Um. Hi. I wrote this thing. You can read it if you’d like. This is currently a one shot story with no plans for continuation; my hope is that you get the gist of prior events in the reading. While these are meant to be the RED Soldier and Engineer, I’ve used Jane Doe (RED Soldier) and Dell Conagher (BLU Engineer) for names, just to stick somewhat within acceptable TF canon. I’ve stretched it a bit with events after the war which, I am not ashamed to admit, are heavily influenced by Cat Bountry and TenCentBastard. For the sake of simplicity (and because I have never been good with remembering italic code) things meant to be in flashback or read by a character will be in //. I Never Said I Wasn’t Jane Doe stared at the package on his bed. //“-and finally, to Sargent Jane Doe, I leave behind items which are to be mailed at the conclusion of my funeral. Mr. Doe, do you accept?†“AFFIRMATIVE, MAGGET.†“Alrighty then. Next, to Mr. Dell Conagher-â€// It had started to snow during Medic’s funeral. It had been a light dusting. Scout had cried like a child. Hell, they all had. Everyone except Jane. They’d put him to rest beside Heavy, dead three years prior, at the foot of the scrappy little tree in the back yard of the house by the sea- that same house the pair had always talked about together, when they thought no one was listening at night. And then this. It wasn’t a dangerous artifact. Jane knew the Kraut wouldn’t give him a bomb or a box full of a virus and besides, Dell’s scanners hadn’t picked up anything unusual. “Looks like clothes, Jane.†he’d said. His eyes were still red. He’d been crying off and on for days. “Clothes and some other stuff. You want me to be here..?†Jane had done the wise thing. He’d told Dell that he wanted to open it alone. He took a box cutter and thought briefly that Shovel would do the job with more honor, but she was out in the barn with the half-finished sentries and the souped up four wheel drive. Besides, she might wreck whatever was inside. Jane neatly flicked the flaps back with a callused thumb. He stared. They were packed in mothballs and lavender, as the Kraut had always packed for long journeys between forts. Folded, pressed, not a tear to be found. Here was the hat, its braid still tight, the crossed skull and bones at its center shining. Here was the captain’s insignia, the double S, the medals. Jane didn’t know what they meant. He recognized the Iron Cross, the only medal that wasn’t neatly pinned. Hooked into its back was a silver ring, edges bent as though it had been worn and twisted around a finger for years. Jane closed the box and went for a long drive. He arrived at the mostly empty gravel quarry and he screamed, long and loud. He screamed every slur he knew, every obscenity. He made a few up for good measure. He slammed shovel against rocks, he fired his double barrel at nothing and dodged the shot when it bounced off the granite slabs that had been deemed imperfect. He ranted until he was hoarse and then he went on ranting until he was close to coughing up blood. Dell found him the next day. Afraid, the man begged him to come home and it was only because he was exhausted, both physically and mentally, that Dell managed to convince him. Jane did not tell Dell what was in the box, or where it was. He left it. For three months. When he finally went back to it, he noticed something he hadn’t before- that underneath the hat with its death’s head, there was a letter, with his name on the envelope. Jane did not want to read the letter. He opened it. //Dear Soldier, If you ever open this envelope- and I believe you will, someday- I want you to know I’m writing it because it is snowing. You think I don’t know how much you love snow, but I do. When you see it, your face transforms, for just a moment. It is a lovely thing. It is one of the things I admire about you. The war is over now, Jane. For the both of us. Who won or lost- it doesn’t matter. It seems distant for me, though it shouldn’t; it will always have immediacy for you, though it shouldn’t. I’ve come to accept that about you. What you do with the contents of this box are your decision. I thought to burn them in the fire. Perhaps I should have, but there are some roles in life one must always remember. I am not a good man. You knew this- you knew it better than anyone, better, perhaps, than Heavy. You saw me for what I was the moment you met me and what you saw was a monster. I love you like a brother for that. You knew I was not a good man. You fought with me anyway. You never asked me the question. The one question that must have burned you, night after