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I myself thought that the ending was quite funny. This was, overall, a very enjoyable piece, and I look forward to more from you.

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Few things were unanimous on BLU's side of Doublecross. Medic constantly pestered Scout about his constant cola consumption, though the boy swore by his Bonk and drank as much of the monthly shipments as he could before anyone else could touch it. Heavy and Soldier's philosophies saw the two in an extended state of slightly aggressive debate-- Sun Tzu and Machiavelli could apparently shout louder than Plato and Karl Marx, though, so Soldier usually prevailed in these forums. Spy often climbed to whatever nest Sniper chose to hole himself up in only to insist in the most shit-eatingly mocking way that Sniper did no work whatsoever. This didn't lead to arguments between the two so much as it led to violence that left both parties covered in bruises and scratches. Really, the only BLUs who didn't seem to have any serious points of contenion with their teammates were Engineer (on account of his reclusion), Demoman (due to his everlasting inebriation), and Pyro (who might have had a bone to pick with his teammates, but it was a mumbled, hardly comprehensible bone).

There was one thing, however, that everyone could agree on: Pyro's music was completely obnoxious. It was unlike anything else any of them had ever heard. It didn't inspire feelings of nostalgia and patriotism like Engie's downhome country music could, nor was it as moving as Medic's opera or Heavy's rousing Russian classical. It didn't even cause cravings for baguettes, as Spy's love for accordion accompaniment often did to him and at least two other reticent members of the team. Pyro's music came in the evening as the sun went down, thumping and saccharine and fucking catchy, damn him. The mumbling maniac loved house music, and he loved to play it all night long. For Sniper and Engineer, this wasn't a problem. Engie worked in the basement, and Sniper slept in his van. They didn't have to deal with it as long as they stayed away from Pyro's room.

That unfortunately left the rest of the team to press their pillows to their ears and try to sleep through it. Few of them had learned to do so. Every single one of the affected parties had tried to convince Pyro to turn it down to no avail. If they came to scold him in the evening, he couldn't hear them. In the daytime he argued, wagging his finger at them and leaning right into their personal space. Soldier had even decked the poor pyromaniac once in frustration, knocking him unconscious and earning a righteous lecture from Medic about manners, teamwork, and not punching people in the head. Yet even the good doctor knew that the whole issue of Pyro's music was getting entirely out of hand. Just because Heavy and Demoman could snore through it didn't mean they all could. The team was losing sleep, and it was making life harder for every one of them when it came time to fight. He decided alongside the Spy that an intervention was in order.

Engie and Sniper wouldn't have any part of it initially, and had to be convinced and strong-armed into it, respectively. The grumbling, slightly bedraggled BLUs gathered outside of the room Pyro had all to himself at nine in the evening, many of them clad in pajamas save for the two unaffected parties as well as Medic and Spy. The whole hallway was thumping with bass, the team had to shout at each other to communicate anything. "How're you fixin' to have an intervention when he can't hear ya knockin'?!" Engineer bellowed.

"We are not going to knock!" Explained Spy, producing a screwdriver quite obviously taken beneath Engie's notice, and a hairpin from god-knew-where. Using these implements he proceeded to pick the lock on the door that kept a good deal many of them from simply barging in to put a stop to Pyro's music once and for all. The men formed a tight, curious throng around Spy as his hand closed on the doorknob. None of them had ever actually seen what Pyro's room looked like. They'd never seen him without his suit on, not even on the off hours. He never even took off his mask. Now, they were about to see exactly what was beneath the fire-and-expression-and-speech-retardant coating they identified Pyro by. Even Spy knew that he was about to open the door to a defining moment for the team. He glanced back over all of them, fighting a snicker at the dumb expressions on some of their faces. Finally, he pushed the door open.

If the door creaked, no one heard or cared. Each of them had to shield their eyes in the sudden onslaught of flashing, strobing light, but when their vision adjusted they found themselves equal parts mortified and impressed. The room was a veritable replica of a dance club, if a very tiny one; a dark space innundated with intense shifting lights. There was a very expensive sound system blocking the window, which had long since been covered over with a black plastic tarp after being shattered by the bass. Most of the furniture was shuffled into one corner of the room, leaving plenty of space for the lone being in the middle of it to dance ecstatically. "Fuckin' sweet!" Scout exclaimed somewhere close to Medic's ear. The team's collective gaze went to the jigging form of their mumbling comrade and remained there in something not unlike shock.

Pyro was still wearing his entire uniform, mask and all. The rubbery surface of it reflected the strobes that passed over him. He danced like no one was watching him, a blue glowstick in each hand as he bounced and flailed around his bedroom. It was notable that Pyro wasn't a bad dancer, not at all-- just a very energetic one. He didn't seem to notice that he had just been intruded upon, even though the flourescent lights from the hall were definitely disrupting the vibe in his little dance club. Ultimately it was Demoman who called his attention. The scotsman outright dropped his bottle of scrumpy, which rolled off into the hall, and threw his hands up in furious exasperation. "An' whot the bloody hell izzis? Have ye lost yer damn mind, Pyro?!" He roared. The other men actually parted around him. Engie wiped flecks of scottish spittle from his dome. That was one polish he didn't need. Pyro stopped dancing, standing stock still in the middle of the floor and staring at the mob intruding on his rave. Nobody could tell what he was thinking, but most of them were almost certain that he was unbelievably angry with them.

Spy, at the vanguard of the party, drew back. If Pyro was upset, they were probably going to get roasted. Respawn was turned off during the off hours, and frankly the Frenchman didn't fancy the idea of dying in a fire (as he usually did), especially if he wasn't coming back to do it again. Thankfully, Pyro did give his onlookers some indication of his mood-- a muffled giggle bubbled up out of his mask, and he clapped his gloved hands together excitably, bouncing on his heels. Several confused glances were exchanged. Pyro skipped over to his enormous stereo and turned the music down to the low hum they all would have preferred. He then trotted over to his team with arms open in welcome. Pyro ushered them into the room and shut the door behind them, plunging them into strobelit pseudo-darkness. "Yr crmm fuh drns miff me?" He asked pleasantly. Again, confusion reigned undisputed until Medic saw fit to translate. He'd learned to understand Pyro out of necessity.

"He vants to know if ve are here to dance viz him." He explained. Pyro's posture turned bashful as the doctor glowered at him. Medic didn't really realize how sternly his face was set, but Pyro knew that it meant he had done something wrong. Medic was scary to him. "Ve are not here to dance. Ve are here because you haf been playing zat verdammt music all night, every night, for an entire month." The German struggled with the 'th' sound so foreign to his mouth.

