Everything has been done a million times before. What really matters is the execution.
And I have no idea how to execute except in the broadest of cliches. The only thing I can think of right now as far as continuing the story is explaining exactly what was going on "off screen" from someone else's point of view.

This line made me raise an eyebrow. How is it obvious that a cigarette case would project an ologram to transform you in somebody else?
Whoops, I was assuming that everyone was familiar with the in-game user interface (and that this was how the characters see things as well), so I've changed that part to make more sense.

Besides that, if he can't even remember his own name, he probably can't remember how to access his savings. He's not going to go far without a penny.
Spy could theoretically reinvent himself, but he hasn't thought that far ahead yet. His brain is still stuck in self-preservation mode.

Btw, given the way everybody freaked out when Spy's vitals went crazy, I'm assuming that Respawn only works during battle, right?
Nope, Respawn's always on. The risk the team took when they went to rescue him was in assigning people to do something other than achieving the main objective and losing, possibly facing capture, because of that. (And every time they managed to win, the enemy had already moved the Spy somewhere else.)

The freakout wasn't over Spy's panic attack, not at first. Most of the rest of the team was arguing over Pyro's insistence about a conspiracy theory (and as I was implying with the dialogue, not the first time they'd had this argument). The only ones who were genuinely concerned was the other Spy, the Soldier, and the Heavy--i.e., the three people who personally witnessed how bad things were when the rescue happened. It's not until Spy does his thing that the lightbulb goes off for everyone else.

An idea I left out of this draft: a suicide attempt. It was originally going to happen in the climax, complete with the line "Kill me!" played for drama instead of laughs, but I decided that having Spy having a more quiet meltdown was more emotionally powerful than him being a screaming, hysterical wreck.

The only thing I can think of right now as far as continuing the story is explaining exactly what was going on "off screen" from someone else's point of view.

I'd love to read that!

...Well, except Heavy's, though. Because in this story he is so knowledgeable, wise, collected and focused, that his pov would probably read like a calm and precise list of events, which would be very boring IMO.

But I'd love to read the pov of any of the other eight characters.

The only ones who were genuinely concerned was the other Spy, the Soldier, and the Heavy--i.e., the three people who personally witnessed how bad things were when the rescue happened.

Wasn't Engineer there too? You wrote that "cool, healing energy surrounded him," and if Medic wasn't there then it had to be a dispenser (which makes sense to me, because even if Medic wasn't there, if he had seen the full extent of Spy's wounds he would have known how bad things were. Even if we assume that Medic isn't a very caring man, for him to be that clueless it's necessary that Spy's wounds were at least mostly healed by the time he saw him).

Btw, I forgot to mention something in my last reply.

playing cool and using what I hoped sufficed for a foreign-sounding enough accent.

This sounds kind of weird to me. I mean, English is not my first langauge, and I've been told that when I speak English I have a thick accent; but it's completely involontary, I don't choose to speak with an accent, I just do. So it sounds pretty weird to me that Spy, a Frenchman, would lose his accent along with his memories. I'm not sure if that's possible or not...

Wasn't Engineer there too? You wrote that "cool, healing energy surrounded him,"...
Oops, that's what I get for not deciding what the exact details surrounding Spy's rescue was! I think that was supposed to imply the presence of the Medic, but I got caught up in assigning exactly three people into each group of attitudes (suspicious, couldn't really care less, really worried) that I glossed over this section.

Off to edit again.

This sounds kind of weird to me. I mean, English is not my first langauge, and I've been told that when I speak English I have a thick accent; but it's completely involontary, I don't choose to speak with an accent, I just do. So it sounds pretty weird to me that Spy, a Frenchman, would lose his accent along with his memories. I'm not sure if that's possible or not...
That's supposed to be a hint that the Spy's not even really French.

This is semi-inspired by old RP.

(And the thing being discussed is apparently true. Hooray science?)
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The Scout's look of utter confusion and bewilderment was impossible to miss as he headed to the breakfast table. "Uh..." he began, scratching the back of his head. "Is it just me, or did somebody paint little targets on all da urinals in da bathrooms?"

"I did." The Sniper raised his hand in a lazy two-finger wave, then brushed away the liquid that sprayed on his shoulder from the Demoman snorting his drink up his nose. "Bit 'f an experiment for th' Doc. I've found that I piss a lot cleaner--"

"Slim!" the Engineer exclaimed in dismay. "Not over breakfast, goddamn!"

"--when I've got something t' aim at," the Sniper continued over the Engineer, ignoring him. "Doc wanted t' see if it was true, all soientific loike and all that."

The Scout raised an eyebrow. "Ain't dat what we got janitas for?"

"And aren't you ze one always giving zee Sniper a hard time about Jarate?" the Medic wanted to know. "You do remember zat little tour we had wiz ze blacklight, ja?"

"Oh, yeah." the Scout shuddered at the memory. He was never, ever, ever touching anything in the Spy's room, ever. Hell, he was never, ever, ever so much as stepping foot in the Spy's room. Different strokes for different folks and all that, but the Scout was so not into touching another man's spunk.

(Inspired by playing MvM mode as Scout.)
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This must have been what being Superman felt like.

Being more powerful than a locomotive was still several upgrades out of reach, but Scout was sure that he had the "faster than a speeding bullet" and "leaps buildings in a single bound" parts covered and then some. He darted in and out of the robots like a bee, each pile of money he stuffed in his trousers somehow making him tougher and tougher to kill.

"Gotta go fast gotta go fast gotta go fast," he chanted to himself as he pumped his legs and soared into the air.

He never wanted to do anything else ever again. Five point CP or Payload Race? Kingdoms have risen and fallen before one of those rounds ever resolved in a way that wasn't complete bullshit. Capture the Flag? He'd long ago gotten sick of getting his ass shredded by eleventy billion sentries.

Here, he got to kick so many different kinds of ass that he wasn't sure he'd ever get sick of it.
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(And then some days you don't feel so awesome...)
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They let the front line collapse and they died.

They couldn't save the sentry from the Sentry Buster and they died.

They missed a Scoutbot at the choke-point and they died.

They didn't Spycheck and they died.

They neglected to stop the Medicbots from popping ubers and they died.

They failed to stop the Tank and they died.

But nobody wanted to quit, not now, not ever. They couldn't abandon this place to the robots like some of them did in the other areas. This was the last human bastion; if the robots were not repelled here, it would be the end for everyone.

They made a headcount of who was in any shape to fight and came up with a mere six who wasn't too exhausted or injured to carry on. This time, they vowed. This time, they would win.

Or die trying.

>>80 For some reason, the description of Scout stuffing money in his pants made me laugh. I really do love stories that follow Scout's P.O.V., though, because he's such a cocky little bastard and it's hilarious.

Hey Readers of Dot's Concept Space

I've been running the current layout of DCS for several years now and I believe it's time for a change, maybe.

So what do y'all think? Does it need a way of presenting the content? Or at least a fresh coat of paint?

Please keep in mind that Dot's Concept Space, as its name implies, is a general writing/art blog, so I probably wouldn't go for a complete TF2-ification makeover, but I might add little touches here and there.

Trying to get my writing mojo back and trying to get a head start for NaNoWriMo, so I'm going to start a story based on an idea that's been percolating in my head using a "prompt" table.

Because this is /fic/, I'll be keeping the sex, if any happens, strictly in "implied off-screen land" zone. I may or may not write an /afic/ version later; we'll see.

(Not using "the" for class names this round because they're not canon classes. This is just The Story of A Spy and A Sniper of Some Indeterminate Team Or Teams Of Your Choice.)

100 Days of Sniper/Spy
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1. Beginning (500 words)

Spy was, as the rest of the team might put it, "European", which meant that his tastes were much more eclectic than anyone else. He loved women as much as any other so-called normal man might, but he never refused the opportunity to seduce a man, either. Sometimes, this was part of the job of being the resident espionage expert; sometimes, he fell head over heels in love and he didn't consider gender to be a barrier to true love, however temporary; sometimes, the sex was just that good, all other potential downsides notwithstanding; and sometimes, he was just plain bored.

His relationship—if one could even call what was going on with Sniper a relationship—somehow fell into both "all of the above" and "none of the above" at once. There was no useful Intelligence to be gained from seducing the Sniper, and yet Spy found himself obsessed with getting more secrets out of him, and Sniper always seemed to have something to hide. There was nothing about Sniper worth loving—rugged convict bushmen were not Spy's general preferred type at all—and yet Spy couldn't bring himself to hate him. The sex was awful at best and nightmarish at worst, but there was no looking for other partners any more, not after Sniper walked in on him on what was supposed to be his stress relief day. And though for the most part, Sniper's routines were such that Spy could predict what he was doing where down to the minute, it had been Sniper showing up when he hadn't been expected that had put things into official "We Need To Talk About Where This Is Going" mode.