night, battle after battle. I don’t know why you didn’t ask. Maybe it was because you wanted to preserve me in my white coat, with the gun that makes you a God. Maybe you deemed it unimportant. Maybe you were afraid of letting friendship dissolve in the face of a greater evil. The why, I suppose, doesn’t matter. Thank you, Jane. For never asking. For letting me keep that illusion of control. I don’t know when I’m going to die. I don’t even know if I will ever escape this eternal war. After all, it is the perfect place for me. If I leave- if by some miracle all I have irrationally hoped and dreamed does come true- I will welcome a peaceful death. Maybe a soldier wants to live forever, but Doctors do run down. I have had this fight with myself for a long time now. Every man imagines the words of his will, but few have something so heavy to give as I. So I will give you what you always wanted, Jane. I will give you the right to judge. Because you never asked- but I never said I wasn’t, either. Good luck, soldier.// It was signed with his name, all the spidery swoop and curve of his impossible handwriting. Jane recognized the stationary. It was from Viaduct. Jane folded the letter up small. He went to the War Room (really, it was a den, but Dell let him call it what he would) and stuck it in the band of his helmet, beside his playing card and his emergency cigarettes. He took out each piece of the uniform. He turned the ring over in his hands, twirled the hat around a finger, smoothed the creases in the jacket. When Dell pulled up the drive he saw that the fire pit out front was burning hot, and Jane was standing in front of it, playing his bugle. He parked, walked over to his friend, took off his hat and placed it over his heart. He knew a funeral when he saw one. When Jane was done Dell asked, “Is everythin’ alright, Jane?†“...Affirmative.†Dell didn’t question the Iron Cross on the corkboard behind the stand in the den. He thought it looked nice alongside Jane’s hand made medals. When he raked out the firepit later, he found things; a bit of melted metal, a single charred scrap of black wool. He buried the lot of it and that night played one of Medic’s favorite tunes on his old guitar. “Looks like snow.†he said, gazing up into the cloudless texas night. “Sure, Tex.†Soldier said, pulling his helmet down a littler farther on his head. “Sure.â€
This was good. As you wanted too, the context of the situation does seep in, and sets a well rounded short story going. I do have a lot of questions, but it's a good thing. You didn't leave the story on a cliff-hanger, so I guess it shows you have the ability to draw people in. I did have a little trouble with some of your wording, such as; “Looks like clothes, Jane.†he’d said. His eyes were still red. He’d been crying off and on for days. “Clothes and some other stuff. You want me to be here..?†Now, originally, I thought that it was Engineer who who had been crying, because you specifically mentioned that Jane was the only one not to cry at Medic's funeral, but now that I take a second glance, it seems like Soldier has been the one who has been crying. This is a bit contradicting of your previous statement, so maybe specifying that a bit better. another issue I had was this: "They were packed in mothballs and lavender" Surely if the clothes were packed with lavender, there wouldn't be any mothballs? Lavender keeps moths away; I keep lots of wool clothing in my loft. I put lavender in with the boxes, and they don't touch the stuff. But despite my pedanticalness, it's still quite expressive imagery. Overall, I enjoyed it. Soldier's forms of expression were appropriate, there was a kind balance between melancholy and anger, and you finished the story; you could continue it, but it somehow seems better without a sequel, not to this plot anyway. tl;dr, it was really good. Made my evening, put it that way.
scheisseeee I missed it. One of my problems in writing is forgetting to put names in as replacements for identifiers, particularly when there are two people of the same gender talking or interacting. Thanks for pointing it out! I'm glad you liked it.
Aww that was sad and sweet
As far as mixing real history and TF2 canon goes, this is the best I've read. You hit the money on something where dozens of others have missed entirely. Wonderfully written, can't wait to see more.
Its funny, we were just talking about how people hate Nazi!Medic. You just turned the whole damn concept on its head. Not so good at concrit so I'll shut up now, but this story left a sinking pit in my stomach in a good way. Good job maggot.