"Imph forry." Pyro tucked his hands behind his back, ducking his head in shame. "Iff frst... Mrchl Gruh nght! Dun yr grs lkh Mrch Gruh?"

"No, Pyro, ve do not like Michael Gray, especially when his music is keeping us avake night after night!" Medic wagged his finger like he was scolding a two year old.

"Why can you not listen to Tchaikovsky? Russian music iz very relaxing. Team could fall asleep to The Nutcracker!" Heavy insisted enthusiastically.

"The Nutcracker?" Soldier was outraged. "We don't need to hear any of that sissy Russian crap! A real man sleeps to the American national anthem and wakes to the William Tell overture!" The psychotic patriot stood at attention and began to belt out the former. "Ohhh say can you seeeeeee, by the dawn's early liiiight, wh--" Engineer shoved him, cutting off his off-key reinterpretation of a song they both loved.

"I'm about to crack dis here guy's nuts if he don't start keepin' it down." Scout grumbled, raising a fist in Pyro's direction. Medic shot him a chastening look, but it didn't have the same effect on the boy as on Pyro.

"Zere will be no cracking of nuts, no punching, no violence at all." Said the German. "Pyro, you are going to turn your music down, und you are not to play it loudly between eight in ze evening and noon. Are ve entirely clear?" Pyro drew a circle on the floor with the tip of his boot and murmured something even more unlikely to be understood than usual. "Vhat was zat, mein freund?" Medic pressed on.

"Ai dun wrrna." Pyro repeated. "Urf ai hrl un urn crndrfm." A ray of orange light passed over Medic's glasses, but it lent the effect of his eyes filling with fire momentarily. He placed his hands on his hips, drawing himself up in irritation and essentially looming over the shrinking figure.

"Vell? Vhat do you expect us to do for some peace und quiet?" His tone made it clear that he was almost out of patience.

"Drns miff me." The understanding was immediate and universal, warranting different reactions from the individual men. Heavy, Demoman, and Scout burst into laughter. Engineer and Sniper exchanged a glance and a rueful shake of the head. Medic and Spy alternated between gawking and sneering. "Ai fuffnt kiffin!" Pyro cried, and the laughter stopped immediately.

"Uh, you know what, mate? Hold on. I think we need to talk this ovah." Sniper mustered his patience and rounded up the team. "He really wants us to dance with 'im. Whatta we do?"

"I refuse. Nozing is worth my dignity." Spy said. Medic nodded in agreement.

"I don't dance." Minced Soldier.

"Ye don't know how." Said Demoman. "None of ye do. Only a Scotsman really dances."

"Not true. You try cossack dancing? Iz real dancing. No one dances like we do in mother Russia."

"Any of y'all ever tried the two-step? Ya ain't never danced until you've tried the good ol' Texas two-step."

"Learned some dances from the natives when I went to Madagascar. Pretty woild stuff." Sniper admitted.

"All of you are amateurs. If you weren't aware, the French invented formal dancing. 'Ave none of you ever performed une valse?"

"The French didn't invent the valtz." Medic argued.

"Wait, hold up, hold up." Scout interjected. He might have saved the whole matter from turning into a big fat argument had he kept his mouth shut beyond that point. "Dere's only one thing that I got from this whole convuhsation, and it's that you guys are all old as hell. Okay, maybe one other thing: I'm a better dancer than all of you." Eight voices erupted from eight mouths all at once, each fighting for dominance to insist that their dance was the best. Pyro looked on in confusion. No one had explicitly agreed to anything yet, but no one had really said no either. He really didn't know what to think, but he was sure of one thing: he hated it when the team argued. He stamped his foot, clenching his fists and finally raised his voice over the crowd.

"HUDDA!" He shouted, drawing the disagreemet to a screeching halt. All eyes were on him. "Irf wrr drr drs, wur grnna drr if mrr wr!" Everyone was taken aback to varying degrees. Pyro was normally very meek. He rarely ever contributed his opinion to any discussion, and almost never made demands. If he did, he phrased said demands more like pleas, which the team normally indulged. Something like this was unheard of from him. "Irm grnna hrch yr tr drns."

---

In a monumental feat of determination Pyro managed to get his teammates to form a circle on his dance floor. It was a little tight considering the room wasn't exactly designed with nine dancing men in mind, but they'd have to make do. Pyro was a fountain of happy laughter as he situated himself in the middle of the circle, looking over his comrades. A surprising number of them were taking it fairly well. Demoman and Heavy were grinning as they went over the finer points of jigging. Scout was already in motion despite the absence of music, though it wasn't totally clear if he was just fidgeting or actually ready to dance. Sniper had removed his hat and vest, and even Medic and Spy had reluctantly slipped out of their respective overclothes to roll up their shirtsleeves.

"Wrh wnns tr gr frrst?" Pyro asked. There was a pause devoid of obvious volunteers, but at length Demoman stepped forward. Pyro clapped for him, seeming pleased that not everyone hated his idea. He would try to be diplomatic either way-- no one would have fun if he dragged them too far out of their comfort zone. He asked Demoman to show him a jig, and the scotsman whooped with glee.

"Ye might wan'tae stand back, ladies. M'about tae show you how a true Scotsman dances." He announced. He could already hear the drone of the bagpipes in his head, though that may have just been the scrumpy. "Gimme a beat here!" He clapped his hands rhythmically until the group (excluding Soldier, who maintained a firmly cross-armed stance) caught on. The rhythm brought to mind his father's favourite song, and he immediately launched into a wild dance comprised of fast-paced steps, stomps, and short leaps. Demoman thought that it was kind of a wonder his father had been able to do this dance at all, being blind and whatnot, without levelling the whole house. Heavy seemed most enthusiastic about this, it was a little like his cossack dancing. Even Medic was pleased, though he was much more predisposed to ballroom dancing. It reminded him a bit of the traditional dances he'd seen during fairs and festivals.

It wasn't long before Heavy stepped in to join the dance. Everyone stepped back. Nobody could be certain that a man of such impressive girth would be able to dance at all, much less perform such a spry series of movements. Heavy couldn't perform the kicks and leaps that popularly defined cossack dance, but he surprised them by virtue of wide, sweeping footwork and controlled movements of the arms that lent motion to his dance. Demoman cheered him on, eventually giving up the floor to the Russian's very expressive dancing. Pyro hopped in place, still clapping his hands like an excited child. "Hudda!" No one knew exactly what he meant by that, but he sounded pleased. He stepped back into the circle, holding up his index finger to call for a pause. Heavy went panting back into the formation as Pyro went over to that massive sound system of his.