Spy had never made any promises that he would be faithful. And, as far as he knew, the Sniper had known that. But seeing Sniper slouch at the foot of his bed gazing at his bed-stand where the little plastic squares lay and declaring in his usual stoic tones: "I'm nothing but another rubber to you, aren't I" had robbed Spy of the usual eloquent speech he'd prepared for such occasion.

Spy wasn't ready to admit to Sniper—or to himself—that he'd built a relationship on "nothing". There had to be something besides a severe lapse in judgment that kept Spy from walking away or putting a bullet in Sniper's brainpan.

Perhaps Sniper deserved his own category. Spy once eavesdropped on Sniper talking to his parents over the phone over how he was seeing someone, being careful, of course, to keep certain details vague. While Spy couldn't hear what was being asked on the other end of the phone, he could see all of Sniper's various interesting and very non-standard reactions.

Too bad Spy wasn't carrying around his camera beard at the time. He could have saved Sniper's grimace just before he said (discussing what was between the two of them, no doubt) "It's—complicated" for all eternity.

"It's Complicated"—Spy couldn't think of better way to put it himself.

I like this. Please do go on.

Glad someone likes it. I myself will certainly have a lot of fun writing my favorite pairing as a horribly dysfunctional match made in hell.
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2. Middle

Like the phases of the moon, Sniper waxed and waned between various states of mind with predictable regularity. At his most navel-gazing, it did not take much prompting from Spy to talk about himself; for a man who prided on not investing his feelings into his work, Sniper folded at the slightest provocation, not being able to stand up even in the emotional equivalent of a light breeze.

He was in such a contemplative mood when he was doing what he called "cuddling" with Spy on the couch. For his part, Spy found being planted in Sniper's lap to be too close for comfort--he preferred to be the one taking the initiative, so he snaked his hand down Sniper's shirt and discovered a thin silver chain with two rings hanging from it; he had suspected its existence, but this was the first time that he confirmed something to be there. Nevertheless, he feigned shock. "Oh, my. Should I be scandalized?"

"It's none 'f your business," Sniper snapped, yanking the chain back. "I don't want t' talk about it."

Spy just smiled and began a silent count in his head.

It didn't take long before the proverbial floodgates opened. "She was--a colleague, I guess. We posed as a couple mostly for th' convenience, but it didn't take long for us t' get Complicated."

Spy rolled his eyes; Sniper couldn't have been more obvious with the allusion, but he said nothing, knowing that Sniper had more emotional baggage to dump on him.

And indeed, Sniper kept going, now so lost in his memories that he was oblivious to his captive audience's reactions. "I figured, you know, we were pretty much acting loike a married couple already, woi not get th' roings and soign th' papers? And she was foine with that, at first anyway. Then--" he shrugged. "Then one day I wake up to a 'Dear John' letter."

That explained Sniper's obsession with Spy's other partners. "And so from zen on, you are afraid zat history will repeat eetself?" He clicked his tongue. "Nozzing lasts forever; you must simply enjoy eet while eet lasts."

"Why 'ope for th' best and be disappointed?" Sniper wanted to know. "It's just a matter 'f toime before you get toired 'f boring old me and look for better pastures."

Such a piss-poor level of self worth was incomprehensible to a narcissist like Spy. "Just think of zat as extra motivation to keep me."

"Moight 'ave t' toi you t' th' bed then," Sniper deadpanned in that 'could be joking, could be serious' voice he had raised to an art form.

Spy was not phased; he had contingency plans in place should Sniper ever carry out that often-repeated threat. "All you need to do eez ask nicely and you can do to me whatever terrible things you wish."

Sniper made sound of half-hearted annoyance to cover his obvious embarrassment--the tips of his ears had turned pink. "I told you, I'm not loike that!"

Not sure what else to say, other than I'm enjoying the humor and can't wait to see how things turn out.

I could use feedback on how clear I'm coming across in the narrative, since I often forget that people can't read my mind and don't make the same intuitive leaps that I do.

Specifically for this story, is it clear that Spy's an Unreliable Narrator?
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III. End

Spy, though he did live in the moment, also expected that things between him and Sniper might end at any time; not so much because either of them wished it, but by the will of The Almighty Bitch. It didn't seem possible that she had yet to discover their relationship, considering that Sniper made sure to spend almost all of his waking hours in Spy's presence whenever possible. Perhaps they were safe from her wrath because she didn't yet consider them to be friends. Perhaps the fluid nature of the teams stationed with them--both Sniper, Spy, and everyone else would change sides multiple times even in the course of a particular round depending on some arbitrary idea of "balance"--meant that she was less paranoid about leaks. Perhaps they were just not high enough on the totem pole for her to care.

Or perhaps she was entertained by what she saw, just as drivers tended to slow down to watch the scene of a car accident. There was precedence for Spy to believe this: when he showed her the pictures he took as explanation of why it was necessary to sleep with the enemy (that being the most efficient way to get the best view of the apartment across the street), she raised an eyebrow at him in response but made no further objections to his affair with his "petit chou-fleur".

Of course, now that Sniper was part of the equation, Spy's non-Sniper-related social visits dwindled and, in time, became almost nonexistent. Spy didn't mind being the sole person orbiting Sniper's tiny universe, and he considered the temporary shrinking of his own to be an acceptable price to pay in exchange for Sniper's company. It wasn't as if this arrangement would last forever anyway, and Sniper being quite aware of Spy's sacrifice made for an excellent bargaining chip whenever Sniper was not receptive to what Spy wanted. Of Sniper's many shortcomings, what Spy found most egregious was that Sniper lacked both imagination and experience when it came to sex. Even considering the biological imperative, Sniper was not just ignorant of alternate means to achieving pleasure but also reluctant to try new things. For a man with a reputation of a perverse weirdo, Sniper's tastes were vanilla to a depressing degree. If Spy always allowed Sniper to take the proverbial wheel, they'd be doing nothing but sex in the missionary position.

"But I loike seeing your face," Sniper would protest whenever Spy brought up the prospect of alternate body arrangements.

On one of these occasions, Spy reached up to stroke Sniper’s stubble. "As do I, but zat eez what we have mirrors for, non? Besides, I also enjoy admiring zee rest of you."

"Can't imagine woi," Sniper mumbled, brushing Spy’s hand aside. "I'm 'ardly wot you'd call pretty."

"But zat doesn't make you any less interesting," Spy pointed out, exploring the rest of Sniper’s body. "Eef you simply adhered to some abstract platonic ideal, zat would be boring beyond belief."

I'm not sure I'd call this an unreliable narrator. I'm well aware that the narrator is biased towards Spy's perspective, and I do end up making some minute adjustments in order to get from what the narrator says happened to what probably actually happened. But in order to earn the title of "unreliable narrator," I'd probably need to think he was spewing pants-on-fire bollocks at least part of the time, and I don't feel like that's the case.

Either way, I'm enjoying it.

Since I'm hoping to write a longer story, I'm building up Spy's unreliable-ness bit by bit and saving the juicy stuff for later. Right now it just suffices to know that you shouldn't take Spy at his word.

Well of course I wouldn't take Spy at his word. He's Spy.

I'm not worried about being unable to make sense of your narration. I trust the clarity of your writing enough to expect that when you get to the bits where the narrator isn't reliable at all, I'll know.

Hm. I have half an evil idea percolating, but I dunno if Spy would really go there.
_____________________________________________________________
IV. Inside

Though the aesthetic of the two sides was different for each area under contention, the general layout was identical. Each man (or whatever the Pyros were) was assigned his own place of residence labeled with the obvious alias they provided to their respective employers when they signed on, no one being dumb enough to use their real names. When anyone was assigned to the other side, he would either claim one of the bunk beds in the main team barracks or any place he could secure for himself.

As part of his attempt to keep things with Sniper interesting, Spy endeavored to have sex with him in every room of whichever base he was assigned in except the places where Sniper might get the wrong idea. This meant that Spy's room, Sniper's room, and Sniper's van were off limits.

So when Sniper offered an altogether unexpected invitation to his private quarters, Spy tried to downplay the significance of it, but he was certain he gave himself a few more gray hairs thinking it over. Even if they had been on opposite sides of the battlefield and he hadn't been paying as much attention to Sniper as he perhaps should have, there should have been some sign that Sniper was planning such a thing. Spy played through several worst-case-scenarios in his head before he decided that it wasn't worth the stress. He picked out the finest bottle of wine he was willing to part with, changed out of his usual suit so he wouldn't have to worry about Sniper ruining it, and knocked on Sniper's door at the appointed hour.

The solemn look on Sniper's face as he let Spy in was otherwise inscrutable. For his part, Spy kept his own expression a perfect mask of bored nonchalance and presented his offering, glad that his gloves wicked away the cold sweat beading on his hands.