Just to clarify, did Soldier find Medic during WW2? It could be my personal headcanon coloring between the lines for me, but I really really like that someone else thought that besides me, even if it was only implied.
Um..no? At least that wasn't my intention. I don't think I insinuated it. Though I always felt that would be a nifty fic- where soldier and medic had met previously in the war- it's not what happened here.
number 2 here: You still didn't say who'd been crying! This beautiful epitaph is fragmented while I still have such a tiny and nit picky question burning in my mind...
Sorry sorry #2. It was Dell. Jane's not a big crier, at least not in this story.
Okay, so I’ve decided this goes in a ‘Medic and Soldier are bros even though they don’t realize it’ sort of series. It has nothing to do with the previous story. It was, in fact, mostly based on my strange desire for Medic and Soldier to team up in a barfight. No regrets. On medic’s accent: when he speaks, I try to be as basic as possible. I use ‘und’ in replacement of ‘and’, I use nein and bitte instead of no and please, and I use some Vs to replace Ws. That’s as far as I go with Medic since some people find it distracting and I know there is always accent debate. Peace And Quiet Medic wanted a beer. Of course he also wanted Scout to stop demanding his attention when he didn’t need any medical help in the middle of battle. He wanted Demoman to look before he stickied. He wanted Spy to stop smoking in his infirmary and he wanted Sniper to eat more vegetables but these things, like his desire for a beer, would never be easily satisfied. The problem with beer being, of course, that his current employment was in America. And American beer was…awful. He stared at his mug. A typical pint-mug, nothing special. The beer-flavored water inside was barely even amber colored. He knew if he wrote out the right requests, bribed the right people, he could get a case of real beer. However, supply trains were few and far between; who knew when the next one would make it? So here he was, in a bar with a jukebox that seemed permanently stuck on Engineer’s favorite Cash tunes, drinking what equated beer in this country. Going off base wasn’t frowned upon. In fact it was encouraged from time to time. Nine men with tempers and guns tended to start pointing those guns at each other if they didn’t have time off. Medic had hopped the bus that sometimes went by the fort. He didn’t know if he’d make it back that night. Really, he didn’t care. He just wanted peace, quiet, and- “WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO ABANDON YOUR POST, KRAUT?!†..damn it. “Hallo, Soldier.†Medic said as the American settled next to him. Soldier, like Medic, was out of uniform. Like Medic, he was still armed, shovel held tightly in the crook of an arm. “YOU DID NOT ANSWER MY QUESTION.†Other patrons of the bar were beginning to stare. Medic glared at soldier. “Keep. Your voice. Down, bitte.†“You will not tell me what to do!†in spite of that, Soldier did quiet his normally drill-Sargent level vocals. The bartender came over. Soldier ordered a beer ‘and put a set of boots on it, private.’ The man nodded and headed away. Soldier refocused his attention on Medic. “So.†“I am here for peace und quiet. Last I checked, zat vasn’t illegal, soldier.†“It is when you’re a nazi fascist tar drinker!†Medic sighed. “It is not tar, it is beer. Zis is piss. Sniper vould love it.†“This is a MAN’S beer, sissy!†Soldier, having received his drink, thus demonstrated his American Manliness by drinking half the thing in a single go and belching. Medic grimaced. “You are disgusting.†“And you’re a nazi, what else is there to discuss?†Medic ignored him and continued to sip his beer, staring into space. Soldier, apparently fine with the quiet so long as Medic wasn’t attempting anything too fascist like, finished his beer and ordered another. “Vhy are you here?†Medic asked when the second beer arrived. “The nancy frenchie magget was complaining about a lack of wine. I was requisitioned to obtain some. IT IS A MISSION.†A mission? Medic shook his head. Usually, Spy did his own shopping, not trusting any teammate to, as he put it, ‘know good wine if it up and bit them in the ass’. Someone would then inevitably point out that there was no such thing as good wine, and a fight would often break out, resolved only when someone fired a shot or they were generally distracted. No doubt Sniper had goaded him into trusting someone else for laughs. “…Soldier zis is not ze liquor store, it is a bar.