Quick fanfic post for storage, might add more later.

TF2, Toy Soldiers


Before he first arrived at the fort, he had been in a federal prison.

For two years, he watched appeals fall through and observed the other death row detainees. As far as prisons went, he figured the Correctional Institute at Seagoville was unordinary, all white walls, grime and bars. Well, it was his first time in a prison, unless the little county police station he’d stayed in when he was a boy counted, having been caught during some midnight shenanigan. This place was not surprising to him, though, even if it was a departure from the gray stone caricature from some Saturday morning cartoon. Instead, it was much more regimented, with cameras and bell schedules, and plus the fleeting lawyer. The man gave him papers to sign, occasionally asked for statements, but otherwise he was left out of the appeals. Either way, he doubted his attorney was all that concerned about his fate. He got paid regardless of whether his client died.

It had been about two weeks since his last appeal concluded with a resounding no, and his execution date had actually been set. But he expected that. He was on death row, after all, and his state had a tendency to be a bit happy with the trigger, though firing squads weren’t the method he’d be facing. No, he was quite expecting to be hung, shortly.

So he was surprised to be called down to a holding cell once again, and came face to face with someone who was decidedly not his lawyer.

She was aged, with a pointed face and hair so thick with hairspray he could smell it from where he sat. It was laced with a streak or two of gray, and it only added to his impression that this woman was tired, pissed, and probably worked at some sort of call center (hence being tired and pissed).

“So, ah, to what do I owe this pleasure, ma’am—“
She cut him off, launching into the verbal lovechild of a monologue and a late night sales pitch, “I have come here on behalf of the Builders League United, also known as BLU, a company that manufactures buildings, plumbing, produces coal, gravel, lumber, petroleum and a manner of domestic and consumer products, and it employs over twenty thousand people in the continental United States, with thirty-five stations in the US, not including a radio station in Hawaii. Internationally, we have over a hundred facilities, with more being built every year as our company expands.”

“That’s… uh, very interesting,” he replied, blandly, and she pushed on.
She called him by his name, too, and she’ll be the last person to do that in a while.

“We’ve heavily researched your case and your background, and BLU is in need of someone with your talents with machinery. I’m approaching you with a job offer.”

Giving a rather uncouth snort, he leaned back in his seat, resting his bound hands at the table between them.
“Ma’am. I’m a prisoner in a federal prison. I’m goin’ to be hung in front of a bunch of hired witnesses by the end of the month. I really hate to decline your offer, but I’m downright sure that makes me unemployable.”

“Not in this case. You see, BLU has a special arrangement with this and other prisons like it,”

He couldn’t help but prick up when he heard her mutter that. It sounded illegal, to say the least, and he tended to pay attention when it came to underhanded bribes and the like.
It let you know who was really in charge.
However, she seemed to register this look, and explained further, “It is part of our Criminal Outreach and Rehabilitation Employment program. If you were to agree and sign this contract, you would enter into our company for ten years—“

“Ten years?!” he echoed, sharply, “And doing what, pavin’ roads?”

Whatever glower he thought she had been directing at him previously had apparently been her neutral expression. At once, she shot him a most withering glare, the lines in her face intensifying acutely. Almost balking, he clamped up, settling back further into his seat.

“I am going to ask you once. Do not interrupt me while I am talking.” She paused, there, her eyes boring holes into his skull, as if waiting for him to try and defy that mandate. When he didn’t, she continued, “Sir, the CORE program is one of distinct opportunity, especially for inmates in your position. If you join us, you will be taken off of death row. Upon completing your ten years of service, your jail time will be either expunged or heavily reduced.”

He found himself lifting up his hands, to awkwardly rest his chin on them. Ten years abruptly didn’t sound too bad. Even if his attorney had managed to save him from being executed, he would still have decades of jail time left to deal with. But with this BLU company, that was ten years plus no noose around his neck.

Anger (at least partially) subsided, the woman watched him with a waxing interest. Or rather, anticipation. But he still wasn’t sure. Rather doggone hopefully, but unsure.

“So, ah, what is the job you’re offering to me?”

“A military based one.”

Almost visibly recoiling, he protested, “Ma’am, I ain’t a soldier—“

“Nor does BLU expect you to be. Your job would be to do what you do best; build machines.”

“What kind of machines?”

Her answer was short, but she didn’t seem to be getting angry at him. Actually, she almost looked smug.
“Ours.”