Sniper didn't accept the gift. Instead, he sat down on his bed and stared at the far wall, away from Spy. "I got a Letter."

(Given Sniper's tendency to make mountains out of molehills, this could have meant anything from a death in the family to a bounced check, so Spy stayed silent.)

Sniper was still avoidant when he spoke again an eternity later. "I don't know wot t' do, Spoi. She—she says she needs me."

Relief gave way to a twinge of disappointment. This 'she' was, without a doubt, the old flame that Sniper spoke of before, and her wanting to rekindle their past relationship was the very first scenario Spy had imagined. "Zen go to her."

Sniper shook his head. "It doesn't make any bloody sense. She chose someone else ages ago. Woi me? Woi now?"

"Perhaps you should ask her and not me."

"I can't." Then, after a pause, softer: "I shouldn't."

"Because she betrayed you? Or are you choosing to insist on zee moral option now, of all times?"

"I—" Sniper grimaced. "I don't know."

"Go to her," Spy repeated.

Note to self: I am so going to have to go over this and edit for voice consistency on whether Spy makes contractions or not, and not worry about hitting 500 words each time exactly.
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V. Outside

To Spy's considerable surprise, Sniper didn't become an insufferable melodramatic tosser as per his normal tendency when facing an emotional crisis but rather threw himself into his work. Gone were those awkward moments where Spy noticed the targeting laser of Sniper's rifle dancing over his body even if they were on the same side; Sniper now lived up to his boast of being a one-man murder machine to such an extent that he was also the top priority target.

By the technicality that Sniper's personal life was anything but detrimental to his performance, Spy wasn't supposed to poke his nose into it, but he wasn't about to stop doing something just because it wasn't proper. Besides, it wasn't his fault that Sniper couldn't bother to keep his mail more secure than locking it up in his room. It was a trivial matter for Spy to let himself in and do a little snooping (he refused to call rummaging through Sniper's things "gathering Intelligence"; that would be attributing far more importance to the task than it deserved).

As soon as he had a few days to go on extended leave, Spy hopped on a plane to the city listed on Sniper's letter. The address itself--a run-down apartment not unlike the kind he frequented in the past--did not seem to be occupied, however, so a little more snooping around in the corresponding mail slot overflowing with bills directed him to a nearby hospital.

Though the place was a company-owned facility and thus not bound by the normal rules, Spy felt that it was more appropriate to keep a low profile and thus used the old-fashioned method of disguise and Camera Beard rather than murder and replace even if nobody would miss a random janitor or give much thought to finding a corpse stuffed in a broom closet. To make sure that no one was there to look the other way while he went through the person-of-interest's medical records, Spy engineered a diversion via inducing a medical emergency on some unlucky sap and made off with the little manila folder while the intensive care unit was caught up in the chaos.

She listed Sniper as her legal husband. That wasn't the pertinent detail Spy was looking for—her reason for being in the hospital was, and though he couldn't decipher medical Latin he understood the prognosis just fine; her condition wasn't fatal by any means but it would rob her of her sight, a death sentence for any normal person, and even more so if she was a mercenary like Sniper claimed her to be—but Spy couldn't take his eyes off it.

As far as medical procedures were concerned, the laws of the land gave precedence to whomever was given the right of attorney if there was one, then to immediate blood relatives if there wasn't, and then to the doctor after that. She and Sniper shared blood types; she must need him as a potential donor, and nothing more.

Hey Dotchan, I just noticed the colourchange on your website. It looks pretty good. It's a bit easier for me to read on my ipod.

Glad you like it. Having suffered through the eyeblinding cacophany of neon, blinking text that was 90s web design (and not having good monitors in the process), I favored a dark background/light text color scheme in pretty much every iteration of Concept Space, but apparently the general audience prefers the opposite. Guess our generation isn't going to shake off the influence of print any time soon.

Most 'fics here on the 'chan have Engineer be the reasonable, nice one of the team, so being contrary I felt like writing one who was anything but. I might have overdone it, though. Maybe it's better to make him "veneer of nice, innards of asshole" instead.
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VI. Time

Having found out all the juicy details that pertained to the current situation, Spy went back to his regular job. After all, Sniper had yet to descent into a spiral of self-destruction, and the Almighty Bitch had yet to give any orders on the matter.

Spy also couldn't decide what "taking care" of Sniper's problem for him would entail. If the result of Spy's meddling wasn't something Sniper wanted, even if the act itself was a favor, Spy's actions could result in Sniper being angry at him. On the other hand, doing nothing might also be a losing proposition if Sniper expected Spy to take matters into his own hands. There was also the matter of just how much this woman meant to Sniper. He had given her the alias he used for his current job, but that could just mean he was bad at coming up with fake names.

For the moment, it seemed that discretion was the wisest course of action. Except Spy wasn't the sole member of either side who had a vested interest in Sniper's love life, and it was becoming more and more obvious that the status quo had changed. One Engineer in particular—what Spy bothered to remember about this man to distinguish him from his counterpart was that his so-called degrees weren't worth the paper they were published on and compensated that lack of knowledge with a hair-trigger temper—had a crush on Sniper that everyone except the gunman could see from a mile away. It didn't take long for that Engineer, already quite antagonistic towards Spy, to beat a path to Spy's door and demand answers.

"What makes you zink I know anyzing about zee Sniper's personal business?" Spy asked, putting special emphasis on the last three words in the miniscule hopes that the other man would take the hint.

Of course, the Engineer's mind was too obsessed with other thoughts to do so. "Don't pretend you don't know what's going on with Slim!" He jabbed a meaty finger into Spy's chest. "Hell, I'd bet good money that you had somethin' ta do with it!"

Spy didn't dignify the other man with any answer, instead making motions to leave. If the Engineer couldn't see that Sniper dedicating himself to peak combat effectiveness was a good thing, even with the downsides, then he deserved to know nothing.

Except the Engineer wouldn’t let Spy go on his way. He squared his diminutive frame in the doorway, grabbing Spy by the arm with his robot hand and putting just enough squeeze on to imply that he was going to break some bones if he didn’t get the answer he wanted. “You ain’t weaslin’ yer way outta this one, ya no good lyin’ snake! Yer gonna tell me what’s goin’ on, come hell or high water!”

Spy was saved from injury by the beginning of a new combat round, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the Engineer raised the issue again.

I'm surprised how quick I get to 500 words once I sit down and start writing. This makes me somewhat hopeful that I might get to the magic number.
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VII. Peace

Spy's relationship with the Engineer who was giving him trouble again had always been strained, but prior to this most recent rash of harassment he'd put up with it in the name of team unity. For whatever reason, Spy couldn't muster up the wherewithal to pretend that nothing was wrong. It had been obvious from day one that beneath the Engineer's amicable veneer was a ticking time bomb; in the past, Spy took it upon himself to serve as an outlet for the man's ever-building frustration, but he decided that now was as good a time as any to see if he couldn't make it so that the Engineer was some other team's problem.

Riling up the Engineer was a trivial matter. All Spy had to do was make himself unavailable by any means necessary when the other man came looking for him while maintaining the perfect picture of good behavior, and then wait for the inevitable fireworks. Because the Engineer craved approval from everyone else on the team and didn't dare to so much as raise his voice in public except for in battle where it could be excused, this meant several entertaining days of watching the man's resemblance with a malfunctioning water heater grow by the moment.

In the meantime, now that it was obvious to everyone that Sniper's singular interest was in doing his job, Spy's routine went back to rebuffing the unwanted advances of his other teammates. As much as he enjoyed sex, he was by no means addicted to it, but they were convinced that he was a nymphomaniac and would not be dissuaded. Some of them asked nicer than others: the Soldier in particular always looked so pathetic when asking that Spy didn't have the heart to say no; the Demoman could be taken care of with enough amounts of alcohol and touches in the right places to convince him that something much naughtier had taken place once he sobered up; the Heavy was still in denial about Medic's lack of interest in him and didn't approach except at his most desperate, and even then he tended to be quite considerate given the size difference; the Medic was more interested using Spy's body as a guinea pig for experiments and his "science orgasms" tended to leave him too exhausted for sex. As for the rest of the team, the Pyro was too busy following the Engineer around like a mother hen to do much more than make threatening gestures, the Engineer himself was too busy failing to contain his growing rage, and the Scout was not all that serious about trying to sleep with Spy, not when Spy couldn't remember whether or not it was this Scout whose mother he was romancing.

"Yeah, that'd be too damn weird," the Scout had agreed when Spy brought this up. "But if you weren't fucking my Mom, you'd totally do me, right?"

"I'd consider it," Spy equivocated, causing the Scout to break out in a wide grin.