†“I will not buy nancy frenchie wine sober!†Medic couldn’t argue with that. He returned to his drink. They continued on in companionable silence for a few minutes before the front doors swung open and three men entered. They were clearly locals- at least, the dirt on their shirts and their grimy hats said they were. Medic observed them out of the corner of his eye and decided that they were each about another beer away from being unable to walk in a straight line. The head roughneck was a man in yellow flannel whose teeth could have used a dentist, or possibly just a forceful application of a drill to put them out of their misery. He flopped down next to Medic. The German stiffened. Soldier was fine within his personal radius, being a teammate and someone he knew and treated. This man was not. He carefully edged over a bit, trying not to think about all the microscopic things that were probably crawling on the shirt. “Hey, Billy. Beer, would you?†Billy- the bartender- shook his head. “No, Ham.†He was cleaning out a glass. “You’re toasted. Go home.†Ham- a fitting name, Medic felt, as he did somewhat resemble a pig- sneered. “This is a bar. You’re a bartender. So tend, Bill.†His buddies chuckled. Medic wasn’t sure what possessed him to turn his head. “He said nein.†Ham stiffened up like a board. He turned his sneering gaze on Medic. “Hey, lookee here. A bona-fide nazi.†Medic’s eyes narrowed. “My, how surprising. A bona-fide drunk.†He responded. “He said no. Leave.†“Oh? An’ are you gonna make me?†Billy looked between the two. “Ham knock it off.†He said. “Naw, naw, Bill, I wanna hear his answer. So, kraut. Are you gonna make me?†“Und iffen I did?†Medic responded smoothly. The entire bar had become quiet, save the jukebox, which continued resiliently playing its scratchy tunes. Ham stood. He was perhaps two inches taller than Medic, and broader. “Well, go ahead, nazi. Make me.†Medic sighed. “Herr Soldier?†“Kraut.†Beside him, Soldier had gone beady eyed. Shovel was now on the bartop, and he had one palm laid out over her handle. “hold mein glasses, bitte?†Medic removed them and passed them to his teammate. Soldier nodded and folded them up, putting them next to shovel. Ham grinned. Medic looked him up and down. Ham raised one large fist. “Mistake, kraut.†Medic ducked at the exact moment Ham swung. He darted in and laid out one solid hit to the solar plexus. The man was big, but he was no Heavy Weapons Guy. Ham fell backwards. His buddies got up. Bill went for the phone. “DUCK, KRAUT.†Medic didn’t question the order, he just did as he was told. Shovel whistled over his head and the first buddy went down, knocked out cold by the entrenching tool. Unfortunately, he was knocked into another table. The patrons at that table didn’t look happy. They stood up and joined buddy number two as Ham, coughing on the floor, regained a bit of equilibrium. Medic backed up. Soldier came up beside him. “Scheisse.†The german muttered. He was grinning. “AFFIRMATIVE.†So was Soldier. ///--/// Sniper came to pick them up the next afternoon after their bails were paid. Soldier had a black eye and a sprained wrist from Shovel getting stuck under one particularly large assailant. Medic was sporting a colorful bruise on his jaw and he was limping just a tad. Sniper just stared at them after passing off Medic’s glasses (the police had been nice enough to hang on to them for him, though they wouldn't give him back his scalpel- fair enough.) “Wot. The fuck.†“YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER MAGGETS.†Medic just laughed. “Did you at least get Spy’s goddamn wine?†“NEGATIVE.†Medic laughed harder. Soldier looked at him, chuckled, and then outright cackled. Sniper threw his hands up in the air. “Yor both insane.â€
Neato. I like it. You might want to have someone beta for grammatical spots, though, and I am pretty disappointed that you literally timeskipped right at the climax though. The fight could have been really interesting. Also Soldier's dialogue is half "nazi fascist nazi kraut nazi"; it could be varied some more to make him less one-dimensional.