A moment's worth of tinkering went by before the speakers began to pump out a tune at a somewhat lower volume than they normally did. "Crmrr." He waved them forward, motioning specifically to Heavy and Demoman. He pointed to his feet, and proceeded into a routine that would have given the king of pop a run for his money. It was, like Heavy and Demoman's dances, extremely reliant on footwork. He made an honest effort at teaching the pair to t-step, moonwalk (Demoman caught onto this move so fast that Soldier had to withold a black joke), and do the Melbourne Shuffle. The lattermost of which drew Sniper into the routine with claims that nobody could actually do the Melbourne Shuffle unless they'd actually danced in Melbourne. This drew a few strange looks, but he justified himself with an honest effort to show them a proper shuffle. Shuffling turned into popping, and popping into locking where applicable. Even Scout took to these new moves-- they were more his pace than whatever jive turkey disco dance moves Sniper was busting. Even so, he would admit that the gawky bushman wasn't a half bad dancer either.

Heavy seemed to be over the moon about the whole matter of learning a new dance, but then again Heavy was an unexpectedly optimistic man who had an enormous amount of enthusiasm for everything, whether it was killing or dancing. Demoman danced with the same kind of reckless energy as Pyro thanks to the alcohol still sliding through his system. This left only Soldier, Engineer, Medic, and Spy standing off to the side. Pyro moved between his dancing teammates to them. "Huddahrf yr?" He gestured at them. Spy pretended to be suddenly fascinated by the chipped plaster on the wall to his left. Soldier didn't budge an inch. Engie rubbed his bald head and glanced elsewhere, leaving Medic to answer the question. "About me? Ah, vell, I cannot-- and do not-- do zose dances." The German managed sheepishly.

"Wrhl wrt drmfrs drr yr lhhk?"

"I prefer to valtz, like Herr Spy, but I don't zink zat is vat you are teaching here..." Medic actually got nervous when Pyro laughed and waved away the words good-naturedly. The shorter man placed his feet evenly apart, placing his hands on his hips. He nodded at Medic, who could only assume that he was supposed to follow suit. Pyro angled his hips to the left. The doctor hesitantly mimicked him. To the right, again he mirrored the movement. Pyro got the German doing a mild hip-shake, adamantly correcting him each time he lost the beat and showing him how to bend his knees for a smoother, deeper shimmy. Pyro obviously knew the whole album he was listening to, as he would regularly change up the routine during choruses and bridges; but not so much as to lose the good doctor's participation. Under his tutelage Medic became a master of the hip shake, learning how to get low when the song called for it-- stiffly at first, then with conviction. It was obvious that Medic was having a bit of fun. He wouldn't have been putting his back into it if he weren't, though he never would have otherwise admitted it. He sometimes enjoyed breaking the personal conventions he maintained.

This freed Pyro to move to Spy. He had to vie for the Frenchman's attention, as Spy was very good at pretending not to notice him. It wasn't until Pyro became visibly frustrated that the stubbourn gentleman finally cracked, deciding to indulge the poor beleaguered pyromaniac. Pyro instructed him to raise his arms slightly, telling him to find something to do with them. Spy decided to put them on his hips as Medic had done, expecting the same hip shake, but Pyro had something saucier in mind. "Yr drns srrsr?" He asked. It took Spy a moment.

"Salsa? Of course I dance salsa. Young ladies in Spain love such zings." He boasted, raising his chin. Not that he had danced the salsa with too many young ladies, much less Spanish ones. The closest he'd gotten was doing the horizontal tango with a woman in Italy. He made a mental note to go about seducing a Spaniard sometime in the future. Pyro nodded vigorously, gyrating his stout body to the beat. He tossed in a few claps, maybe to fool the Spy into thinking that he actually knew something about salsa dance. Spy looked at him incredulously, unsure whether or not to repeat such foolish motions, but he thought to himself that if anyone was going to look better gyrating like that, it was certainly him. He would do it with style, damn it, and when he did it was clearly enough for Pyro. Pyro looked to Engineer, who hastily made an effort to imitate what Demoman and Heavy were doing. His overall form was still a bit too folksy.

Pyro waved his finger at the Texan, tutting him audibly. "Hr drs yr srntry drns?" Engie blinked at him, dumbfounded.

"Well son, it don't dance at all." He responded, pushing his goggles up to his forehead. Pyro gave the sudden distinct impression that he was rolling his eyes.

"Hr wrrf yr srntry drns, ef irt cud?" This question seemed even stranger to the Engineer than the last. He couldn't even really imagine his sentry dancing. At last he shrugged, letting Pyro get to whatever abstract point he was attempting to touch on. "Lrk dff!" It was then that Engineer realized that if his sentry could dance, she would quite obviously do the robot. Engie didn't need much teaching, true to his nature he got the jist of it pretty quickly. It wasn't his kind of dancing, but it wouldn't kill him to try. Finally Pyro approached the stationary Soldier. He didn't know what exactly to do with the moody midwesterner, though at least Soldier was tapping his foot. Being that the Soldier wouldn't uncross his arms, Pyro did the only thing he could think of. He crossed his arms as well, and began a little shoulder shimmy. There was nothing else, no movement of feet or hips, just shoulders. It took him nearly fifteen minutes-- his shoulders almost ached at the consistent movement-- but Soldier soon succumbed to the rhythm, and those stiff, square shoulders started to move.

Pyro gave a shout of excitement, throwing his arms triumphantly into the air. He looked out over his kingdom, at his teammates all caught up in the motion he'd taught them. Demoman was by far one of the best dancers even as he stumbled and staggered in and out of moves, keeping perfect time with the music and making up some pretty original routines. Scout was getting experimental, beginning to attempt a kind of crude breakdance that, by the looks of it, he'd always wanted to try. His eyes were alight with a kind of energy that made his war face seem like a boi face. Sniper was clearly very comfortable in his Travolta routine, though given the variation in his moves it was likely that he'd seen every disco-related movie ever to crawl out of the 1970s. Still, disco and house had rhythms in common, and the Australian took to it easily. Heavy still danced mostly with his hands and arms, but he made it look passably good. He was a regular Tom Jones, that one. Medic was still moving those hips, dancing near Spy, who was borrowing moves from both him and Sniper. Spy danced with the confidence of a man who knew he could dance, whereas the doctor looked surprised that he could move like that at all. Even Soldier was still wiggling.

Finally, after a tremendous effort, Pyro had his wish. His friends were dancing with him. No one was arguing or squabbling or picking nits. Everyone was united, like on the battlefield, but now they were doing something peaceful and relaxing. He wished it could be like this every night. Everyone seemed at least mildly pleased. Pyro liked to think of the team as his family. It made him happy to see his family together, being happy too. The others probably would have called him childish for it, but it's not like they'd be able to understand him if he mumbled about how much joy this brought him. He just nodded and picked up his glow sticks, joining the party. It was really the best thing he could do. Together. Happy. Family.

