1 . Name: TeratoMarty @ 2012-10-07 12:24

"Oi, 'oo stole me Jarate?" the Sniper demanded, stomping down out of his roost one morning.

"You're crazy," the Scout said around a mouthful of fried egg. "No-one wants your piss!"

"I bet you did it, runt," the Sniper sneered. "Seems like the kind of sneaky stunt you'd pull."

The Scout went to backtalk, but ended up choking. As he launched some half-chewed toast onto the table, the Engineer tried to restore peace. "Now, Sniper, let's not go makin' unfounded accusations. Where was the last place you saw your jars?"

"The jars're still all there, mate," the Sniper grumbled, pouring himself some coffee. "Just where I left 'em. But they've each got two holes in the lid, an' all the urine is gone." The Sniper pronounced it 'you-rhine.'

"I believe I knoo what happened." The Demoman's voice was sonorous, ominous, as his lone eye rolled toward the Sniper.

"Hoshit, tell me you didn't drink it!" The Scout spluttered.

The Demoman fixed the Boston boy with a withering glance before returning his cyclopean gaze to the Sniper. "I may have only one eye, but I see sharper than most. Usin' me considerable powers of deduction, I've worked out what happened."

"What, tell me!" The Sniper was hanging on his teammate's words.

"Clearly," the Demoman pronounced, "someone's been takin' the piss!" He roared with laughter and slapped himself on the knee as the Sniper grimaced.

"I don't get it," said the Scout.

"If someone has taken it," the Medic pronounced, "zhen zhey have done you a favour. Keeping... wastes... around is unsanitary."

"'S in a jar, mate, perfectly tidy."

"Tidy!" the German spat.

"Aye, I got 'em all sorted. Newest in front, f' puttin' out fires on me mates, fermented vintage inna back for lobbing at Spies."

"Mais non," their own Spy said, looking ill. "Zis is not breakfast-table conversation."

The Sniper sulked for the rest of the day. By drinking plenty of liquids, he was able to refill some of his jars, screwing their sadly punctured lids back in place. However, id didn't feel right, not having his collection around. He was forced to pelt the enemy Spy with a half-full jar of watery, tepid wee, rather than the dark, full-bodied, sun-warmed brew he preferred. He patched the lids with duct tape, and plotted.

That night, the Sniper vowed to catch whoever dared to steal his Jarate. He lined his jars up neatly, in a formation that no Jarate-thief could resist. Then, he lay back on his cot, feigning sleep. He would stay awake all night, if need be. He heard people moving in the hall at various times- the Heavy looking for a midnight snack, the Soldier making his paranoid rounds- but no-one rattled his door Around midnight, he felt his eyes must be playing tricks on him- was his vision going blurry, or was there a mist pouring in at the window?

Next thing he knew, he was waking up. Sun was streaming in, his throat hurt, and he felt awful. He staggered downstairs, desperate for some orange juice.

"Jeez, Snipes, you look like shit on a shingle," the Scout greeted him.

"Watch it, maggot!" the Soldier barked. "That is our breakfast you are talking about!" He glopped forth some creamed chipped beef onto a slice of toast and shoved it toward the Scout.

"I just want some juice," said the Sniper.

"Oh, ah, sorry," the Heavy looked mildly contrite as he set down his empty glass.

"Ah, piss," the Sniper remarked as he helped himself to a glass of water.

In battle that day, after deploying a jar to extinguish his own team's Soldier, the Sniper realised that he was all out of Jarate. He'd drunk his usual amount of coffee, and he still didn't have to, you know, go. Since a Sniper who can't Jarate might as well be a rank novice, he found this very distressing. He squinted out into the bright sun- so painfully bright, today- and made a note to see a Medic at ceasefire.

In the infirmary that evening, the Medic was able to make a snap diagnosis. "You ah zeverely dehydrated, Herr Sniper. Have you been drinking sufficient vasser?"

"I, err... plenty of coffee?"

"Unacceptable! Zis is a desert, you ah dried out like ein mummy!"

"But I didn't do anything different to what I usually do!"

"You need intravenous fluid, at vonce." The Medic ignored the Sniper's protests in favour of readying an IV drip and a simply enormous needle.

"Hold ztill," the Medic leered, eyes bright. "Zis vill only hurt for a second..." He was breathing heavily as he looked for a vein, then paused. "Herr Sniper, zere is hardly enough fluid in ze veins to circulate. You ah dry as dust!"

"Dunno wot to say, Doc..."