I liked it enough to look past any minor issues with it. I honestly chuckled when Medic took off his glasses. Not sure why, but the image of him asking Soldier to hold his glasses for a bar fight really strikes me as funny.
Drillbot: I fear attempting to make soldier any more dimensional for cries of 'OC', but I'll see what I can do. As for the fight scene, I often lose track of people- it was hard enough keeping an eye on ham and his two buddies. Though if someone wants to do a 'what we think happened in the barfight' I certainly wouldn't complain. And yes, the idea of Medic and Soldier in a barfight at all just makes me grin. captcha: herencya his. ...I feel as though I missed a vital part of the ritual.
Not saying you have to make him a new personality. There's just more to him than yelling (yeah this sounds pretentious deal with it haters). Dive into a fic by Kilo or KGB if you want to see what I mean -- their soldiers are honestly different, and both correct.
This one is untitled, mostly because any title I could think of sounded silly. This piece by itself is rather silly, but I thought I'd share it. I write Spy's accent a little more obviously than Medic's. Spy wasn’t entirely sure what made him do it. He theorized a few reasons. The first was how utterly irked Medic looked-an angry Medic, under the right circumstances and away from all bottles of corrosive chemicals, could be a hilarious Medic. Maybe it was the fact that Medic was cooking dinner in the first place, a chore he usually got out of with the simple raised eyebrow and reminder that without him, respawn only did so much and make sure to wash the dishes. …or maybe it was just that Medic was, in fact, wearing an apron, popularly believed to be Pyro’s and the only one in the entire fort, that said ‘Kiss the cook’. Spy just -couldn’t- resist a challenge like that. It was to his credit that Medic was too shocked to properly open his jugular with the scalpel he always kept on his person; pinned to the fridge the older man could only make protesting ‘mmf!’ noises as Spy proceeded, with gusto and tongue, to kiss the cook. Spy stepped back out of scalpel slicing range and made a show of licking his lips. “You really shouldn’t walk around wiz signs on your chest, Docteur.†He purred. “Eet ees just asking for trouble.†“You-†but Medic didn’t get the chance to finish whatever venomous vitriol he was about to unleash upon his comrade, because he saw something Spy didn’t. He grinned. “Oh, did you enjoy eet? Docteur I am shocked, and ‘ere I zought you were an ‘onorable-†The next thing Spy knew-besides crippling amounts of pain in his rapidly shortened spine via a Heavy bear squeeze- was the interior of Respawn and Engineer, who, wrench in hand, looked him up and down. “..water, merci?†The Texan shook his head and went back to his work, which involved various wires and disks that belonged in the machine Spy had just been rebuilt by. “You deserve it,†he said, reasoning that no matter what had just occurred, Spy had probably been asking for it. It took a week before Spy could respawn without tentacles. Heavy was happy to help.
Somebody has to draw the Spy kissing Medic. Pretty please?
...Wait, what? The tentacle bit came out of nowhere? I'm confused. I thought the story was fine without them.
>>1 You made me cry. I never cry over fic. The subtle power in this, the heartbreaking simplicity and restraint. Thank you.
Mus<< I am the champion of the world yesss.