---

The BLU team filed one by one out of Pyro's room in the early hours of the morning. Sweaty, exhausted, panting, disheveled, and occasionally exchanging sheepish glances, any onlooker might have thought that they'd just had a spontaneous orgy instead of a dance party. Once Pyro had bid them a chipper farewell, the men turned to one another to let an awkward silence resonate between them. Spy was the first to break it.

"Let us never speak of zis again."

"Agreed. I am as silent as ze grave." Medic chimed in.

"You'll take it to your grave if you ever mention this to anyone, yeah?" Said Sniper.

"Dancing is for pussies." Added Soldier.

"I don't think anymore needs to be said about what happened last night." Said Engineer with finality. The silence resumed. Nobody moved.

"Was good time." Heavy admitted.

"Same time next week?" Demoman said.

"Hell yeah!" Scout leaped into the air, immediately regretting it as his sore muscles screamed at him.

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So, have a fight scene!

/***/

The Sniper was quiet, lying on his belly ahead of the group. His right eye was focused through the large scope perched on his rifle. No light came from the laser sight, which had been turned off to conceal his position. As he continued surveying the men meters below their position, the Spy found himself amused with his teammate. He blended well into the shade beneath the centuries-old trees, calm and serene in his task. If the Spy didn't keep a constant eye on his companion, he would have lost him. Bright shirt and all. He did not need the Spy's tools to conceal himself. He wore nature like a dark, verdant cloak. No wonder why there was such fear in the eyes of the men he'd killed back in the United States. They almost never knew he was there until white-hot lead seared through their brains.

It was several minutes before the Sniper wriggled back to the mismatched group. He dusted off his shirt, then spoke quietly. "There's at least twenty-foive blokes down there. Not countin' the pilot or copilot, mind ya."

Toaster whistled lowly. "Didn't think they'd send that many fellows out to look for us."

"Zhey have a good reason to panic. It is not every day zhat an American commercial flight crash-lands in Soviet territory," the Spy said.

Marian asked, "So, how many bullets do you have?"

"Ya can't think I can take 'em all. They'll catch me after the first round." The Sniper rubbed the back of his neck, small droplets of sweat sticking to his collar. "I'd get lucky if I take three or four 'a them."

Marian frowned. She massaged her sore ankles as she spoke. "I don't see how we're going to get past these soldiers unless you do your job. You are a professional headhunter, aren't you?"

The Spy nudged his way towards his teammate. "Zhis would be where I come in. I have my little gadgets, you know. We could hit zhem on both sides, assuming I can sneak down wizzout getting detected."

Marian raised an eyebrow, amused with the Spy's offerings. Sensei seemed less entertained with the memory of the Spy's wristwatch. The Japanese doctor shivered. "Ah, yes. He could do it, I think. He is very good with his watch, you know. He has a habit of ruining dinners."

"It is not a habit if you only do it once," the Spy smirked.

Toaster scratched his head. "Well, that's fine and dandy, but what are the rest of us supposed to do? Sit on our asses until Commie soldiers turn us into Swiss cheese?"

"Gentlemen, that will not be a problem." Marian nodded her head towards the remains of her aircraft. "If those two can create a distraction for us, we can get to the plane and get into my cache of weapons. It won't be the most pleasant way to deal with them, but I guarantee that we'll flush them out."

All of the men winced, wondering what Marian could have brought along. Knowing her, it had to be something toxic. One didn't run both a chemical warfare plant and a cosmetics corporation without knowledge of some seriously caustic materials. Just the thought of what might be in that plane made the Spy's throat scratchy. Perhaps it was lucky the plane's cargo wasn't punctured in the crash. The environmental damage alone could take years to scrub clean from the planet.

"In times like zhis, I wish I had zhe Pyro's mask," the Spy murmured.

The Sniper agreed. "Too roight, mate." He laid down once more, then started crawling back to his lookout. "Let me know when I should open fire."

The Spy gave his teammate a small, dark smile. "You may begin shooting when zhe screaming starts."

/***/

The Scout was going to pull his hair out.

Several situations were gnawing away in the pit of his stomach. He was in a strange part of the world that, until today, he didn't know existed. Everything around him was in Russian or Georgian or something he couldn't read. The team had been lucky enough to find a translator in the airport that could speak to them. Unfortunately, the only language she knew other than Georgian was Russian. That left the Heavy to represent the entire group. The Scout didn't need to understand Russian to know that the translator had a serious crush on the Heavy and that he wasn't noticing her advances. Apparently, body language was not as universally understood as he thought.

Of course, the biggest issue on his mind was already pouring out of his mouth. "Guys, I dunno what I'm gonna do! I mean, my momma could really be in trouble, here! Why wouldn't she have answered da phone?"

The Pyro patted the Scout on the back twice. He replied, "Mrrff fee fuffn fuf fu hudnemo."

"You're totally not helpin' my dilemma," the Scout grumbled. The Pyro sighed, then took his hand away from the young man's shoulder. Sometimes, there was no helping the Scout when he was in a sulk.

The Soldier shook his head, the straps of his helmet striking the sides of his face. "You know, son, you might be over-thinking this. Your mother is a lady of the night, after all. She could be busy doing—"

"You had better not finish dat goddamn sentence," the Scout interrupted.

Giving the Soldier a sympathetic look, the Demoman sighed. He threw an arm around the Scout's shoulders, locking him in a squeeze. "Aw, mate. I wouldn't worry 'bout yer mum if I were you. She'd a tough bird. I mean, raisin' eight boys just like you? Ain't a feat for a weak woman."

The Scout perked up a bit. The Demoman was right. His mother was not someone to be messed with. After all, she was the one that taught him how to saw off and wield shotguns. Hell, every door-to-door salesman in a three mile radius from their old home in Boston feared her accuracy. One incident with a Fuller Brush man had gone down in spectacular infamy. Nobody stuck their toe in her doorway without fear of losing it.

He gave the Scotsman a wide grin. "Thanks, man. Dat's what I needed ta hear."

The Demoman gave the Scout another small shake. "Ya've got it, lad. Yer mum is a fine lady."

"Ah, man, Tavish! Yer makin' me blush!" the Scout smirked.

The Demoman nodded. "Ya know, the Soldier's probably right, though. I mean, she is a—"

"Okay, new rule!" the Scout yelled. "No more talkin' 'bout what my mom does outside 'a da house! She ain't a hooka!"

"Wuddhen fee brr drrn ed en der hrff?" the Pyro asked.

