In the middle of some projects. Porn comes soon. -- The debriefing didn't go as poorly as it could have; the administrator spent most of the time yelling at everyone for slacking off on the killing end things. It was obvious however, that the old lady and her primarily female staff were well aware of the substance abuse and the strange new dimension developing in the team – almost as thought they had been anticipating it, and had made minor adjustments accordingly on a need-to-know basis. The usual formalities and the piercing, harpy-like scolding had not changed since day one however. Keeping the focus on tactical mistakes was just more productive as far as the administration was concerned. First and foremost – the heavy was killed six times over the span of twenty minutes because he wasn't watching his medic. This cascaded into a massive influx of bum-rushing BLU infantry that he normally would have kept mowing down if he had stayed alive for more than a few seconds at a time. The medic agreed wholeheartedly. He understood that he was not well liked among his co-workers, but went on to explain that he was the only man standing between his team and certain, horrible disfigurement and repeated death. The heavy had his head down on the table and was snoring loudly, contributing little to the discussion and obviously taking nothing from it. The medic roused him with a sharp prodding and a few harsh foreign words. The heavy only growled and went back to sleep. The lanky Australian man at the end of the conference table made his usual comment that re-spawn made the medic's job obsolete, rounding off his supposition by referring to the aging German as 'Herr Mengele'. The medic then started shouting at the sniper in and out of a high-pitched southern German, impressing upon him that not only was he not the Angel of Death, but he was not a Nazi at any point in his life and he was in fact, an Argentine citizen. Of course, anyone that had seen his personnel file would have known that he had only been living in Argentina for nine years, and there were no records of his life before the age of 36 other than his birthplace in Germany. But corrections aside, the sniper was hardly doing his job either. The sniper simply scoffed, retorting that he ran out of ammunition and had to make due running around lobbing off limbs and throwing piss-jars – which take time to refill, by the way. The engineer seemed to be absent from the battle for the most part. He wasn't seen being killed by many, but his body turned up all over the map – more than anyone elses' in fact. He did manage to build a dispenser in the barn and that teleporter next to the enemy spawn point, but was killed immediately thereafter. Normally, the 'missing time' problem was often alleviated with open communication between men on the field, but since everyone was giving each other the cold shoulder for some bizarre reason (she coyly raised an eyebrow at the soldier on this note), the engineer ended up innocently running back out to the enemy spawn point four times, never getting around to re-stocking that dispenser or putting up the other end of the teleporter at base. In addition, he neglected to erect machines that would have been more useful to the rest of the team – like a sentry turret at the bottle neck leading to base instead of right next to the hanger door, or at least ONE medical dispenser near the control points instead of that one that he put up – again right next to the hanger door. She then proceeded to coldly interrogate the engineer, slowly rapping her long, talon-like fingers on the hard surface of the table, for the strategy behind arranging the machinery in said fashion. The engineer respectfully explained that he had in fact, put a level three sentry at the bottle neck, but he had no idea what had happened to it – he assumed that it had been destroyed by the BLU spy. The administrator frustratedly rubbed her sinuses and told him that he never did build that sentry. Then she demanded to know why he thought that he had – he would have found it's remains in that case. Well, to tell the honest truth, he had a rough night, and he apologized for not having his head in the game. His usual strategy was to just run around taking care of things as they came up, his own safety was never his highest priority. But this time around, since he had been killed so many times straight out of the spawn, he had no idea what was going on for the most part, and toward the end of the battle he thought that he was the only man left. He thought that his only option was keeping himself alive indefinitely and holding that closest control point until another RED came out of the re-spawn room. He didn't much like thinking about that – especially now that he knew the whole mess could have easily been avoided. The soldier was no help at all – he stated bluntly that the engineer needed to stop acting like such a woman and learn how to fight. This whole team was really pissing him off in general with the drinking and the sass-mouth and the girlie giggles. Clearly the recent victories were causing the men to get cocky, let their guard down, get soft like a bunch of long-haired hippie faggots. This was no time for goofing off – if anything now was the time to really put the pressure on the enemy – to bring him to his knees and destroy him utterly – not let dames get in the way. The Demolition suggested that the soldier should actually read The Art of War before spouting orders to more able warriors like he knew his ass from a hole in the ground. The soldier shot up from his chair and started shouting insults into the demolition's face – making the outlandishly ignorant presumption that he was a domestic terrorist working for come commie black nationalist organization. The demolition furiously smashed his scrumpy bottle on the conference table and pointed the shattered remains at the soldier's neck, proclaiming that if he EVER lumped him in with black nationalists ever again, he would cut him down the middle and tan his lily white hide to make new upholstery for his Cobra. Soldier promptly responded to this challenge; he sideswiped the demolition's head with his trench spade and spouted his hatred for him and for Scotland – calling it a seething breeding ground for transvestism. The demolition came back at him without restraint; fists and broken glass flying, impressing that it's called a 'kilt', it's traditional, and that he might have known that the soldier had been inspecting his 'plumbing' at every opportunity like the cock-starved dandy that he was. The meeting hardly paused for the ensuing carnage – it seemed that those two just couldn't be persuaded to share even the same building for more than a few hours at a time before they were literally at each others' throats. There was little the others could do – even if they cared enough to intervene. The spy brought up the unusually high numbers in the BLU team. He attributed this to the nuclear power plant that they had poorly disguised as a grain refinery. This access to huge amounts of electricity definitely allowed them to spawn as many men as they wished. Although he also noted that the men on the other team seemed a little more 'dim' than usual. He was uncertain how to really describe what he meant until the scout announced that he ran into a BLU heavy that was screaming at the top of his lungs and spinning around like a man possessed, inexplicably tearing into his own team. It was an easy kill – but he almost felt bad about it – like he was putting the guy out of his misery. The administrator rose from her chair at this report and ended the meeting with little explanation. Miss Pauling passed the men some file folders, hurriedly mentioning a BLU mining operation in the Pacific northwest that needed to be nuked before scuttling after the administrator with her cumbersome armful of paperwork. The men were left assuming that they were being held responsible for their own transportation. Except for the soldier that is – he was busy trying to fight off the demolition, who had him on his back, apparently dropped trow and was now laughing and trying to slap him across the face with his flacid penis.