I'm adding this to the 'stories that are entirely too silly what is wrong with me'. Based on a short conversation I had with a friend and clearly not meant to be taken in any serious fashion. We've got four characters with accents here. I tried to make them as basic as possible. Gentlemen Prefer Yellow “But what the fuck is it?†Scout, who was sitting on a crate in Resupply post round and twirling what looked a little like some kind of yellow lacy headband around one finger, was posing the question. He’d found it on the floor when he’d respawned after that last rocket to the face and, having nothing better to do, had decided to pester Sniper with this new philosophical quandary. “Like, I think my Ma wears stuff like this,†he went on. “Py finally decided to admit he’s got tits?†Sniper- forced downstairs via Texan Guilt Trip- made sure his bolt slid without a single hitch before replying, “Why the hell would I know?†“Yeah what the fuck ever.†Scout noticed that the item around his finger was coming close to the tip, about to fly off. He tugged it back down and continued. “So, seriously, Longshanks, what the hell is it?†“I don’t bloody know,†Sniper replied, bringing the gun up so that he could see if his scope needed adjusting. “why’er you askin’ me?†“Because it’s lacy.†“Yeh, so wot?†“So it sure as hell ain’t –mine-.†“You sure about that?†Scout reached for his bat. Sniper rolled his eyes and set his rifle carefully across his lap. “I don’t feckin’ know ask Truckie.†“Yeah right he’d probably turn red and then die of embarrassment an’ southern propriety an’ what the fuck ever an’ then respawn an’ tell me he’ll build a machine to tell me about it.†Scout sighed. “Bet it’s the frog’s.†“You are mistaken, petit.†Scout jumped and whirled around. “God fuckin’ DAMN IT Frenchie!†Spy chuckled and lit a fresh cigarette. “A little jumpy today, are we, mon ami?†“Jumpy my ass gonna break your face in you freakin-†“So. Where did you get ze garter?†Both Sniper and Scout looked at him like he had four heads. Spy sighed. “Ze garter? Ze feminine delight?†he neatly moved forward and snatched the thing off of Scout’s finger. “Hm. Not mine. Too..†he looked for a word. “Tame.†Scout paled. “Aw, -dude- I did not need to know you did drag. You got a stage name? Is it gay?†“As a matter of fact, petit, your muzzer and I were discussing just such a zing.†Scout broke off into a stream of profanity. Sniper rolled his eyes and stood. “Did you have to get him started?†“Tell me, bushman, did you ‘ave any idea what eet was?†Sniper fell silent. “I did not zink so. Clearly, a garter.†Spy blew a smoke ring at Scout, who gestured rudely at him and waved his bat in what was probably meant to be a threatening manner, but looked more like he was swatting at flies. “But unless someone ‘as brought a woman onto ze base- and believe me, I would ‘ave known-†“Don’t even know what a girl’s parts look like you-†Scout yelped as he was neatly shoved off the box. Spy sat in the suddenly vacated spot, twisting the garter on a finger and somehow managing to make it look that much better. “-zen I am forced to assume-†“Herr Spy?†Everyone looked up. It was Medic. “Oh you found it!†he said. “Danke.†Scout blanched. “..found..?†Sniper appeared to have closed for the evening. “Oui, Docteur. Apologies for not getting eet to you sooner.†Spy was smiling like a cat who had let the canary go the first time in order to get a better look at its friends. “No problem. One of zese days Respawn vill actually like french lace.†Medic took the garter from Spy, rolled it with the utmost affectionate care, and put it in a pocket. “…yellow, Docteur?†Spy asked. “Heavy prefers yellow.†And with that, Medic was gone. Captcha: Livefor 255. what's happening at two fifty five?
goddamn you this made me chuckle like a crazy mofo in the back seat of a bus. I still have a way too creepy smile on my face because of this. Please continue writing things like that.