The day that the Engineer couldn't take it anymore and exploded started like any other, with the battle having ended in an overall draw for both sides. The team congregated for dinner and analyzed their performance while they ate—the general consensus being that while it wasn't their worst outing, there could be room for improvement—then went their separate ways. Soon the group lounging in the common room watching grainy television shows was down to Spy and the Scout, who took the opportunity to stretch out across the sofa, draping himself over Spy's lap.

"Doesn't have to be me fucking you, ya know," he began, flashing what he thought to be his most charming grin. "I can totally give you awesome head right now."

Spy didn't even make a show of considering this. "Pass."

"Aw, c'mon! You ain't even giving me a chance heyah!"

Whatever snarky response Spy was going to say was lost in the roar of the Engineer's shotgun fired into the air, and his attention was drawn to the Engineer himself, cradling his shotgun like one might a woman. His immediate, instinctive response was to shove the Scout out of the way.

The Scout's mouth reacted before the rest of him did, exclaiming a bewildered: "What the hell?"

The Engineer let his gun do the talking for him, firing another shot, this time shattering Spy's kneecap, causing Spy, who was already half out of his seat, to drop to the floor.

"Dude!" That was the Scout, now on his ass due to having scrambled behind cover. "What's wrong with you?"

"Don't worry, I've got this." The Engineer advanced on Spy, leering. "No more funny business, Spy. I turned friendly fire on just for this. You ain't getting' away from me no more."

Spy, having experimented with his counterpart to determine that Respawn was on all the time in all lands being contended by the two sides, could've just ended the confrontation right then and there one way or another. But the rest of the team would be running towards the sounds of gunfire any moment and the Scout was the most credible witness Spy could've hoped for; plus, he wanted to see his plan to its inevitable conclusion. He remained where he was, silent, pretending to be frozen in fear.

"Woah, woah, woah!" The Scout jumped to his feet again, though he hesitated to move forward. "Easy, man, Spy's on our side!"

"That's just what he wants you ta think. Then, when ya least expect it—" the Engineer pounded the sofa with his robot hand, leaving a sizable dent in it. "Bam!"

"Hardhat, dat ain't how things work and ya know it. Yer just picking on Spy 'cause you don't like him!"

"And why should I like tha lyin', no good, selfish sonofabitch? If he ain't screwin' with ya, then he's just after yer ass!" The Engineer shoved the shotgun against Spy's face. "Watch, I'll prove it. The little cocksucker'll put his mouth to anything."

Just wanted to say I've been camping out in this thread, chin in hands, and have been extremely pleased with each update. Please do go on.

Whoops, that was supposed to be prompt #8, "War"

Intermission: 2 more scenes inspired by Mann vs. Machine
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(#1 - BLU Engie really cares about his team colors)

"No. No way in hell." The BLU Engineer crossed his arms over his chest. "We may be fighting on tha same side now, but I'm still a BLU, and I'll die one if I hafta."

The BLU Soldier, meanwhile, had already stripped down to his Captain America underwear. "It's just clothes, Engie. And this'll be the only way we can make sure we don't shoot one another by accident."

"It ain't fair, I tell ya. Once--just once--I'd like ta make a stand against those mother-hubbard machines in my own uniform."

"So do I, Engie, so do I. But beating back those robots means more to me than what color I'm wearing."

The BLU Engineer scoffed. "Yer jus' happy 'cause you get ta be around RED's Demoman without anyone raisin' ruckus about it."
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(#2 - What if those rewards were more than just cosmetic?)

The Scout kicked down the door to the Medic's office--an easy task now that both of his legs had been replaced with mechanical ones from the knees down. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME, DOC?!? WHAT DID YOU DO?"

The Medic, for his part, didn't even bother looking up from his newest patient, holding the Heavy's new arm in place while the Engineer welded supports into the unconscious man's skeleton. "I did zee best I could given zee circumstances; you yourself said you did not wish to become a cripple."

"I said I didn't want you to amputate, you bonesaw-happy ass! We're supposed ta be fighting dose robots, not become them! Look at me now!" The Scout gestured to the mess of gears, wires, and pneumatic tubes that snaked the length of his lower body. "I'm a freak, and it's all your fault!"

The Engineer stepped into the Scout's path, poking his robot hand into the Scout's chest. "Boy, stop pitchin' a fit and listen ta reason fer once. It's a miracle you even lasted this long with Respawn on tha fritz, and now Doc's givin' ya fightin' chance ta hold out until we can get things workin' again. You wanna be a baby about this, do it somewhere else." He gave the Scout a shove. "Now git. Yer bein' a distraction."

Back to your regularly scheduled padding, I mean, plot advancement.

(Yeesh, at this rate, I'll never get back to what's going on between Sniper and Spy.)
----------------------------------------------------
IX. Warmth

Spy couldn't have planned things better himself. He'd rather not have to fellate a firearm, of course, but whatever dignity he was losing was more than made up for in the sympathy that he was winning from the Scout. "What--" he asked in a shaky voice. "What do you want?"

"Don't play dumb, Spy. You've done this plenty 'a times before." The Engineer gave the rifle a not so subtle nudge. "If ya do a good enough job, I just might letcha in on tha fun."

The Scout's eyes grew wide as saucers as Spy opened his mouth and began to tongue the edge of the gun. "Dude. Dat is so fucked up."

The Engineer, taking that statement to refer to Spy, gloated. "What did I tell ya? He'll do anything so long as it gets him off."

The Scout made a noise of utter disbelief. "You've gotcher goddamn gun pointed at'im!"

"So? He's got plenty 'a ways ta get outta this, but no, he's giving head to this 'goddamn gun'!"

The Scout turned his attention to Spy. "Hardhat's blowin' it outta his ass, right?" He waited all of three seconds for Spy to answer, and when there was none, he grew impatient. "C'mon, man! Say somethin'!"

Spy gave the Scout a look that could be interpreted either as "why aren't you helping me" or "I'm doing just fine" and then bleated out the most piteous-sounding "Please--!" that he could muster.

The Scout froze in indecision a moment longer before fleeing the room--to get the help that was congregating down the hall. The Engineer heard the sounds of stomping feet and muffled talking, too, but he also didn't back down. "Good, good. They're all coming. Now the whole team will get to see for themselves just what they've been stickin' thar dicks in." He gave the gun enough of a shake that Spy wasn't prepared for it and gagged. "Well? Don't just sit there and stare at me like you've never done this before. Pants down, ass up, you know the drill."

The Scout came back into the room with the rest of the team just in time to see Spy in all of his (half) naked glory being sodomized by the Engineer via shotgun; it was about now that Spy started to think that maybe he was in over his head. Even putting this moment into consideration, the Engineer still had much higher standing than Spy, and every man there (and whatever the Pyro was) had his own reason to turn a blind eye even if Spy's plight was genuine.

Intermission: Soldier and Medic's Ambiguously Gay European Road Trip

Because this idea wouldn't go away, and I at least wanted to write a few scenes for it. (My ideas-provider buddy wants something involving llamas, but I haven't figured out how that's supposed to happen.)
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After Halloween, Merasmus stormed off in a sulk, leaving behind a gaping hellmouth nobody could figure out how to close. Not the type of people to leave a pit to the very bowels of the earth lying around unexploited, the team dug a trench from the lake and filled it with water.

In no time at all they had themselves a swank hot springs that they would lounge in at every opportunity. After a while, it seemed that not a night would go by without most or all of the classes seated in or around the water, sharing drinks and stories.

"Y'know what this reminds me of?" Soldier knocked back the rest of his beer and leaned back, his arms pillowing his head. "That time Doc and I were trying out a sauna and in walks, of all people, Santy Claus--"

Scout groaned. "Aw, c'mon, Solly, not dat cock and bull story again."

"It iz not cock," Medic interjected before Soldier could start a fight. "I can personally vouch zat everything Soldier has told you about what happened in Europe after ze war--after ve started traveling togezzah, anyway--is completely true."

Scout remained skeptical, though his doubt wavered now that Medic was backing up Soldier's claims. "But Santa? Really? C'mon, even I've stopped believing in dat years ago."

"You saw Australian Santa murdered wiz your own eyes and yet you are skeptical about ze genuine article?" Medic closed his eyes in remembrance. "Granted, he may not have been Sinterklaas--"

"Of course he was Santa!" Soldier exclaimed, slapping the water so hard it splashed everyone else sitting near him. "Who else would have such an epic beard? Or that package! You'd have to have serious Pals With Jesus points to have equipment like that!"

Engineer covered his ears. "Dagnabbit, Solly, I didn't need ta hear about how well hung you think Santy Claus is!"

"How do you think I feel? I saw The Area with my own eyes, and I didn't know what do to! Obviously it was rude to stare, but how was I supposed to look away from it?"

