Aw, I'm so flattered that you seem to like my stories so well! Thanks for reposting them, Anons, you're sweethearts. Pining me an e-mail so I can thank you in person. In other news, there's this: --------------------------------------------------------- TEA PARTY FORTRESS “One lump or two?†the Soldier growled. “I do not see why you always get to be ‘Mother,’†the Spy said, crabbily. “I get to be ‘Mother’ because I have the ‘Mother’ Hat!†Soldier grinned under the broad brim of the immense blue picture-hat, which was crowded with silk flowers, feather birds and wax fruit. “Now,†he challenged again, “one lump or two?†“Just lemon, s’il vous plait.†The Spy took the cup the was handed. His own hat, a smart cloche, could not compete with the grandeur of the Soldier’s headgear. “Fatty McFat-Fat is hoggin’ all the teacakes wit’ pink frosting,†Scout complained. He was wearing a white Sunday hat with a flowered hatband. “He is allowed,†Medic said with equal parts smugness and tenderness. He was wearing a fine tiara and long, dove-gray silk gloves. “Heavy ist zer Baby.†He indulgently offered the huge man another cake. Indeed, the Heavy was wearing a lacy white bonnet. “Would yer be so good as to pass the scoones?†the Demoman asked. He was wearing a floppy, feminine tam-o-shanter. “Mf mfmrr,†the Pyro said, passing the plate. Spy looked at his hat with pity. It was a dowdy grey affair with faded silk roses around the crown. “Sniper, I’m afraid I still don’t understand how to turn a heel.†The Engineer scowled at his knitting and discreetly tried to adjust his wig-hat, a tiny round hat perched on a mass of curls, which was itching him. “It’s a bit tricky, you ‘ave to add stitches, then drop ‘em again, in sequence, loike.†The Sniper pushed his straw sun hat back to get a better look at the Engineer’s mass of yarn. “That’s just it! It’s a simple mathematical formula, why’s it so gol-dang hard to execute?†“You’re holding the yarn too tight, Truckie.†The Sniper demonstrated with his own ball of wool- -Shots rang out. The Soldier was no longer presiding over his tea party, he was on the battlefield. Hot lead from the enemy Scout’s scattergun had torn through his guts. He was going down. Blackness filled his vision, then the nothingness before Respawn. He rematerialised alongside the Scout and the Demoman. Screaming defiance, he beat himself over the head with his shovel before racing back to the front. “Psycho,†the Scout looked after him. “What the Hell is he thinking when he does that?†“Tis the Red Mist, lad,†the Demoman said. “Pure visceral hate, filling the mind of the Berserker.†In the privacy of his own mind, Jane Doe rasped, “Would anyone care for seconds?â€