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Alternate title: Medic always wins. Here, have another piece of ridiculousness, now with ten times more bad accents! Also some fragmented sentences and some hotdogs. And vomiting, which usually comes with hotdogs. Hidden Talents “So THERE!†this declaration of absolute victory was proclaimed by a slightly green-faced Scout as he let hotdog number forty settle itself into his stomach with all the tenacity of a boulder. “Bloody mental is wot you are.†Sniper replied. Demoman beside him just laughed. “Bet’s a bet!†he cheerily pointed out, swinging his scrumpy arm and splattering the liquor on the kitchen floor. “He didn’t have the buns, you think I’m gonna pay up wivout buns?†“Hey man supply train sucks, okay?†Scout replied. “Now pay the hell up.†Grumbling, Sniper tugged an old leather wallet from his back pocket. There was a bootstrap tied around it. He untied it and opened the thing, removing a hundred dollar bill which he proceeded to throw at Scout’s head. The boy caught it with a cheeky grin. “Alright!†“Vhat have I told you about betting in ze fort?†There was a collective wince and all eyes turned to Medic, who stood in the doorway looking like the highly unimpressed Angel of The Apocalypse Of All Non-Mission Entertainment. “Come off it, Sawbones.†Demoman said. “s’jest boys havin’ fun.†“Und vasting food vhile zey do it.†Medic pointed out. “Come on, Doc.†Scout whined. “We’re bored.†“Zen do somezing constructive. Like find your scattergun.†“Hey man I told you it’s-“ “In zat archeological dig ve can call your quarters, ja. You do remember ve have a match tomorrow? Und ve have lost ze last two?†Soldier had had a field day with that; they’d all woken up with headaches. Spy had wound up backstabbing him after three solid hours of roaring just so the rest of them could get peace, claiming he’d take the teamkill mark on his record if only for blessed silence. “S’just some fun, Doc.†Sniper said. “You know, eatin’ contest?†Medic’s eyebrow rose like a startled bird. “A vhat?†“An eating contest. You know, who can eat wot fastest?’ “..zat sounds disgusting, unhealzy, und against all natural impulses.†“Well yeah. That’s wot makes it fun!†Medic shook his head. “I can zink of ten ozzer vays right now you could be improving your life zat don’t involve food, Herr Sniper.†“Oh we all got a food talent, Doc.†Demoman said after another pull from his bottle. “We’re men.†“I do not.†“You got to, you’re German.†The other eyebrow rose. “Und vhat does zat have to do vith anyzing?†“How much butter can you eat in one sitting?†Demoman challenged. “I eat no more butter zan anyone else.†“Alright..†Medic had him there. “There’s gotta be something, Doc.†Scout, who had just finished making a tiny hundred dollar bill airplane, flicked the thing towards the counter and immediately ran after it. Medic rolled his eyes- then paused. He smiled. It was a smile of pure evil. Sniper cleared his throat. “Uh, you know, Doc, I’d like to hear that list. You know, of ten things I could be doin’ to improve me life?†“Oh nein, Herr Sniper. I just realized I do have one …food based talent.†“Yeah what’s that?†Scout asked, cradling his hundred dollar baby. In response to the question Medic grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the table. He examined it carefully, feeling its weight, before- swallowing it. Without gagging. Until all they could see was the tip. Medic removed the fruit swiftly and took a single long, deep breath before opening his eyes. He grinned and left the kitchen, dropping it in the trash can with a resounding thud. No one had moved five minutes later when Heavy came in. “Leetle teammates! Is good day before killing.†He went to the fridge, intent on getting a sandwich. He found his food of choice wrapped in cellophane on the second shelf and removed it. When he closed the fridge he realized that no one had responded to his comment. That was weird- Scout, at least, would have had something to say. He turned. All three of them were staring at him. “..what?†“You lucky son of a bitch.†Demoman chortled. Scout ran for the trashcan. All forty champion hotdogs came back for a visit.
Also I considered and abandoned putting Hidden Talents in the adult fanfic section because, eh. No dicks. Just medic being A dick, which I don't think counts.
I feel very fortunate that I had swallowed my IRL tea before hitting the line where Medic swallowed the banana - my monitor and keyboard would not have done well had I not. Bravo! Still snickering. Waste of a perfectly good banana, though.
>>21 "Sniper appeared to have closed for the evening." Hehehehe. Snerk. >>24 Bwahahahahahaha! Dr Scuffles, you seem to have a real knack for comedic timing. And pieces of this length do seem to be your forte. Bravo! Or brava, if you prefer. More please.
