It's morning. I can tell
because the sun is slashing into my face from the barracks windows. I roll my substantial
bulk off of the bunk and stare glassy-eyed across the room. It seems that my other
compatriots have already headed out for breakfast and or/practice.
The Scout |
I'm sure the Scouts
motivated themselves at some ungodly hour of the morning and went for a short 10 mile run.
Out of all of my teammates, I understand these fast little suckers the least. They run and
run and run and run! Sure, that may be their job, to run and take the enemy's flag, but
you don't need to make a living out of it.I think I see them about once a month, usually |
going
to and from somewhere, never sitting still. They serve their purpose, I suppose. However,
being who I am, I spend too much of my time filling the other team's scouts with 30 or 40
high-velocity shells as they run for my team's flag; trying to take it's beautiful colors
to their side. So…I don't hang with them very much. |
I stumble into
my camies and stagger into the mess hall for breakfast. After wading through the line and
grabbing as much food as I could fit on my plate (a growing boy needs to eat, after all) I
walk into the hall. Scattered around the tables I see my other teammates grouped into
their little cliques. Save the Medics, of course.
Medics: a strange lot. They sit and talk amongst themselves and never seem to
associate with the rest of us. Not that we're really hurt by their absence, mind you.
Personally it rather creeps me out the way they "take care" of our enemy. They
don't do it the honorable way, by filling them with ammo until they’re worth more in
scrap metal than a Pinto. They use what they call "alternative methods" to kill
the enemy off. Biological warfare.
|
 The Medic |
They give the
unlucky recipient of their medical attentions a disease that tears the body apart, killing
even the strongest of our opponents in a minute of so, unless they receive treatment from
one of their own medics. I'll have to give our medics that, they've saved my teammates'
lives on more than one occasion. But they still creep me out. |
I walk slowly
(of course, I seem to do everything slowly, but you don't weight 300 pounds and sprint
much) to my table where my closest partners in warfare are waiting. I take a seat and look
around the table. I see the Engineer, a couple Soldiers, our Demolitions Man and our
beloved Pyro. I look across from where I'm sitting and stare into my own face. Now I may
be a little slower than some of my teammates, but you don't have to be a rocket scientist
to realize that there is only one of you. I reach across the table and grab the collar of
the doppelganger Spy only to feel my hand sink into plastic skin. I must admit
that it's a bit disconcerting to watch your own face and body twist like a play toy.
 The Spy |
My impostor stands up
quickly, drops the disguise to the floor and bows with a flourish. It seems our current
spy is a bit of a trickster and really enjoys pulling this stunt on as many people as
possible. I mention a few choice words about how wise it is to mess with me when I'm
waking up and he |
walks, with
some purpose it seems, out of the hall; his unfinished meal still sitting across from me.
So much the better. More food for me. |
A couple of the Soldiers
start elbowing me in the ribs and chuckling, making comments like "leave the little
guy alone" or "Whatsamatta big guy? Can't take a joke?" Despite myself, I
chuckle along with them, my deep basso laugh seeming almost out of place from me. I like
Soldiers. These are people I understand. If my job were best described as "shoot
anyone near our flag" theirs is "shoot anyone near the enemy's flag." They
always seem to have a permanent cock-eye from sighting that rocket launcher of theirs;
earning many of them nicknames like "Popeye." |
 The
Soldier |
Not to their
face, mind you, since these guys usually shoot first and ask questions later. I couldn't
agree with them more. Besides yours truly, these guys are the toughest of my team to kill
and usually take a hell of a lot of the enemy team with them when they go. |
The Pyro |
Joining in the laughter,
though a bit maniacally, is our Pyro. None of us claim or even pretend to
understand him, but he is one funny guy. Sure, he may think that setting people on fire is
one of the most enjoyable and rewarding jobs on earth, but he does it with flair. After
all it's not me he's setting on fire, so I don't mind so much. Sometimes I wonder
what's going through his head. When I wonder it aloud, I'm usually told "it's
probably better we don't know." |
That’s a
pretty good point. Suffice it to say that he's mean, unstable and really really
loves fire. I can't say that I see either the Soldiers or the Pyro much, but they do their
job, which is the point, after all. |
Beyond the Pyro sits, near
a stack of papers, the Engineer. This man is one of my most constant companions
during combat; maybe not in person, but in spirit for sure. I can't even count how many
hours I've spent standing next to one of his turrets. Their constant beeping is usually
the only conversation I have once the shooting starts. My friend sometimes builds an Ammo
and Armor dispenser near me, keeping me protected and armed to the teeth. |
The Engineer |
Though
a bit absent-minded about everyday things, the upkeep and quality of his machines are
always on his mind. Even now, sitting at the breakfast table, he's engrossed on some new
way to improve the things he builds. Hey, he may not talk much, but as long as he keeps
those turrets humming he'll get no complaints from me. |
|
 The
Demoman |
Last but not least at our
table is my other companion and the one man that I see most: the Demoman. The
smoking, cussing and rude Demo is a great partner for me. As I stand guarding the entrance
to our flag room, my partner scatters his explosives throughout the entryway. |
If
anyone can make it through his little explosive welcoming committee, they'll meet me with
my trusty Assault Cannon Betsy and the Demoman by my side, his double-barreled shotgun
putting out shots as fast as he can keep the shells in. |
I'd like to take a moment to talk about Betsy.