The Scout shook a finger in the Pyro's mask. "What in da hell did I just say?"

/***/

The Spy slithered through the brush, leaves shimmering as he passed by them. His watch kept an invisible layer over his body as he traveled around the outskirts of the Soviet army that was investigating the crash. It did not take him long to find a spot to rest and stake the area out. With any attack, it was important to decide who to remove first. Obviously, the largest threat always deserved the first stab to the back. When he was fighting the Mann's ridiculous little war, it was easy to pick his targets. The Medic or the Engineer had to be dealt with first. Plucking the healers away from the opposing team always gave his group an immediate advantage. It was much simpler when he was dealing with stragglers or loners, so he sometimes snapped them up.

With this group of soldiers, it was a little harder to know who to strike first. It would be wise to disable any communications devices. However, that meant tampering with the massive Mil Mi-10. While he could probably figure out what to disconnect eventually, he did not wish to accidentally ruin the helicopter. That transport might be the fastest route out of the forest. It was best to preserve it at all costs. He continued his observation, searching for his friend in the distance. He couldn't even catch the scope's lens flaring, what with how little light was coming through the canopy.

It did not take long for two men to break apart from the pack. One man had a hand on his belt buckle, fumbling with the zipper. The Spy pulled his teeth, then drifted deeper into the foliage. He certainly didn't need to have someone urinate on his shoes. He had enough of that back in the United States. Reaching into his suit jacket, his fingers ran across some of his knives. He stopped on one blade, its golden lacing and opal gemstones familiar even beneath his gloves. It was the perfect choice for this situation.

The Spy slunk to the side as the two officers passed him. He did not wait long before he struck. While both men were equipped with front-plated body armor, it did little to protect to their backs. That made his lethal blows all the easier. The Spy drove his knife through the back of the first man, his fingers quick to stifle any screams. As the Spy withdrew his blade, its strange properties kicked to life. He was coated instantly with the appearance of the enemy soldier. There was no need for a disguise template. The knife simply did what it was designed to do—to instantly take the form of any man slain by it.

It did not take him long to overtake the second man. Hell, the next soldier never saw him coming. His moves were smooth, powerful. He slipped the knife into vital organs, never once nicking bone. Within seconds, he had his next disguise. So far, so good. At least twenty three men remained, though. It was hardly any time to celebrate.

The Spy flicked his watch on once more, then crept towards the crash site. Some of the soldiers threw their gaze in his direction, staring where their men had disappeared. The Spy found himself feeling some peculiar regret. It had been a while since he'd murdered someone without them coming back to life fifteen seconds later. If the circumstances were different, he would have no reason to kill them. He did not mull over his actions for long. Perhaps it was sociopathic for him to slaughter strangers, but he needed to get back to his paramour. If this was the only way for her to be safe, then he would stain his hands for her.

Five men approached the spot where the Spy was hiding. Trickier, no doubt. They were now searching for the bodies of their friends. They would not find anything. This strange knife was a literal body snatcher. It would never leave a corpse. Rather, it would bend matter to have the Spy assume the dead person's form. He waited for them to pass, then struck once more. Five turned to four, four to three, three to two, two to one. The last man died without any struggle, having no way of knowing what monster had just gobbled up his fellow soldiers.

The Spy spun on his heels, prepared to take up his spot again. As he did so, his watch gave a tiny shudder. It was running low on power. He dropped down to the ground, tapping the wristwatch twice. The device began recharging again, much to his satisfaction. He thought the damned thing had crapped out on him.

As he sighed, someone collided into him. The Spy glanced upwards, finding himself looking up the nostrils of an iron-jawed Soviet. The man had that massive jaw dropped, a scream threatening to roar out of his throat. The Spy must have looked like some fearsome spirit. He had the appearance of one of his dead teammates, outlined in an eerie glow. Perhaps he would have been more terrifying if he had been standing up.

Never-the-less, the Spy had his fun. "Boo!"

The man's scream had barely emerged from his mouth when a bullet went speeding through it. It wasn't a direct shot made from the front. Rather, the bullet pierced the back of his head and went out through his mouth. Thick pulp and gore followed it, splattering across the Spy's face. The Frenchman growled. Leave it to a Sniper to get him covered in someone's bodily fluids.

The stealth part of their operation was over. Most of the regiment turned to face where the Sniper was hidden in the forest. They opened fire on him, rounds bursting through the thick trees. Their fire was wild, inaccurate. Three shots came back in rapid succession. Red stars blossomed in the foreheads of the hapless soldiers. Their helmets were useless against the caliber and speed of the Sniper's bullets.

Everything became a jumbled, chaotic mess. Marian's employees slipped from the forest, making a beeline for the airplane's wreckage. The Sniper kept his position, suppressing fire against the group. It did not take long for the Spy to join in the melee. Several screams erupted from the regiment as the Spy moved from man to man, taking the lives and forms of each as he moved. He was a haunting specter, one that made grown men shriek.

A noxious smell rolled over the dwindling survivors. Thick white fog leapt from strange devices held by Marian and her crew. She adjusted a face mask before flipping the switch on her weapon as well. Those that had no breathing apparatus wheezed and hacked as her men cut threw them. It was enough to make the Spy's stomach roll as well. He barreled out of the group, making his way to the helicopter. He had to secure that, no matter what. Marian's merry band could finish off the rest of them.

The Spy jumped into an open panel on the side of the Mil Mi-10. As he stepped both feet onto the metal floor, a man grabbed him by his neck. The enemy combatant slammed the Spy into the side of the helicopter, unafraid of the mortal spook in his grasp. The Spy slashed once, catching the man in the arm. His disguise disappeared in the attack, unable to be replaced by that of another. The soldier grabbed his right wrist, shoving that above the Frenchman's head. He pressed into the Spy's neck, squeezing the blood and air out of the Spy's throat.

On the verge of darkness and defeat, lightning saved the Spy's life. Another round from the Sniper's rifle had pierced the assailant's shoulder. It passed centimeters above the Spy's own torso, singeing fibers in its wake. The Spy threw the man forward, stabbing him through his neck. The man gave two long gurgles, then collapsed into the aether as the Spy took on his form.

It was then that the Spy realized he had killed the helicopter's pilot.

Of course, the situation could only get worse. Having seen his teammate being shot and stabbed did not sit well with the copilot, either. The butt of a pistol struck the back of the Spy's head. He collapsed from the shock of the hit, his disguise disappearing in a shimmer of light as the knife slipped from his hand. He reached for it, only to have his wrist stomped on. The copilot placed the barrel of his pistol against the Spy's forehead, a dark sneer pulling over thick teeth.

