Sniper was in the middle of the collision. With a sonic boom like a fighter jet, and a flash of brilliant light like a nuclear test, the space around Sniper imploded.

The kitchen erupted into screams, smashing plates, and chaos. The blast almost knocked Spy off his chair and temporarily blinded him. When he could see again, he noticed that there an empty space where Sniper used to be.

He slumped in his chair, struggled for words, and finally said the first stupid thought that came into his head.

“Merde. I knew I shouldn’t have installed that voodoo capacitor.”

What it felt like was that he’d completely ceased to have a physical body. For some odd reason, though, he could still think. As his mind hurtled through the nothingness, he clung to one sole strand of thought: I’m... going... to... kill... that... Spy. Eventually, after a period of time that felt simultaneously like infinity and nothing, he joyfully felt himself remanifest into a physical body. His vision and hearing returned as if someone had abruptly switched on a television.

The first thing he noticed that he was in a dingy, dim room that was most definitely not 2fort. I’m going to kill that bloody Spy twice over. The second thing he noticed was the unfamiliar voice speaking - a child’s voice.

“- and they found a photo of Dr Mengele in his locker covered with his fuckin’ dried up spunk. Only reason they didn’t expel him was due to Taylor begging ‘em to let him stay coz he’s their pwecious widdle honour roll student and all.”

Sniper’s eyes were having trouble adjusting to the dimness, but he perceived a bulky boy pacing back and forth. He was wearing a military overcoat and dark tinted aviator shades. The boy looked familiar, but Sniper couldn’t place his finger on what it was...

“Yeah, he’s a sick fuck. Tell us something we don’t know,” said a bored looking boy lounging on a makeshift couch constructed of boxes covered with a dirty dropsheet. Oh... fuck. Sniper would recognise that accent anywhere. But it couldn’t be Spy?

Suddenly, Sniper formed a horrible, horrible hypothesis of what was going on. To test his theory, he felt his face. His heart promptly stopped.

“Hey. Wake up.” The boy who was Spy was waving a hand in Sniper’s face.

“What,” mumbled Sniper reflexively. The childish voice that came out of his mouth confirmed his theory that he had indeed reverted to his adolescent self.

“Got a light?” The boy looked at him expectantly. Sniper gaped back. Was he supposed to do something? The boy sighed, and slowly repeated the question, like he was talking to a small child.

Sniper felt his pockets. He turned out a pack of tobacco, cigarette papers, and a scratched up Zippo. He handed it over and the boy lit a cigarette. That casual way of smoking... the Sniper recoiled again as he recognised another Spy trademark.

He made himself a rollie. He decided that, in his current circumstances, he really needed the smoke. It had been a long time since he’d made those. Not his fault that it turned out all thick on one end and thin on the other. His hand shook and he almost singed his nose instead of the cigarette.

“Late night, huh,” Spy said, dismissing Sniper’s absentmindedness with a shrug.

The young Spy wore a white shirt, a tie, a grey blazer, and for some reason, a grey fedora. He was handsome. The hair that was poking out from his hat was blonde and silky, and his grey eyes had that smouldering quality that he had in adulthood.

“Uh...” Sniper croaked, his mind still blank from shock.

It looked like they were in some kind of storage room. Dusty boxes and rusted machines haphazardly littered the area, and exposed cables hung in ropes from the ceiling. The machines looked like cars from an amusement park ride. He spotted a peeling picture of a swashbuckling buccaneer painted on the side of one. Someone had graffitied it with an infinity symbol.

He looked down at his body. He was clad in a school uniform like Spy. White shirt, black tie, but no blazer or hat. At least he had his aviators. It was silly, but he was a bit more comfortable knowing that fact. He felt he could cling to his last vestiges of sanity if he still had his aviators.

“Yeah, I know what ya mean,” groaned boy-Soldier. “Let’s just jig.”

“Uh, that would be awesome, but Woodward said he’d phone the rents. I think he’s being serious this time.” Spy ground his cigarette butt into the floor with a vindictiveness he probably reserved especially for this “Woodward” character.

“Al-right,” acquiesced Soldier.

“Let’s just get this pain over with.” Spy took a generous swig from a half-full bourbon bottle and started to leave. With little choice in the matter, Sniper numbly followed, but Soldier stopped him.

“Leave your gun behind for fuck’s sake. I just told you the nigger fubared the toilets, they’re still sore over it.”

Gun? Sniper felt in his pockets again, found a BB gun and tossed it away.

Sniper followed them out of the storage room and discovered that they really were in an amusement park. Weeds, empty bottles and cigarette butts carpeted the abandoned grounds. The Ferris wheel was so corroded and skeletal that it looked like it was in danger of falling any second. “Big Whoop,” someone had scribbled on the entrance sign, the old name having peeled away a long time ago. He didn’t know what it meant.

Young Spy scanned the parked cars like a discerning connoisseur selecting a wine for his dinner, and went for a Chevy. He opened the hood and did something in there that Sniper couldn’t see and the car was purring. He opened the back door politely for the others and took the wheel. The car’s interior smelt much more different than Sniper’s van. It smelt like clothes and leather and tobacco.