"I insist zat you stay overnight for observation." Light glinted off the Medic's spectacles, the glare hiding his eyes.

The Sniper had been in this situation before. Either you stayed for observation... or the Medic summoned the Heavy to make you stay. It was better just to do what the Doc said. He didn't really do anything, just... observed. Watched you sleep. Given a choice between waking up to the Medic's strange smile, or being sat on by the Heavy and THEN waking up to the Medic's strange smile anyway, the Sniper agreed to stay the night.

Knowing that the Medic was watching did allow the Sniper to get some sleep. He was awake for the nine o'clock check, but didn't notice the Medic slipping into the infirmary at ten or eleven. Just before midnight, though...

The Sniper was awakened by a cold draught as the blanket was slid down to his knees. "Dammit, Doc, I told yer before, I'm not-" the Sniper scrabbled for his glasses and the blanket simultaneously. When he put on the specs, though, he was shocked that the Medic was not the one tugging his blanket away. "Bloody Hell, Saxton Hale!"

"In the flesh!" The muscular man smiled down at him, moonlight glinting on his teeth.

"Nah, I must be dreaming," the Sniper looked up, eyes wide.

"Sniper," Hale said, his baritone voice thrilling his fellow Australian to the core, "I'm real." He touched the marksman gently on the shoulder. "Tell me, do you admire me?"

"Of course," the Sniper breathed. Why did Hale think he even had to ask?

"Do you want to be what I am?" His eyes were infinitely deep, hypnotic pools.

"Since the instant I saw the ad for Jarate."

"Shall I make you like me?" The light sparkled on Hale's chest hair.

Everything in the Sniper's overwhelmed heart told him to say yes, his body cried out for Hale to touch him again, but the way the master tracker's teeth gleamed set off a tiny warning bell in his brain. "What do you mean?" he quavered.

"You know so little of the world," Hale reached out to caress the Sniper's sideburn. "You understand only the barest beginnings of the Jarate arts." His finger traced down to the Sniper's neck.

"But- I read all yer comics! I did everything you said!"

"Yes, you know all that any mortal could. But you are special." His finger trailed lower, onto the Sniper's chest. "I have chosen you for my own. You will be powerful, eternal, unchanging... only say yes."

"Oh, Saxton," the Sniper moaned. He looked up at his hero's face- and saw that his canine teeth had lengthened by inches. "What are you?" he hissed, feeling the beginnings of panic.

"I am more than human. When the Jarate pills made my organs shut down, I discovered a way to live off the essence of others. I will live forever, Sniper, and once I have drained you and suffused you with my essence, you shall, too."

The Sniper was paralysed in terror as Saxton Hale lunged toward him and tore off his flimsy pyjama pants. The inhuman being flung himself across the Sniper's body, fanged mouth latching onto the marksman's wang. The Sniper could feel Hale draining his bladder, his kidneys, his very soul. He prayed for rescue.

As if in answer to his prayers, the door to the infirmary slid open and the Medic peeked in. The Sniper looked at him, eyes wild and beseeching.

"Oh, excuse ME," the Medic smirked, making to leave.

"No! Doc, help!"

"I thought you'd never ask," the Medic leered, striding in and unbuttoning his pants. "Vhere should I start, Mr Hale?" He put a gloved hand on the undead Australian's bare shoulder.

The effect was electric. Hale reared up, hissing at the Medic. The German's eyes widened in shock as Hale dissolved to mist and gusted out of the ward.

"I thought I knew, but... vhat vas zhat?"

"Saxton Hale! He ain't human! He's gonna drain me urine and turn me inta a vampire!"

"You realise, zhat is not vhat wampires usually drain?"

"ARGH!"

"Fascinating... disgusting, but fascinating."

Sleep was impossible. The Medic and the Sniper stayed up, reading many of the more obscure tomes in the Medic's clinical library. With the dawn light and the sound of the Soldier swearing at the eggs and sausage as he cooked breakfast, they felt that they had found some answers. However, these answers only gave rise to more questions. They decided to present their findings to the team over breakfast.

"Gentlemen," the Medic said once everyone was gnawing on their rubbery eggs.

"'Ey, zat is my line," crabbed the Spy.

"Zis is serious," the Medic snapped. "As you may know, Herr Sniper has been afflicted by a wasting sickness. Last night, I saw vith mein own eyes... a man in the infirmary, attempting to drain... certain fluids from our marksman. Vhen surprised, ze man dissolved into mist. I believe zhat Herr Sniper suffers no mundane illness. Zis is ze vork... of zer Wampire."