I'll just leave this right here. The Definition Of Engineer would not call himself a racist. Back home in Beecave, he’d had plenty of friends, both men and women, who were of varying colors and backgrounds. Black mixed with Latino mixed with White at the Saturday night poker games he remembered. There was laughter and alcohol and jokes that walked the line but no one really meant it, and everyone went home happy. It occurred to Engineer that maybe everyone went home happy because in the dark, it didn’t matter. He’d found himself grinding his teeth the moment their new Medic opened his mouth. He wasn’t sure why. He attributed it to the man’s bearing, that of an arrogant and self assured scientist who could do no wrong. Soldier clearly didn’t like him, but Soldier didn’t like anyone who wasn’t a white middle class American. Soldier was in his mind reasonable and out of it an equal opportunity racist. So he called Medic a Nazi. He called Demo a drunken negro and oftentimes used the more traditional shortening of the word. Engineer knew he was not like Soldier. No, Medic was impossible to deal with. It was soon obvious that the two men could not maintain a radius of five feet without getting into an argument. Medic was a blowhard the likes of which Engineer remembered very well from years in academia. Once a gun was pointed at him, he’d hide behind the Heavy like a little girl and then deny it later. Their very first mission, Medic tallied more kills than Engineer’s level three. They won. Maybe it was the man’s differing worldview. Engineer knew it was petty to dislike someone for having an opinion that wasn’t his. He knew that two men with backgrounds in the sciences wouldn’t agree on everything. They were both smart, it was natural to bump heads over who thought they were the smarter one. Right? Medic managed civility long enough to ask if the dispenser could be altered, just slightly. He admitted he didn’t know how it could be done, not having the same background as Engineer in mechanics, but if the provisionary machine could also –heal-, well, their jobs would be easier, wouldn’t they? Engineer grudgingly made the alterations. They continued to win. Maybe it was Medic’s loose ethical code. A man had to have morals, didn’t he? Between the birds in the infirmary and the maniacal needle-shooting Doc was a medical disaster. Yes. That had to be it. At the end of the day Engineer was still a good old boy, and good old boys kept their work areas clean and said please and thank you. Medic was a shame to his profession, to that oath of ‘first do no harm’. When Heavy mowed down the soldier rush that had almost destroyed them all, Engineer got in line for the uuberplug. One night they were washing dishes together. It was on the chore chart- Demoman and Sniper had cooked dinner. Medic washed, Engineer dried. For once the German wasn’t wearing his gloves. His hands were large and fine-boned, made for surgeries and playing the violin. Perfectly white, of course. They never saw the sun. “Herr Engineer?†“Hm?†Engineer put aside a plate and took the next one offered. “..you do not like me.†Medic said this with a sort of finality, as though he had been carefully analyzing every argument they had ever had and finally come to a conclusion based on the experiments he’d performed around a hypothesis. “..No. No, Doc, I don’t.†Medic nodded, taking this in stride as he took all things in stride, as comfortable with Engineer admitting his dislike as he was with healing Scout while the younger man called him a faggot and demanded he hurry up while they were under heavy gunfire. “I am not surprised.†“Why not?†Engineer hadn’t meant to let the question slip, but questions were how you got answers, and old habits died hard. “You are American.†Engineer furrowed his brow. “Now what in the sam hill does that have to do with anything?†Medic looked at Engineer. He had blue eyes, as blue as anything, old and a little haunted, like Demo’s when he became too sober. Those eyes were laughing at Engineer. “You are a man who solves practical problems, Herr.†He said, passing off the last plate. “You figure it out.†Engineer would not call himself a racist.
>>28 I'd hate to sound like a wet blanket here, but white people discriminating against other white people doesn't count as racism.
>>29 True enough, it's not based on actual physical characteristics. But it does qualify as knee-jerk discrimination with no bearing on the specific individual in question. ("He’d found himself grinding his teeth the moment their new Medic opened his mouth.")
If we want to get technical, what engineer is expressing is xenophobia. However, racism, while it means being bigoted to someone's ethnicity, has come to also equate bigotry by nationality, the point here being that medic is German, hence the teethgrinding at his accent.
Interesting little story. Let's face it, sometimes personalities clash. Like love at first sight, only backward. Hate at first sight. Must be a chemistry thing. I enjoyed it.