The next one will feature Sniper prominently, I hope.
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X. Cold
Spy woke and, finding himself being watched over by the Scout, sat up and gave the younger man a wan smile. "I appreciate zat you didn't take advantage of me while I was unconscious, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer before I relieve you of your virginity."

The Scout replied with an indignant and reflexive: "Fuck you, Spy!" But then he shook his head and took in a deep breath. "Aw, no, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, man."

Spy began looking for his cigarettes. "What are you apologizing for? You haven't done anything wrong."

The Scout reached over to nightstand next to the bed and fetched one from Spy's disguise kit and then, once Spy had it hanging from his lip, lit it for him. "Because I didn't know how fucked up things were for you, but I kept being an ass to ya. My Ma taught me bettah dan dat." The Scout crossed his arms. "So I'm sayin' sorry now, cuz I shouldn't 'a done dat. And you'd better forgive me, 'cause I still wanna be friends with you and shit."

Spy had to choke back his laughter so hard that he went into a coughing fit. By the time he could breathe again, the Scout was just about touching foreheads with him to make sure he was fine. Spy leaned back and flicked the Scout in said forehead. "Of course you're forgiven. What sort of teammate would I be if I held a grudge?"

"See? Dis is what I don't get. You're probably like da least selfish person on dis team, but everybody still treats you like shit." The Scout puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. "Why haven't you flipped out yet? So is Hardhat right and you're really inta dat kinda thing?"

Spy shrugged. "Does what I want matter when sacrifices must be made for zee greater good?"

The Scout's eyebrows went up. "What, so you were 'takin' one for da team' or whatevah?"

"Something like zat."

"Well, you don't hafta no more." The Scout cracked his knuckles. "Anybody tries anything funny, Imma beat his face in."

"You'll have to be a better Scout first, petit. Zee Engineer gets a pass for his behavior precisely because he eez so valuable on zee battlefield. For now, eet eez better to leave zee matter be and let him be someone else's problem."

"No way! Not when it'll end up being your problem, Spy! If I don't stand up for you now, what'll dat sicko do ta ya the next time he gets his hands on ya?"

Another shrug. "I've lived through worse."

Scout shook his head. "Man, I'm starting to think maybe you are fucked up in da head."

"Perhaps."

Having run out of things to say, the Scout sat down on the bed next to Spy and sighed. Spy smiled again, snaked his arm around the Scout's waist and leaned closer; though the younger man rolled his eyes, he stayed where he was.

XI. Red

Despite the unanimous agreement that the Engineer's behavior had crossed a line, an ever changing but always significant faction couldn't bring themselves to him off the team. They were too comfortable with the status quo, too unwilling to rock the boat, too close to the Engineer to see things in an objective manner, or too apathetic to care one way or another.

Spy, for his part, removed himself from the debate. As far as anyone except for the Scout was concerned, his motives were suspect, and so were his words. At least there was now a strict no-contact order between both Spy and the Engineer, so Spy could put his mind to thinking about other things.

For example, after the day's fighting, why did Sniper herd Spy into the infamous "Rape Van" and drive off to parts unknown without so much as a single word? Spy tried to make light of the situation with a semi-joking: "Oh, dear, am I being kidnapped?" But all he got in response was stony silence.

By the time they reached their first rest stop, Spy got some inkling that Sniper desired something, but was too afraid of rejection to ask in actual words; it must've been a hell of a favor that Sniper had in mind, because when Spy went to go pee Sniper followed in behind him, locked both of them in, and then proceeded to give Spy the most amazing blowjob he'd ever experienced from the other man.

"But eet isn't even my birthday," Spy murmured afterwards, drawing his handkerchief to clean the mess that Sniper's face had become.

Sniper clutched Spy waist like he was about to drown. "Spook, I--" his voice caught on the lump of his throat, and his gaze dropped.

Spy squatted to Sniper's level and gave him a deep kiss. "Say no more. You are een need of me een some capacity, oui? Let's not dawdle, zen, and be on our way."

Sniper wrestled with his lack of eloquence for some time before he offered an almost voiceless muttered apology and the two of them continued on their way.

With all of the anticipation built up along the way, discovering that all Sniper wanted was a pair of corneas for his not-quite-ex so she could shortcut the usual waiting process--he'd even found himself a former Medic now practicing as a back alley doctor who had the right combination of skills, machinery, discretion and lack of ethics to pull off the transfer in the most efficient manner--was something of a letdown. But at least the painkillers Spy got before the Medic strapped him to the operating table and put him under the knife were pleasant enough.

Spy spent most of the return trip dozing on Sniper's shoulder. And once they were back, he rebuffed Sniper's offer of more sex with a smile and a gentle "later". He wasn't keeping exact tabs, but the more Sniper felt indebted to him in the long run, the better.

Intermission: Magnificent Bastard
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This was somewhat inspired by an SFM thing I saw recently, but since it doesn't fit into my plans for "100 Days of Spy/Sniper", it's here on its own.
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The plan was supposed to have been perfect--even if the deal itself went awry, the Sniper would make some pretext to leave the table, the Spy would activate his Dead Ringer, and the hidden Demoman would trigger his bombs, blowing the whole table to smithereens and sending the enemy Engineer back to Respawn. The Package, protected by its thick casing, would have been safe from the explosion and they could have claimed it without further complications.

Except as the Engineer and the Spy pointed their guns at each other, the Sniper stayed where he was and continued to make a show of cleaning his rifle. It wasn't until the Demoman screamed into the team earpiece for the Sniper to do something that the Sniper acted, raising his gun and firing in one swift motion--

--at his own unseen teammate.

All of the Spy's mental processes ground to a halt as he listened to the Demoman's dying gasps in his own headset. "What--" For all of his previous eloquence, his vocabulary was diminishing into single syllables. "Why?"

The Sniper opened the Package, gathered the items Spy had offered for trade, gave each an additional inspection just to confirm their authenticity, and put them into the suitcase one by one. "'e paid more. Simple as that."

"But you--and I--we--"

"Yeah. I figured I needed that extra bit 'f leverage. For wot it's worth, I'm sorry it's 'ad t' come t' this--it's woi I talked Truckie out 'f not taking you prisoner, even though we prolly should." He relieved the Spy of all of his other weapons first, before plucking the revolver out of the other man's hand. "Guess this means we're over, now."

The Spy watched as the Sniper handed the Package off to the Engineer before pointing his own gun back at him while the other man made off with the suitcase, his mind reeling with the weight of the Sniper's words. "You mean--zis your whole plan from zee beginning?"

The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "Don't you do this sort 'f thing all th' toime?"


The Spy felt his face flush. "How dare you--I would never--"

"Don't mean ta interrupt you two lovebirds," the Engineer called from his getaway vehicle. "But we ain't got time for no spats."

"You 'eard Truckie." The Sniper tipped his hat. "We can talk about this later, if you loike."

"We'll do much more zan talk," the Spy hissed, visions of revenge dancing in his head now that his thoughts were in order once again.

The Sniper stopped just long enough to give the Spy the smile that had melted his heart--now, it just twisted the metaphorical knife all the more. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

>>104
I must admit, reading this brought me a sort of grim satisfaction - I think it's the first time I've seen Sniper as the character who's the traitor.
Although an argument could be plausibly made for that kind of characterisation, considering his profession and "are we being paid for this" attitude.
Kind of cool to see Spy reacting to being betrayed, too. I like the idea of him (and other team members) having a skewed sense of morality but still their own personal standards. Like pretending to be someone's teammate and stabbing them in the back is okay, but faking romance isn't. Interesting to play around with that kind of thing.

>>104

Any chance of you continuing this?

I've seen a lot of stories where a character (usually Spy, yes) betrays another after seducing him, but I don't think I've ever, ever seen the betrayed character get revenge.

Usually, the story stops at the betrayal. Sometimes, it continues with the betrayed character selling out his dignity deciding that he can't possibly hate the traitor because TRU WUW and jumping back in bed with him. Once, it continued with the betrayed character losing everything (including his own life) while the traitor gloated. But the one thing I never see is honest-to-goodness revenge.

For once, I'd love to see a story where the betrayed character actually goes "fuck no, I'm not forgiving you!" and kicks much ass.

Granted, as far as betrayals go, the one in this story was relatively tame compared to most other fics: Sniper basically just stole some stuff and sent Demo back to Respawn. Nobody was killed, captured, tortured and/or raped, and it doesn't look like that suitcase can end the war.

Still. Spy needs to get even and break Sniper's heart along with his bones.

I must admit, reading this brought me a sort of grim satisfaction - I think it's the first time I've seen Sniper as the character who's the traitor.
Glad you liked the irony--turning the tables on the usual "honey trap" situation was why I wrote this bit in the first place.