The team sat in silence for a moment. Then, the Heavy (holding his fork daintily between his giant forefinger and thumb) said, "Doktor... is maybe you huff the Kritzkrieg too much."

"Naw!" the Sniper exclaimed angrily. "He was THERE, defeatin' my will with the power of his eyes an' drainin' me very life essence!"

"Garlic," the Soldier growled.

"Wot?"

"If the Undead seek to sap and impurify your precious bodily fluids, garlic is the appropriate countermeasure.

"Mmhmmhm," the Pyro concurred, holding up a bundle of garlic bulbs from the kitchen counter.

"Y'need hooly water, too," the Demoman put in.

"Where will we get that out 'ere?" the Sniper asked.

"I can do dat!" the Scout piped up.

"Indeed?" the Medic looked at him quizzically.

"Yeah, I usedta be an altar boy. Father O'Gropey said I'd be a good priest someday."

"Somehow," the Spy said, a piece of egg hanging forgotten from his fork, "I cannot see zat."

"Yeah, I know, right? Like I'm gonna sign up for some outfit where there's no girls, taking orders from some voice in the sky."

An awkward silence descended on the breakfast table.

"Just- shut up all right?!" the Scout shouted. "Get me some god-damn water, I can bless the Hell out of it or whatever."

"Aye," agreed the Demoman. "An' I think I can make some preparations of me oon."

They fought grimly that day, aware that they would have to engage an evil greater than team BLU after cease-fire. Every time they looked up, the sun seemed to have lurched across the sky, hurrying them toward nightfall.

When the sun set, the Sniper insisted that it was vital they act as usual. They each went to their own bedrooms, save for the Sniper, who went to the infirmary, and the Heavy (who went to the Medic's room, but that was usual, and never, EVER discussed). As midnight approached, each member of the team crept toward the infirmary (except, again, for the Heavy, who was hibernating like a post-orgasmic bear).

Hiding in the supply cupboard, the changing room, the linen closet and behind a one-way mirror, the various members of the team found themselves disquieted by exactly how many peepholes there were in the infirmary. The Medic only shushed them, saying they'd alert the vampire. They waited in silence as a mist poured into the room, coalesced, solidified... and took the shape of a bare-chested, hirsute man.

"Holy crap, it's Saxton Hale!" the supply cupboard exclaimed, completely blowing their cover.

"Attack!" shouted the Soldier, bursting out of the linen closet. He and the Pyro yanked the tops off of their garlics and lobbed them at Hale like frag grenades, showering cloves everywhere.

"Pax vobiscum domine, ass-tard!" the Scout burst out of the cupboard and threw his jar of holy water at the towering Australian vampire.

Garlic and water struck dead-on, and Hale roared. However, it soon became evident that he was roaring with laughter. "Nice try, ya drongos, and it might've worked if I were a blood vampire. However, as a Jarate vampire, I'm only vulnerable to shallots and sacred oil!" He threw the Scout at the Soldier and the Pyro, and advanced on the Sniper. "I have come to make you mine," he leered.

"All roight," replied the Sniper, "any time now."

"Ha HA!" Hale exclaimed. "You succumb to me at last! You will live forever, and we shall be beautiful, together. Terrors of the night, draining the urine of the living!" He tore away the Sniper's pants and latched onto his dick.

"I'm not kidding!" shouted the Sniper.

"Neither am I, you delicious darling," Hale chortled.

"DEMO YOU DRUNK WANKER GET IN HERE!" the Sniper cried.

"KABOOM!" shouted the Demoman. "Poot," said his grenade launcher. A broken-off chair leg shot out of the barrel, striking dead-centre in Saxton Hale's hairy chest.

The revenant barely had time to shriek and claw at the improvised stake before he burst into a shower of what smelled like the oldest Jarate in the world.

"It got in my MOUTH!" wailed the Scout.

"I guess tha' still works on Jarate-pires," the Demoman observed.

"Zer handy thing is, it vorks on everyone," the Medic smiled.

Sniper was no longer troubled by nightly visits from Saxton Hale. The Medic insisted on keeping the Sniper for observation for a few more nights, but after the Jarate-pire's cold-eyed stare, the Medic's nocturnal gaze seemed almost comforting. Life at 2Fort returned to normal...

... until three nights later, when the Scout awoke with an unholy thirst for the piss of the living- the curse of the Jarate-pire!

BWAHAHAHAHA!!