Perhaps the bullet to his brain would have spared the Spy from this insane adventure. Perhaps it could have reunited him with his beloved. Another round spoke louder, demanded more from him. The shot went into one side of the copilot's head and out the other, from ear to ear. He dropped to the ground, pinning the Spy beneath his dead weight. The Spy looked out the helicopter door, spotting a glimmer in the distance. The Sniper was rushing from his position, abandoning his safe haven to reach the Spy's side.

Within less than a minute, the Sniper bounded inside the cockpit. Marian and her men were hot on his heels, clambering into the vehicle as well. The Sniper braced the Spy, quick to throw his arm over the Australian's shoulder. Sensei started prodding at the wound in the back of the Spy's head. It could have been worse. That didn't stop it from stinging.

"Good God," Boomer growled. He rubbed his bloody knuckles, a few centimeters of scraped skin hanging from them. "Did the both 'a ya have ta kill both the pilot and the copilot?"

Marian shook her finger at the burly Australian. "Now, now. Don't fret. It can't be that hard to fly a helicopter, can it?"

Toaster shrugged. "I think I can do it." Everyone in the group gave him a dark glare. He crossed his arms, suddenly defensive of his request. "Oh, come on! I've already been in one flaming crash today. What's the chance of me gettin' in another one? God's gotta cut me a break, right?"

Buckaroo lifted an eyebrow. "The Lord doesn't work like that."

"You two. You are ex-Air Force, correct?" Marian pointed two of her guards to the front of the helicopter. "Go figure it out."

Nobody could believe her ludicrous requests. Then again, it was hard to think that any of today's events could be real or logical. At that moment, the Spy didn't put that much thought into it. His head felt like it was full of bees, swarming and stinging the inside of his skull. Somehow, they had pulled another victory out of their asses. After tossing the remaining corpses out of the helicopter, Boomer slammed the doors shut. It was not long after that event that the helicopter's blades wound to life. They jerked from the ground, then ascended into the heavens. It did not take long before Marian's men got a handle on the strange, foreign machine.

There were only two things that the Spy gave a damn about, at that very moment. The first was the thought of his raven-haired American beauty. Hopefully, she was sleeping soundly through the night, never knowing of the ruin raiding or the stranger slaying that the Spy was doing at that very moment. She knew he was a killer. He just hated that she knew his dark occupation. The only other thought he had at that moment was how grateful he was for the man sitting next to him, his piercing eyes softened with concern over the Frenchman's state. Perhaps he was a schmuck, just as easily manipulated as the Spy. He owed that man his life several times over today. It was hard not to look at him with the same care and respect.

He could not fail either of them. Not after he'd come so far.

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Overall though, I think this fic was pretty cute. Nice characterisation and you didn't slip out of it to go too heavy-handed with the shipping, which was good. Very well written!

]]> http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/3331.html#3549
]]> http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/3331.html#3548 You also have a tendency to retcon what had just happened, such as with the clubbing scene where Dell dodges the club by veering out of the way- oh wait, no, he was clipped with the club. You could cut those two paragraphs down to one sentence just by saying that 'Dell saw in the corner of his eye a shadow, and tried to dodge, trading a deathblow to the head for a clip to the shoulder.
Also, consider the pros and cos of adrenaline; if Dell is hyped up on man juices, then surely instead of giving in as first hit and submitting to the cloudy blue skies, he should be using his strategical brain to fight his way to flight?

In an unrelated note, how do you think the Arctus Eth is going to work in the long term? So you have your endothermic enzyme reactions going on on Dell's skin; what reaction is taking place? Enzymes break things down, essentially, so logically the enzymes would be breaking down plant-edible things like complex proteins; unless the plant is a carnivore like a venus fly trap? In that case, the proteins could be a lot like protease, or trypsin (they can dissolve eyeballs in fairly strong concentrations)- I could go on for a long time, but you'd probably get really bored.

TL;DR- this is cool and you should feel cool.

]]> http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/2207.html#3547 /obsessive

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]]> http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/3367.html#3544
Then again, impossible things are happening every day.

/***/

The Spy was lost in a green labyrinth. Foliage shot meters above his head, covering the sky in dark leaves. They choked out the sun, the tiniest rays squeezing past the canopy. His shoes were beginning to cut into his toes. His knees protested at the steep incline that the group continued to climb. He could see his body lying unattended for days, swallowed up by soil and mushrooms long before anyone would find him. Well, that is, if the respawn allowed him to lie in this emerald casket. He wondered how strong the satellites were, hanging so far above the verdant-blotched sky. Perhaps he would test their strength today. Most likely not. He still had a job to do.

His teammate was not any more at ease. The Sniper kept stopping, taking a deep sniff and shaking his head. There was a pungent smell in the forest. The Spy could not place it. It was foreign, but familiar. Woody, obviously. It must have been the fragrance of some plant. The smell brought a chilling sensation through his nose, something that soothed his sinuses.

"What is zhat?" the Spy asked.

The Sniper pursed his lips together. "I almost want to say…but, that's mad."

The Spy shrugged. "Mon ami, I am trekking zhrough a forest looking for some fountain zhat most likely does not exist. Anyzhing would be possible at zhis point." He glanced upwards again. "I can see where zhis place gets its name from, zhough."

"Yeah. Land 'a Darkness, alroight," the Sniper agreed.

A rumbling voice interrupted the two men. "It's eucalyptus oil."

Both the Spy and the Sniper glanced over at the burly Australian allied with the other explorers Marian had dragged to this strange forest. He was scratching his dark moustache, trying to force back a sneeze. The Sniper cocked his head, thinking Boomer was loony. "Mate, that's daft. How would a eucalyptus plant even get out here? Unless ya think some nutter a couple thousand years ago went flingin' seeds. Had ta have one hell of a boat, too."

"That's what it smells loike ta me," Boomer replied. "Got a better explanation?"

The Sniper scratched the back of his head. It still was insane to him. Never the less, he muttered, "Fine, then. Better not start a fire. Don't want ta risk anythin'."

"Why is zhat?" the Spy questioned.

Boomer slapped a hand around the Spy's shoulder. "Eucalyptus plants secret a moighty fine oil, lad. When the wind's just roight, and there's just a bit 'a energy in the air—boom! Natural forest fire. Hell, the bastards'll blow up on ya, if they're chock full 'a oil. Toaster learned the hard way, ya know. Never saw such a pretty forest go down so fast."

Toaster called over his shoulder. "Hey, screw you! You were the one that wanted to grill!"

The Spy scrunched up his face. "Charming."

"How unfortunate that I missed such an incident." Sensei glanced around him, murmuring to himself. "It would be most informative if one of you told us telling physical traits of these plants."