Kind of cool to see Spy reacting to being betrayed, too.
Oh, definitely. One of my interpretations of Spy is that he's a hopeless romantic--why else does he refer to Scootma with such a sappy nickname and keep the picture of him holding hands with her? Plus, I'm sure that being outsmarted by the Sniper of all people must hurt his pride.

Any chance of you continuing this?
I dunno. Most of my brain energy's gone into the 100 prompts thing. If I did keep going, I would definitely have Spy get his revenge, but I have no idea how that would happen.

Because I like Scout being considerate (while at the same time still acting like his usual mouthy ass self), have this.
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The Scout plopped down next to the Spy and instead of using his not at all subtle yawn and stretch maneuver to throw an arm around the other man, faced the Spy and looked him dead in the eyes. "Look, if I'm doing something wrong when we fuck, you can tell me, I wouldn't get offended or nuthin'."

The Spy chuckled. "Still feeling insecure zat I'm more experienced zan you, petit?"

"Haha, very funny, Spy. Go ahead and spin stories on how ya bagged every woman from here ta Timbucktoo all ya want, but you ain't got me fooled." The Scout stabbed an accusatory finger into the Spy's shoulder, smirking when he saw the Spy flinch. "See? I may not be as 'worldly' as you or whatevah, but I wadn't born yesterday. If you were a woman I'd be introducin' ya ta a halfway house and then takin' a baseball bat ta da asshole who's makin' ya scared 'a even gettin' ta foist base."

The Spy rolled his eyes. "Is that what you think eet eez? Zat I am frightened of intimacy? Has eet not occurred to you zat I am simply bored of sex because seduction eez part of my job?"

The Scout snorted. "What, you some kinda gigolo? And besides, I aintcher pimp. I actually like you and all that shit--why else would I let your ugly mug anywhere near me?"

This got a smirk out of the Spy. "I could think of a few reasons."

"C'mon, Spy, I'm trying ta have a serious conversation heyah. It's not all dat hot ta have ya naked under me and actin' like yer just lyin' back and takin' it." The Scout leaned in closer. "If yer so good at sex, den gimme some pointers, man! Or let me know what kinda kinky shit yer inta, I wouldn't mind trying some, so long as they're not too weird."

"What I like? Sitting togezzah on zee couch watching television. Having candelit dinners een a small restaurant no-one else has heard of, but zee food eez magnificant. Falling asleep on zee porch swing on a warm summer evening. Holding hands while having a nice stroll." The Spy made a melodramatic gesture. "All terribly uninteresting, non?"

The Scout stared at the Spy, trying to figure out if the other man was kidding. When he realized that the Spy was dead serious, he made a face, blowing air out between his lips. "Man, dat's some pretty pussy shit right dere."

The Spy shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a hopeless romantic."

For the first time in the conversation, the Scout fell silent, twiddling his thumbs while his chewed on his bottom lip. Then he clapped the Spy on the shoulder. "Okay, sure, I can live with dat. I mean, you let me put my dick up yer ass, it's the least I could to is ta do something nice in retoin. Cuddling on da couch? Done, and I can keep my hands ta myself, no problem. Fancy dinners? Name da place and we can go, candles and everything, it's not like I don't got piles 'a cash layin' around. I dunno about porch swings, but da roof is nice an' quiet at night, and nobody but me goes up dere. As far as holdn' hands, though--no offense, but I don't think dat's a good idea, not while yer dressed as a Spy, anyway."

"None taken. And don't feel like you have to do zose things. You don't owe me anything."

"I know, but I wanna. I told you, man, I like you." Here the Scout let his arms drop. "But expect me ta bring flowers an' chocolate or nuthin'."

At this, the Spy smiled. "Zen I won't ask for zem."

Sometimes I really hate the inner critic part of me who picks a million plot holes into my Brilliant Ideas (tm). Until I can come up with a story about a gay Sniper being reluctantly romanced by a reverse trap enemy Spy that said inner critic is happy with, have some crossfaction Spycest cocktease.
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He insists, as always, that I remove everything on me except for the mask--professional courtesy, so he claims--before he gets out the tape, even though I have yet to bother with making the layers of clothes underneath the suit jacket myself. Nevertheless, he has proved himself to be a master at the chore of measuring me, and I do not trust anyone else to be in such close proximity to myself, naked or dressed.

He starts at my wrists, clicking his tongue at the poor shape of my nails. "I thought you quit zat filsy habit."

"Eet has been razzer stressful as of late, but I need zee cigarettes for currency." I stretch first one arm, and then the other for him, keeping my gaze focused elsewhere while his hands ghost over them. "Unless you are suggesting zat I offer somezing else to my teammates een exchange for favors just so you can look at presentable nails."

He doen't answer until he is reaching around from behind to draw the tape around my torso, and then his reply is murmured against my ear, soft and low. "You may keep the gloves on next time."

"Eez zat supposed to make me grateful?" It takes all of my self control to keep from flinching when he brushes against one nipple, and then the other, as if it were an innocent accident. "You still keep eet far too cold een here."

Neither of us are anywhere near innocent. "And you still don't object, no matter how many fingers I put een your ass."

Those fingers hover over my waist, but they behave themselves--for now. "If your digits had more girth to them, zen I might find cause to complain."

Upper body finished, he knees before me, teasing the inside of my thigh when he passes it. "You, of all people, have no right to cast insinuations on another man's size."

I trap him between my legs as he is lingering with the final touches. "Are you done? Or are we still pretending to hate each other, even as we fuck?"

He tilts his gaze up, his lips drawn in a thin line even as he reaches for my crotch. "You'd seriously call zis 'love'? Even your Sniper would not be so pathetic."

I liked it a lot! Short but intense.

As much as I don't like the thought of torture being a part of the TF2 experience, I do indulge in fantasizing about one side or the other taking prisoners and Vague Horrible Things happening every so often.
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He finds the silence to be far more unnerving.

He can tune out the screams, the cries for help, the begging, the laughter, the taunt, the dirty talk, the bones breaking, the various sounds of flesh on flesh, and whatever else can be heard emanating from the basement. Unpleasant as they may be, they are the noises of a war that has long since lost any semblance of civility, so much so that even the Head Bitch has stopped complaining about their "wanton depravity" (as if killing each other over and over again was somehow less deprived) so long as the average productivity doesn't slip too far below what she demands of them.

It's when he can't hear what's being done to whoever was unlucky enough to be a "guest" in the "Fun Room", though he knows that one or more or his teammates are down there, that his imagination goes into overdrive, and the conscience he thought to have gone numb ages ago stands before him with sword in hand to stab him with all sorts of accusations though he no longer makes trips to the accursed place, not even to watch or dispense random acts of kindness that proves to be all the more cruel because it provides a false sense of hope. He hates himself for his cowardice, but he knows that any further action on his part to make things better for the enemy team would be seen as treason, and he still remembers how much worse it was when one of their own was marched downstairs and never seen again.

I'm now on *umblr, http://dot-chan.*umblr.com/ (replace the asterisk with a t)

Going to dump a mass of old 'fic ideas, drabbles, and random stuff, and then new things as I finish them.

Follow me and give me epeen if you feel like it.

Man, it's been forever since I wrote something that was just nice and fluffy.
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For the Scout, as the youngest of eight boys and therefore almost never able to get in so much as a single syllable, touch almost became his second language. He became fluent in the nuance of every punch, every knuckle tap, every slap upside the head, every noogie, every high-five, and every secret handshake that he traded with his brothers. He also learned at least fifty ways to elbow someone and then get the other person in trouble for it, to drape himself across multiple laps without it feeling awkward or uncomfortable, and to use shoulders as pillows on cramped family car trips.

Being on a team of multi-international scumbags and murderers (no offense to his teammates, but they all got paid to do shit that would've landed any of their asses in jail several times over) turned out to be not that much different than life back home except for the whole new minefield of personalities that he had to negotiate. Gravitating towards the Soldier, despite his rather loose grip on reality, felt right because the Soldier didn't just take the Scout's good-natured--and sometimes not-so-good natured--posturing with stoic aplomb, he met Scout both word for word and touch for touch. So even after the Scout had warmed up to everyone else on the team, he still use all of his brother-annoying tactics on them--he delighted in riling up the Engineer in particular, as the otherwise amicable Texan had the most hilarious reactions to getting his personal space invaded--the Scout's interactions with the Soldier soon became nothing but the equivalent of you're okay with me.

In time, that camaraderie became a deeper friendship. Watching television together went from the Scout leaning against the back of the couch using the top of the Soldier's head to rest his chin on (because the rest of said couch was taken), to the Scout being wedged into the space the Soldier saved between himself and the armrest, to the Scout balancing on the Soldier's knees and scooting further back as the night progressed until he all but fell asleep in the Soldier's arms because he'd worn himself out during the day's fighting. Post-battle powows went from the Scout sitting across the fire pretending to listen to the Soldier berate them, to the Scout sharing drinks with the Soldier and bragging about his exploits, to the Scout laying next to the Soldier to gaze at the stars after everyone else had gone to bed.