Betsy and I give some guests a proper greeting. |
Betsy is my
beloved Assault Cannon. She is, in my opinion, the most beautiful creature on
earth. She is my constant, and I mean constant, companion during combat, and
oftentimes out of combat. Her eight spinning, blue steel barrels can pump out over ten
high-gauge, high-velocity shells a second, making a corpse out of almost anyone in two or
three seconds. She may eat a lot to keep up that kind of firepower, but she's worth every
penny. The high wine as she heats up is music to my ears and I take good care of her so I
can hear that sweet sweet music every day. The mere sound of her spinning up is enough to
scare the hell out of the other team. With her snug under my right arm I know that no one
will get our beloved flag. We're perfect together. We fit like puzzle pieces. Each
of us incomplete without the other. Sometimes the guys give me crap about her, but they
don't know her the way I do. I don't hear them complaining, however, when Betsy and I lay
waste to someone behind them or mow down scout after scout to keep our team on top of the
point rankings.
After some light chatting and
shoveling down 3 helpings of breakfast, I decide to make my way to the weight room (after
all, Betsy may be beautiful, but she's not a small girl). I can't seem to shake the
feeling that I'm being watched as I enter the gym, but a quick search of the room brings
no results, so I figure I must be alone. I settle down and the bench press for some quick
350-pound reps before the serious workout begins. Suddenly a familiar red light flashes
over my chest to my face. Out of instinct I dive to the ground and roll under cover. The
sound of applause and laughter drifts down from the girders above the gym. Red-faced, I
stand up as the final member of our band drops down the rope. The sniper walks over and
claps me hard on the back, laughing hard. His miniature frame seems like a toy next to
mine, and he knows it. But like me, the sniper spends too much time off by himself.
The Sniper |
The Sniper's
way is the opposite of Betsy's and mine. Betsy and I pump out round after round in what
amounts to the general compass direction of our target. She and I know that we'll hit our
target, it's only a matter of time. The Sniper takes the opposite approach. He and his
sniper gun (whom he refers to as Juliet… the weirdo) spend long seconds taking
precise aim at the enemy, often unable to get a shot off before the target runs by. But if
he should happen to get the shot off, chances are there's one more corpse in the
courtyard. If you survive the first shot, consider yourself lucky; survive the
second...consider yourself immortal. |
It's
his job to watch the enemy from above, usually on our battlements, and pop off as many as
he can. I've been told that feeling his red laser sight cross over your face is one of the
most feared feelings in combat save the sight of me and Betsy charging an enemy position
(not that it happens much, but sometimes they let me go out and play, too). I'd have to
concur. Sometimes the blinking red light on the VCR is enough to un-nerve me if an enemy
has been using snipers against me. |
The two of us work out for a few hours and go to grab a quick lunch meeting up
again with the team. Everyone rushes through lunch, most eager to get in some practice
before the shooting starts tonight. Soon the place is all but empty leaving me with only
the engineer for company. Since target practice is nearly useless for me I drop into a
chair next to the normally very quiet man and ask him what he's come up with. He shows me
his plans for yet another upgrade to his turrets (that makes 2 now). He grins widely as he
shows me where the new rocket launchers will be mounted. I slap him on the back nearly
knocking him from his seat; praising him for his help and hard work. Grinning evilly he
asks, "Want to see a new toy I've rigged up for the enemy?" Well, anything he
comes up with is sure to be worth a look so I follow him out to the blasting range where
the Demo is busy testing blast patterns. He pulls a relatively harmless looking disc from
his pouch and then asks me to set an unarmed grenade, just as I would carry them into
battle, out in the field. I agree and rejoin him. With a gleam in his eyes he tosses his
little disc out next to my grenade. I see a quick shimmering gold glow and then find
myself knocked to the ground as my MIRV grenade goes off. The grenade's safety pin lands
on the ground beside me. I pick it up, look at the engineer and nod. "Keep this under
your hat, Engineer, and keep them away from me." He nods, pleased with himself.
Chuckling to myself, I wander back to the barracks to give Betsy a good cleaning.
Tonight should be interesting...
Hmm, I wonder where those footsteps are comming from?
"Oh, there you are....
Let's Get'em Betsy."
WWHHHHHIIIIIIRRRRRRR...
To be Continued... |
|