Brick bungalows flashed by as they speeded and swerved to their destination. He couldn’t identify where he was. It looked like any old suburb. His increasing feelings of bewilderment and panic caused him to start hyperventilating. I need to get out of here.

Soldier roared with laughter and slammed him on the shoulder with a meaty hand. “He’s not gonna crash, Koala.”

Koala? Don’t tell me that’s my nickname. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered. He must have eaten some bad food last night. He was probably in his bed right now in the throes of a bad hallucinogenic dream. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to wake up.

They dumped the car in some cul-de-sac. “Good as new,” said Spy with a smile, patting its hood. After ten minutes of walking, the grey school building loomed overhead. The sign at the gates read “Brushwood High,” accompanied by a drawing of a crude penis. The school consisted of a dingy courtyard surrounded on three sides with buildings. Entering was like stepping into a dim subterranean bunker cluttered with ventilation shafts, overhanging wires and loudspeakers. When they reached their classroom, Spy flashed Soldier a hand symbol that Sniper didn’t catch, straightened his tie, and headed in.

“Nice to see you in the flesh at last, Mr Costello. And you brought your little friend too.”

The teacher, who Sniper had no doubt was Woodward, was well groomed but ugly. He had permanent frown lines etched into his forehead, squinty little eyes, and a dinky moustache that could barely pass off as facial hair.

“I’m sorry, sir. My mother has been sick lately so I was late getting out of the house.”

“Sit down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And take that tacky hat off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Woodward paced the room, beating a tattoo on his thigh with a sharp-looking metal ruler. “Next time, come early. Some people in this class actually want to learn. Sadly, not everyone. Caulfield!” His ruler whistled down onto a desk, and a black boy with an eyepatch jerked out of his reverie. The boy flipped him the bird when he turned away again.

“Same goes for you,” he snarled to the Sniper. “Get your ass on a chair now.”

Sniper sat down at a beaten up wooden desk next to the Spy’s. However, Woodward was still glaring.

“Are we outdoors?”

What? “No... sir?”

“Is it an extraordinarily bright day today? Do we live in Australian climes, perhaps?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

“Then take the damn sunglasses off.”

Sniper shoved them into his pocket.

“Now, let’s get back to cos theta...”

Woodward’s voice melted away into the background as Sniper made an attempt to rationalise the situation. This was ridiculous. When he was 14 he was still living in Australia, never mind the idea that he went to school with the rest of the BLU team. His dream theory was growing more probable. What did they call these – lucid dreams? He was probably sleeping in. Maybe someone was trying to wake him up this very minute: he imagined the Soldier making his morning rounds in the base, banging a saucepan with a spoon like he always did. Heavy would be throwing his pillow at him, and Scout would be reaching blearily for a can of Bonk.

As if the fabric of reality was responding to his thoughts, the classroom suddenly distorted. He was back in the 2fort kitchen. The walls resounded with the muffled screams of the Announcer. It was empty except for the Spy. He had managed to get his tentaspy costume working, but he was prodding forlornly at a technological-looking component on the table. It looked fried.

Soldier entered the room. “Forget the damn Sniper and get your ass out to the intel now! We have sentries pumping lead up our asses!” he boomed, waving a shovel around with reckless abandon. Spy ducked before it removed his head.

“Give me some time, please. I’m sure I can fix it -”

“It’s 2fort. No one needs Snipers anyway!”

“Look, we can’t just leave -”

The Soldier responded by whacking the Spy’s shoulder with his shovel.

“Oh, fuck off, you gung ho retard,” the Spy snapped. Soldier raised his shovel for another strike but the Spy dodged and sent the military man staggering backwards with a well-aimed punch.

Soldier was not deterred. He charged like an enraged hippopotamus but the Spy activated his cloaking device. The Soldier’s swing sliced thin air and he overbalanced and hit the floor. There was a disembodied laugh; a cigarette butt fell from an invisible hand and bounced off his furious face.

Soldier growled, picked himself up, and ran out of the room. It was now empty, except for the traces of cigarette smoke the Spy had left behind.

Sniper launched himself out of his chair. “NO! Get me out of here NOW you sonuvabitch!”

There was a sharp pain on his ear and he realised that he was now in the classroom again, his ear being gripped by a purple-faced Woodward. The rest of the class was staring at him, very much awake now.

“That’s it. Headmistress. Now.” He shoved him towards the door.


Extra notes: I apologise for any anachronistic or inaccurate bits. For instance, I didn't know the 40's slang for cutting school, so I used the Australian term "jig". I explain it away by saying that Sniper taught his friends the term. I also apologise for using "Caulfield" - I know it's not a Scottish name, but I used it for the sake of making a silly reference.
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>> No. 4245
Ooh, Halloween special! I was just about to post the first part of my own Halloween story when I saw this. It was a bit confusing, but intriguing, nonetheless. Also, the costume ideas are wunderbar.
>> No. 4284
I have braved my mortal fear of porcelain to tell you that this is the second best Monkey Island/TF2 crossover I've ever read (just kidding, it's THE best). Do continue!

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