All of this increasing acts of affection did not go unnoticed by the rest of the team, but the Scout shrugged off all of their jokes and namecalling, having heard far worse from his brothers growing up. Besides, it wasn't as if the others hadn't done their share of fooling around. Someday, the Scout might give dudes a try, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to start with the Soldier. Not that the Soldier wouldn't be a good pick--far from it--but bringing sex into the equation might mess with the the mojo they had going now, and the Scout wasn't going to risk ruining that just for a good time. Until he was ready to go there with the Soldier, the Scout was content to nestle next to the other man and nuzzle the five-o'clock shadow on the Soldier's jaw.

oh my god thats adorable, I love affectionate scout

Ring of Fired BLU Side: Things to Do Now That You're No Longer Playing Death Tag
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It's just a sort of teaser-ish start for now. Hopefully I can get around to writing about everybody before writing momentum runs out or the next comic ships and invalidates all of my BLU-related headcanon.

Sentences are kind of rambly and run-on. I may or may not de-ramblify them later.
------------------------------------
The initial camaraderie with the REDs disappeared as soon as it became clear that the situation was not as dire as anyone had feared, and that both sides could handle the worst that Grey threw at them without having to grit their teeth and work with those they'd been trying to kill for what felt like years. Both sides had tried to be somewhat civil about parting ways, but it wasn't quite possible to do so without a fight breaking out. At least nobody died.

After that, things chugged along just fine, with the occasional break in the action to broadcast the day's kill count to wherever the REDs were holing up now--and the REDs, not to be outdone, always did their best to equal, if not exceed, that kill count. Both sides must have destroyed hundreds of those robots, perhaps even cracking quadruple digits, before somebody somewhere thought to change tactics and have the mechanical abominations proclaim their non-murderous intentions before charging headfirst into getting shot, exploded, set on fire, bludgeoned, stabbed, or some combination thereof, and even after that countless more of the things ended up as scrap metal before the stalwart defenders at long last got tired of the easy pickings and let one lone, trembling robot through.

The initial reaction to the announcement that Grey had succeeded in a non-hostile takeover of Mann Co.--and therefore they were all now even more unemployed than they had been before--was, of course, disbelief. Even if the enemy had never displayed any particular cunning, subterfuge, or indeed even thought to the way they had attempted to destroy their human counterparts, it seemed too impossible that the war had not been decided in the trenches but far away in Saxton Hale's office, and the epitome of Australian manliness had given up without so much as a fight.

But when, after that initial message of regime change had gotten across, not one single robot appeared on the horizon, no further orders came from the Administrator, Miss Pauling could not be reached, and even the REDs were silent, everyone had to admit that maybe the status quo had once again changed in a total, irrevocable manner. A few of them floated around the idea of taking matters into their own hands; though nobody had any problems cutting down swaths of robots and whoever was staffing the Mann-co offices (and if any of them were quislings who'd turned traitor just to keep taking a paycheck, then they deserved an express ticket to hell) none of them were all that eager to bring harm or even the threat of harm to a little girl.

In the end, like the REDs that must have jump ship long beforehand, the mercenaries of BLU also decided part ways, move on with their lives, and hope for the best. This meant several days of drunken carousing as they reminisced and made plans, and several more days of recovering from the epic hangover, but in the end not a single human presence was left amid the sprawling lands that had been fought over for centuries.

***

The first thing Scout had packed up and shipped back home was all of his hats, somehow all crammed into a single (enormous, but nonetheless not quite big enough) box. His bats he was taking with him--like hell he'd trust anyone else to take care of his babies--and he hadn't made up his mind about the rest of his crap, but he'd for sure earned those hats, along with the huge-ass paycheck that meant Ma didn't ever have to work another day in her life again, and that he could take her and the whole rest of the clan, why the hell not, on the world-spanning vacation he'd promised her.

He wondered if he should take one of his brand new uniforms home, just in case thing picked up again (somehow), or maybe just to put it in a nice frame and have it sit on his bedroom wall. He still remembered how it had felt putting it on for the very first time and almost crying because he couldn't remember if he'd ever worn something that wasn't a hand me down, and here he was standing in custom-fitted clothes that made him look like the baseball player he'd always dreamed of being but couldn't ever hope to accomplish because finishing school--even if that meant being on the varsity team--proved to be too much of a hassle. Of course, once he got into the swing of things he must have gone through like a million of the identical shirts, pants, and socks, but every so often he'd still feel a bit of nostalgia whenever he put on a new set of clothes and traced his finger around his class emblem for good luck before rolling up the sleeves.

Oops, forgot to namefag.

This post has been deleted.

Bleh, procrastinated on this long enough. Putting Solly's fate on a cliffhanger instead, so that I can ponder where he actually ends up once BLU decides to put the band back together.

---

Whenever his own Demoman would ranted and raved that the government was attempting to control its population via tampering with the water supply--as if Uncle Sam would ever need to stoop so low--Soldier would in turn laugh off the absurd notion. But now that he was about to embark on his own in what must have been enemy territory, he figured it would be better to be safe than sorry. So in addition to the Dispenser he'd strapped to his back (Engie wasn't all too happy about letting Soldier have one of his babies, and in addition to a wall of words that the Soldier tuned out, gave Soldier a list of maintenance manual that must have been at least as thick as a New York phone directory and then some), Soldier packed all of the food and drink he could carry and made his way towards what he hoped to be one of the many emergency bunkers that were rumored to exist in case of events such as the situation they faced now. Even if everyone had agreed to not take action against the new head of Mann Co. ("That's Awesome Supremo Madame President Olivia to you, minion!"), Soldier figured their former employer owed them some answers. This wasn't a desired fueled by money; his service to BLU had never been about anything other than fighting the good fight. But ever since the first time BLU stopped existing in any meaningful manner, no matter how many robots he destroyed he couldn't stop laying awake at night wondering what purpose all of that screaming, exploding, and dying was for.

And now, left to his own devices, a stranger in a strange land, and running out of edible things no matter how much care he took to rationing his supplies, Soldier found his mind drifting more and more to places they'd ought not to go. Dark, traitrous thoughts he had no business entertaining even in his wildest dreams bubbled to the surface; the hallucination Tavish who'd appeared to him somewhere between Bumfuck, Nowhere and Admit It, You're Lost refused to go away no matter how many times he bashed himself upside the head with his entrenching tool and his head was starting to hurt. The one thing that saved him from irrevocable, gibbering insanity was the firm knowledge that the apparition before him was indeed a product of his fevered imagination--he had plenty of experience with both his own flights of fancy and the real thing, and there were a million little details that distinguished this unwelcome guest with the former friend that Soldier did his best to ignore during the brief time when RED and BLU stood together on a united front.

As irony would have it, the phantom Tavish stalked Soldier as he treked through the desert. On most days, he spouted nonsense based on half-remembered conversations engaged while under the thick haze of Scrumpy and hand-rolled smokes; on others, he would act in such an over the top stereotypical fashion that it confirmed all the more he could not be an actual person (though Soldier had to admit that the hours-long monologue consisting nothing except the word "haggis" repeated over and over again was pretty funny, all things considered). None of this bothered him, as it was harmless compared to the sorts of things he'd witnessed himself or fantasized with his mind's eye.

What was getting to him was the rare occasion that the fake Tavish spoke sense and gave voice to the doubts assaulting his mind. But he'd never let doubts paralyze him before and he sure as hell wasn't now, not even as it was becoming more and more obvious that he was going in circles. Still, "anywhere but here" seemed a good enough destination, so he kept on trucking.

It wasn't as if he had anything else to do with his life.

Status update: I'm not dead, but my creativity may as well be.

However, I still have the mental energy to give my website a slight overhaul (ETA: When It's Done, of course), but I'm a little undecided as to how the new layout should look. If you have the chance, please pop over to http://dotchan.com/?page_id=7485 and vote on my poll (as well as give me some e-peen).

>>119

Voted. Also, would you take new submissions for fanfic? I'm looking for feedback on my work.

This post has been deleted.

Also, would you take new submissions for fanfic? I'm looking for feedback on my work.
Given how many free options there are around these days, it would take some pretty extraordinary circumstances for me to host someone else at this point. But I would be willing to read your story and offer feedback. Shoot it to me in an email with [Not Spam] in the subject line and I'll take a look at it.

Hope you feel that creative spark again soon. The chan feels weird without you around.
Thanks! It feels weird to not hang out in 'chan, either. (Heck, "chan" is even part of my pen name!)

>>122

Ah. Alright. I was just looking for some free exposure, and I've been told that if I want my writing and art taken seriously, I can't show my prospective employers my Tumblr.