The Sniper responded first, much to Boomer's chagrin. He marched ahead, almost neck-and-neck with his kidnapper. "Could look loike a lot 'a different things. It's a genus. Not just—Holy dooley!"

It did not take long for the Spy to understand why the Sniper was awe-struck. He clambered behind his friend, pausing at the strange growths bursting out of the ground. The Frenchman wondered if he was intoxicated. Sprawling out from the forest floor were thick, warped trees like he had never seen. The roots were spiraled, winding crooked as a witch's nails towards thick trunks. The plants shot above his head, sprouting out in tufts of leaves. Impressive bands of color ran up and down the trees' barks. They were bright neon streaks, orange, yellow, green, and purple. These trees could not be real.

"Okay. I was wrong," Boomer shrugged.

The Sniper thought otherwise. "No, mate! Spot on. These moight be Rainbow Gum. Ain't seen any 'a these since I got outta New Guinea. What in the hell are they doin' here?"

"Hell of a boat," Boomer replied dryly.

Buckaroo tapped both his friend and the Sniper on their shoulders. "I hate ta break it to y'all, but yer missin' the bigger picture, here."

The Sniper tipped his head to the side. "What in the hell could be bigger than—oh."

An inorganic, grey structure sat amongst the colorful trees. The peculiar rainbow trees refused to grow next to it, seeds lying dormant on the ground surrounding the location. It was as if someone had scooped a miniature fortress out of the middle of nowhere and plunked it in the forest, with no care for purpose or aesthetic value. No glass or door stood in any of the carved stone frames. What should have been towers were engulfed by dead ivy growths. This place could have been a national treasure, if saved and preserved. Rather, it had been left to die in a sea of green life, a poisoned blot in the middle of an impossible forest.

That was nothing to say about the unattended corpses strewn about the place. No one made a sound as they approached the fortress. For some, it was out of terror. Others, respect. The Spy did have to give his captor credit. She did not scream or swoon upon seeing the skeletal remains. She paused at one body, taking a moment to study its armor. It was mismatched, a perplexing mix of ruined cloth, greaves, helmets, and shields. She and the rest of her crew went to each skeleton, each one with more incorrect attire than the last.

"Egyptian. Persian. Greek. Roman." Buckaroo shook his head, confused by the arrangement of men. "This makes no sense. Were all 'a these guys stationed together?"

Marian scoffed. "That's ridiculous. A fortress guarded by multinationals?" She gave the Spy a sly glance. "Why, that almost fits your job description, doesn't it?"

"I would have done a better job of it, at ze very least," the Spy replied.

"Well, there's no point in waiting out here." Marian dusted her hands off. She procured a small lotion bottle and rubbed some of its contents on her hands. "Let's get inside and see what this dusty old manor has to offer."

She crossed the threshold to the fortress, her men close behind. The Spy spared a glance towards the Sniper. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, one eyebrow raised. He looked towards the Spy, then gave a low shrug. The Spy nodded, following his friend in turn. They had come this far, after all. It would be in poor form if they ran off now.

The interior of the fortress was haunting, beautiful in its decay. Vines had grown across the stone floors before shriveling and dying. They spilled through the skeletal remains, cradling each corpse with a light touch. Corridors and passageways were open, letting choked sunlight stream inside. Wooden tables and chairs had rotted into soft clumps. Ornate dishes were shattered on the floor. Decorations were slashed and torn, hands clutching to fabric in death. It was as if some malevolent force had cast a dark spell upon the fortress, sundering its occupants and their possessions in its wake.

A strange expression crossed Marian's face for one moment. She grimaced, something painful in the back of her throat. She did not keep the glance for long, moving abruptly between rooms as she searched the abandoned fortress. The Spy initially thought that perhaps she was disgusted by the corpses. Maybe it was not something he could blame her for, but it seemed a little callous none the less. He followed her footsteps, observing the rooms that had drawn that face from her. He found that he had misjudged her. There were bodies lying in front of hearths, arms folded around smaller skeletons. Women. Children.

This wasn't right. This couldn't be a fortress.

The Sniper spoke softly behind the Spy. There was a slight tremor in his tone as he spoke. "No nicks. No damage. They…they weren't murdered."

"I would hate to know what zhey died of," the Spy replied.

The Sniper placed one hand on his shoulder, then moved onwards. The Spy did the same. There was nothing he could do for them. It did not put him at ease, but that was the reality of the situation. The duo left the corridors winding around the location, stepping into a small courtyard. It was large as any grand ballroom. Dead plants were thick around the center of it, deep enough to scratch against the Spy's calves. A reflecting pool was there as well, empty save for a brown sludge smeared across its face. All of these were nothing compared to the massive rotting stump sprouting in the center of the pool. It was wider than tractor tires, its bark peeled in sharp slabs. The dead plant was lanced by six lead drains that poured into the pool. They were stained with the same crude, gummy substance.

"Ever see somezhing like zhat?" the Spy asked.

The Sniper shook his head. "Not a tree like that, mate. It's got me stumped. Sorry, wrong choice 'a words." He patted his gloved hand on the trunk. "Wonder how far down she grew."

"Suppose zhey collected ze sap from zhis?" The Spy touched one of the drains coming from the tree. The substance stuck to his hand like molasses. He wiped his hands clean on the back of the Sniper's vest. The Australian shot him a dirty look, but made no further fuss.

"That can't be it."

Both the Spy and the Sniper turned to face Marian. She studied the dead tree for a moment, then fixed her gaze to the strange ducts running from it. Like the Spy, she took a swab of the gunk from the drainage pipes. She sniffed it once, then balked in disgust. It was as pungent as juniper, burning her sinuses. She waved two of her guards over, having them investigate the stuff as well. They were no clearer on the situation than she was.

The Sniper was the first to interrupt Marian's investigations. "Look. This—this coulda just been a big ol' joke. A snipe hunt, ya know? Somethin' ta confuse visitors. Ya can't still think that there's some kinda miracle fountain out here. Certainly ain't this one."

"I didn't come here to leave empty handed," Marian denied the Sniper's statement.

The Spy didn't know whether she was being stubborn or crazy. "Look. It is alright, non? You found zhis abandoned fortress full of strange people. Zhis will keep historians busy for some time. Zhis could be ze next Pyramids of Giza, for all you know!"

Marian hissed at the Spy. "This place has gone missing for centuries, and for what? A practical joke? Dead children are not cultural pranks. We're standing in an incredibly important place, and not just for historical reasons. There has to be something astounding here, and by God, I'm going to find it!"

The three would have argued further, had a startling whoop not just rang out through the courtyard. There was a flash of color as the chubby man from Toaster's group bolted in. His face was bright as plump cherries. Crammed under his left arm were at least a dozen rotting scrolls. He almost dropped them as he approached the group. He tossed most of them into the Sniper's arms, then cracked one open. The papyrus tore as he unrolled it, then began rambling at the mouth as his companions finally caught up. The tub could sure bolt.

"They killed it! It killed them, and they killed it!" Buckaroo whooped.

"Who killed what?" Marian asked.

"The men! The soldiers—the dead men outside!" Buckaroo began skimming the scroll he had flung open. "Here! They talk about families all dying of fevers. They burned up in minutes. There was nothin' their doc could do. Here's where it gets really weird. They were all foreigners!"

Marian shook her head. "You already said that. Greeks, Persians—"

Buckaroo interrupted his employer. "Not the soldiers. Their wives! Look, look!" He snatched another scroll, tossing the open one across the Spy's head. As the Frenchman rolled up the Southerner's previous reading material, Buckaroo continued to foam at the mouth. "When we grew weary of battle, we rode for many years and sailed for more thereafter. We came to a land of darkness. The trees blotted out the sun, and the people were—"

"To the point!" Marian demanded.

"They took foreign wives! Their wives introduced them to these trees—this tree!" Buckaroo swatted the dead trunk with his hands. "The women said that these trees 'n the water around them would grant anyone who drank from it eternal youth and beauty. So, they took saplings and seeds from their homeland, then came back to this place! They planted them all over the goddamn globe, waited a few years, and harvested the offspring just to make sure they had seeds to get here! They were tryin' to make a fountain here!"

The Sniper shook his head. "Wait, wait. How far did they sail, exactly?"

Buckaroo tossed another scroll aside, then flung open a scroll containing a crude map. "Look at this. Look!"

Buckaroo's crew, Marian's men, and the duo from Teufort crowded around the map. Both the Sniper and Boomer's jaws dropped. The crude map was drawn somewhat incorrectly, countries jutting just a little wrong into the Indian Ocean. These men had cut through Persia and India, skimmed around Burma and Thailand, trailing south and east. There were dots where they had stopped in Malaysia, Indonesia, and New Guinea. Their last stop cut deep into Queensland before they had folded and come back along their navigated course.

It had to be impossible.

"That's a load of crock!" Boomer exclaimed.

The Sniper agreed. "Someone's gotta be pullin' our legs, here."

The Spy massaged his temples, rolling one of the discarded scrolls up with his other hand. "Perhaps zhis is true. Fine. Zhey go to Australia, zhen come back with wives and children. Why did ze natives die from zhis plant? You would zhink zhat at ze very least, ze women would have immunity to whatever toxins ze tree produced."

"I dunno! They just go on about gibberish. Bad water. Gold blood. I don't get it," Buckaroo replied.

Toaster scratched his head. "You're not the only one, pal."

Sensei sighed. "It is too bad that none of the bodies were preserved, hmm? Perhaps I may have been able to perform autopsies. We could have seen what started their illness, maybe."

"Alright. Gentlemen, we need to regroup." Marian took charge of her chatty men. "First, we've discovered this place that we thought was the Fountain of Youth. For all we know, it might have been. Second, it's populated by trees from New Guinea and Australia, both of which are uncharacteristic if not impossible for this environment. Third, this place is full of dead people. We have documents stating that they all had fevers and died, most likely in connection to this dead tree. The last few people killed this tree, then either all died or never spoke of this place again. Is that correct?"

The Spy nodded. "Zhat would sum up our situation, yes."

Marian took a moment to gather up her thoughts. After several seconds of pondering their situation, she began giving commands. "All right. First things first. We take samples of the sludge, the stump, and the piping. It's lead, correct? If that is the case, perhaps that was just what made everyone sick. After that, we head to Australia."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Toaster threw his hands up, trying to get Marian to slow down. "Did you forget the part where we just crash-landed here? We're down your plane and a pilot, not to mention some of our supplies. Hell, we've got to walk two clicks to get back to where we hit the ground, then we've gotta make it to some place where we can buy tickets! I don't think they're gonna look too kindly on a bunch of us bein' American, either!"

His tirade was cut short by thick whooshes in the distance. Everyone glanced towards the sky. Just above the canopy of the forest, a grey flash cast its shadow across their faces. A level of dread struck the men as black blades continued to roar away. That had to be a helicopter, no doubt.

"That's headed toward our crash site," Toaster mumbled.

"Probably to investigate what happened," Buckaroo agreed.

A wicked smile curled its way onto Marians face. She turned to face her men, grinning like a cat. "You fine fellows did save some of your weapons from the plane, correct? Hopefully, a few guns?"

Nobody liked what she was implying for them to do next.

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I hope to receive criticism as constructive as both of yours after I refine this.

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]]> http://tf2chan.net/fanfic/res/3540.html#3541
You've got spelling errors, sentence fragments, term duplication, and capitalization issues. You should also refrain from using emoticons, even if you're writing part of this as a journal entry from the Pyro's diary. As a rule of thumb, you should spell every number below one-hundred out. Five, not 5. (I tend to go to write out all of my numbers unless they are years, but I believe that is the general rule.) These are all rules that can be followed and occasionally broken, once you know what you are doing. These are easy fixes. What concerns me more is what you have presented to us, as far as information goes.

You are writing details, but they feel empty and meaningless. You had a tenth class that was a chef, and all you mention was two sentences about their horrific death and how everyone supposedly missed them? There is a much better way to drop this information. Actually have the characters discuss this person!

What is this "Russian Literature" book the Heavy is reading? That term only shares two facts--what he is reading is literature, and it's Russian. What author? What story? What does he think about it? Is it good? Dull? Mediocre?

Furthermore, if the team is having breakfast, why aren't they exchanging dialogue with each other? Not even a "Good Morning"? Even a mopey team would at least grunt at each other! What is this? Are they sitting in their own personal bubbles, not acknowledging each other? That's no way for a functional team to act! You'd think at least the Pyro would be making googly-eyes at whoever he wants to woo. I don't expect him to communicate well with the others, but he'd at least give some kind of physical reaction.

I'd also recommend just sticking with one point of view. Either keep to the Pyro's first person observations (whether they are right or wrong), or just do a generalized third person perspective.

I don't want to scare you away from writing. I want you to think about what you are trying to share. Even something as simple as a Rockwellian slice of life has great substance and weight. Think about how you interpret your world. What senses are you registering? How do you draw conclusions? Are your thoughts influenced by logic or pathos?

Take a little time, and soak in what is going on around you. Find online writing exercises. This is a very rough start, to be honest. If you want to do well, you must practice. It's going to take a little work, but you will come out better for it.

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