Still creatively dead-ish (I did spawn a few plot bunnies while laid up sick in bed with a nasty upper respiratory tract infection, but none of them are TF2-related, alas), but I finally got around to finishing the content integration and switched to the new look (voted for by you all).

In addition to all of the original content that was in the old gallery, I found some fanart that I never scanned in and added that as well, so please drop by http://dotchan.com to take a look at it all (insert epeen joke here).

This was supposed to be a continuation ‘fic where Sniper has Feels About His Parents, but my brain’s hit its limit for now. Feel free to continue this where I left off.
----------------------------------------------------
Like hell Tavish was going to let Harry go off on his own and deal with the aftermath of the mess that his parents (either ones) left behind. Not after everything they went through together. Not when Tavish knew Harry well enough to be all but certain that the other man was not handling anything well. The death of his parents, finding out that he was adopted from their last will and testament, and then getting abandoned to his doom by his birth ones--any one of those things alone would’ve brought him grief, and he’d gotten slammed with all three in rapid succession. So no matter how much Harry insisted he was fine and everything would be fine once everything would be settled and they went back to work, Tavish was having none of it. And if Tavish was going, then so was Jane, who still wasn't convinced that the two best friends turned brief enemies had reconciled over being turned against each other. And if Jane was going, then so was Zhanna, despite Jane's insistence that he didn't need a nursemaid. And if Zhanna was going, then so was Misha,who got in a similar argument with Zhanna over whether or not he was treating his little sister like a baby. And if Misha was going, then so was Ferdinand, unrepentant as ever about offering his services to Grey Mann. (Nevertheless, once the initial shock of finding out what he had been doing while everyone else was unemployed faded away, they realized that had not betrayed any personal confidences and didn’t hold the temporary switch in surface loyalties against him.) And if at least half of the team was going to be together in one place, then Ms. Pauling decided she may as well follow along so she could make sure that they ended up where they were supposed to be on time. And if Ms. Pauling was going, then so was Jacob, even though he still wasn't able to get a straight answer out of her, and so was Chris, even though he still wasn't able to go on a date with her. And with at least eight people going and none of them eligible or experienced enough to drive on the left side of the road (or being able to do so sober, in Tavish's case), Dell volunteered to tag along and get a rental so at least half of the group wouldn't have to try to fit in Harry's camper. And with Dell going, then of course Taters would, as he'd been all but attached to Dell at the hip once they met up again, babbling nonstop in tones so muffled nobody but Dell could understand a word.

A simple coin toss meant the group could take the first red-eye to Sydney without having to endure Harry thinking himself in circles about which set of parental issues he should settle before the other. Then came a trip to the nearest gas station for a set of maps, and a rambling, tangent-filled set of instructions from Harry interrupted by impatient ex-mercenaries who were treating the trip like some sort of sight-seeing vacation rather than the solemn event it was supposed to be. Even with the inevitable delays brought on by the logistical nightmare of trying to organize such a diverse group--Tavish heard Dell mutter that it had to be easier to herd cats--they still managed to arrive at the Mundy-owned lands ahead of schedule thanks to both Harry and Dell's breakneck driving. Having spent all of their strength clinging to whatever they could hold onto and doing their best to not shit themselves, everyone tumbled out of the two cars and then into the house without a word, leaving Tavish to approach Harry alone.

"You sure you're all right with turning this place into a bonfire?" he asked. The original plans had been to take whatever mementos Harry wished to keep plus any supplies that might help the group in their future endeavors and then do away with the house and the barn in a simple detonation that even Jane could do in his sleep, to keep the squatters away while Harry prevaricated over what to do about the land, but one thing led to another and all of a sudden torching the place, even with the risk of setting off an uncontrollable conflagration, became the superior option.

"Wot else am I supposed t' do?" Harry rubbed at his eyes, which gained so many bags under them that, combined with his overall haggard appearance, seemed to have aged him by at least twenty years. "I couldn't leave this place at th' mercy 'f th' elements or those jackaroos. Besoides, I can't trust th' neighbors t' look after it neither, Dad never got along with them and they live half a day's droive away."

Of all the possible actions for Harry to take this did seem like one of the less bad ones, but Tavish had to wonder if Harry was doing it to run from his problems. Still, Tavish had been walled by Harry enough times to know that this wasn't the right time to press the issue. "True enough. Give us a yell if you need any help with anything, all right? I'll try to keep a handle on things with the others."

“’Preciate it.”

Harry disappeared upstairs, leaving Tavish to keep his eye on the others. Most of them had been exhausted by the ordeal and wanted to do nothing more than take a nap, but Jane wanted to try his hand at wilderness survival.

As much as Tavish loved Jane, sometimes he wanted to punch him. “For pity’s sake, man, the whole reason we went halfway around the world was so we wouldn’t split the group! If you’re that set on gallivanting about in the desert, at least wait until the rest of us have had our rest! Some of us need sleep, you know!”

Jane was no doubt about to make some inane claim about how his regimen meant he was beyond such needs, but it was then that a knock sounded at the door and if anyone was armed, they would’ve emptied all of their ammunition in the direction of that sound, annihilating the poor chump at the other end. Even so, Tavish still had to put Jane in a full-force headlock to keep him from charging ahead blindly before he signaled to Jacques to open the door.

A couple of lanky Ozzies (and by God was it strange to see ones that were skinnier than Harry, who already looked like he’d be blown away in a stiff breeze) stared back at five men sprawled in various positions over the furniture, Jane struggling to get free of Tavish, Jacques giving his most charming smile while flipping his knife back and forth with fluid rapidity, and Miss Pauling peering up from her glasses, all business. “May I help you gentlemen?”

They all got varying levels of awkward and began mumbling in Strine--Tavish could pick up bits and pieces thanks to his exposure of it from Harry’s drunken ramblings, but could not not grok the general gist of the conversation, and of course no-one else had any idea what was going on.

“What are you going on over there about?” Jane demanded. “Speak up! And speak American, dammit!”

The commotion drew Harry back downstairs. His lips drew into a thin line when he saw the strangers at the door. “No worries, mates, I’ve got this.”

As Jane gaped at Harry making rapid-fire conversation, Tavish took the opportunity to wrestle Jane away from the entrance and cold cock him, then let his unconscious form slide onto the floor, then grabbed a cushion from the couch to tuck under him.

Meanwhile, Harry had finished talking and returned to those who were still awake to report on the situation. “Some jackaroos noticed us droiving up and wanted t’ know ‘oo we were and all that. Once I told them, they said they’d be willing t’ take everything we don’t want--except th’ ‘ouse ‘f course, but we’ve got that covered.”

With that, he stalked away once again, leaving the team to their own devices. Tavish, meanwhile, decided that he could use a nap as well and settled down next to the unconscious Jane.

When he woke again, he found that he was the last to do so. In the meantime, Miss Pauling had taken control of the situation, and most of the team--even Jane, who despite having been roped in to do the heavy lifting, was still barking orders that were ignored in favor of Miss Pauling’s much more sensible directions--were moving whatever nonperishable goods Harry kept in the basement that could fit in the limited vehicle space. Meanwhile, a delicious smell emanated from the kitchen; following it, Tavish saw Chris flipping pancakes and Dell working on everything else.

Dell was tasting the gravy he’d just finished when he noticed Tavish. “Glad ta see yer up,” he greeted. “We’re jus’ about ready ta have us a nice brunch. We ain’t all gonna fit in here, so go ahead and help yersself and then call tha rest ‘a them in.”

“Thanks, Dell.” Tavish made a beeline for the fridge and grabbed a beer. “You wouldn’t have happened to find anything more than this swill-water to drink, would you?”

“Sorry, Tavish, but all that’s in tha kitchen is cooking wine. Try asking Harry? I’m sure he’s got a bit ‘a that hair ‘a tha dog lyin‘ around somewhere.”

Having not seen Harry yet, Tavish figured he was still upstairs and started loading two plates, one for himself and one for Harry, and nicked another beer as well. “Nah, that can wait.”

Indeed, Harry was in what Tavish presumed to have been his adoptive parents’ bedroom, loading album after album of childhood photos into what was now the fifth--no, sixth--box, not reacting to Travis’ presence until he cleared his throat. “Oh, don’t bother,” Harry said without looking up. “I don’t feel like eating anything.“

“Eat something anyway,” Tavish urged. “Or would you rather end up strapped on another gurney being pumped full of whatever fluids Ferdinand is experimenting with again?”

“Foine, foine, give it ‘ere,” Harry grumbled, sealing off the box he was working on with packing tape.

“Don’t worry, Harry, you and I will get good bloody sloshed afterward,” Tavish promised. “Provided you’ve got something tucked away in this house of yours, of course.”