To that, he did not reply, waiting quietly for her to elaborate. The silence in between was a bit heavy, but then she sighed and allowed herself to explain further.
“You would be tasked with making machines to improve your coworkers’ mobility, create on site devices that would provide ammo and medical aid. But most importantly, you would be expected to assemble stationary gun turrets in order to secure and defend locations. I am being intentionally vague, as you might have noticed, because our machines are heavily classified and half have not even had their patents written.”
His expression darkened. Stuff like this was what got him in this prison in the first place. Not to mention doing it as a profession with other… ‘coworkers’ did not seem like something he ever wanted to do with his life. But, even he had to admit, the job sounded better than outright dying.

It definitely changed a person’s perspective, having a planned death and all.

“May I ask how often anybody returns from their ten years?” he offered, quietly, and this time he definitely saw a smug triumph in her eyes.

“Believe me when I say this; casualties are an absolute rarity within our program, especially within your field.”

Not wanting to stare her in the face any longer, he stared down at the papers in front of him.
“I’d better get to signin’ that contract, then.”



Another bump and he could feel the whole train shift and check itself. The car he was in had no windows; apparently the location of this fort was to be kept secret, even to the men who were going to be taking up residence there. In front of him were papers, sheets of blueprints of the machines he would be expected to build. All the while, all he could do was stare down at them, half in a gape, before moving a bit to reposition one piece that had slid off his lap.

“You’ve gone quiet, Engineer.” Came the crackling voice from, the train’s radio system. He hadn’t actually seen the woman since she had gotten him from the prison (she never gave him her name, either), but her voice from then on was nearly ever present.

“I just… I don’t think I can build these, ma’am. These machines, like the teleporters, have only been /theories/ where I went to school. Well, not even theories--science fiction.”

“The computing and energy cores have already been pre-built, and will be provided to you for construction. What you have to worry about is building the machinery so it functions properly. Can you handle that?”

He gave a sigh and began to look over the blueprints again. Absent-mindedly, he reached up to scratch at the scalp under the helmet they had given him. It was a full uniform, kind of odd looking, with a blue shirt and navy overalls with all sorts of pockets. It also came with some standard safety wear, including eye protection, thick gloves, kneepads, and the bright yellow helmet.
What worried him, though, was that he had also been given a shotgun and a pistol along with the clothes.

“Yes, ma’am. I can build them.”

“Good, good.” She chimed back, “Now, you will be arriving at your destination in fifteen minutes. The time is currently 3:12.” With that, the radio gave another crackle as she ended communications.

Three in the morning, no wonder he was beginning to feel the late night blues.
There was something a bit… odd about these blueprints, though, something he did not want to mention to the woman.
They reminded him of his own building sketches, the way he would place them and the notes—only since these were corporate blueprints, any handwriting had since been replaced with print, and extraneous information would have been cleared. Trying to wave the thought from his head, he reminded himself that it was pretty narcissistic, also that he couldn’t have written these, since he hardly knew how their internal devices worked.

If he did know, he doubted he’d be on a windowless train to god knows where right now.



When the train slowed to a stop and the large metal doors screeched open, the Texan was greeted to the sight of a rocky desert landscape, the stones and sands colored blue by what still counted as night. But beyond that, the station he was pulling into was much more interesting. It looked like a rickety old place, almost like an imitation of a western saloon, or an old mining town. It was several stories high, with roofs and narrow beams that looked like they were regularly run across. There were many footprints on their dusty forms.

He folded up the blueprints he had been given, placing them in his blue toolbox, that held his wrench, pistol and shotgun—plus a detonator he had been told would be useful—and stepped off the train. It appeared that the train had already stopped up ahead, to unload supplies that the BLU ‘team’ needed. Come to think of it, he fell into that category as well, didn’t he?

Walking alongside for a while, he eventually came to the roofed station where there were a few cranes that were probably used for unloading. The deck of the station, however, was almost empty.
Almost.

He had been expecting maybe some attendants that would be there to unload the train, or maybe guards waiting to greet it. But instead, there was only one man, standing stiffly on the platform. Possibly waiting for him.

The stranger was also in, as far as he knew, a blue uniform, with a large helmet and a belted strap across his chest. With the boots, the long overshirt, the helmet… The man looked the part of a soldier, that was certain. And abruptly, he turned his head towards the approaching Texan and hailed him with what seemed like a brisk salute.

The Engineer did not know whether to return it or not, pausing while considering either.

Then the stranger opened his mouth, “DON’T JUST STAND THERE, PRIVATE, GET A MOVE ON!”

It was the sudden volume rather than the words that made him balk. No wonder this guy was a soldier, he certainly had the voice for it.
Rushing forward in obedience, he clamored up the stairs onto the platform and found himself face to face with the helmeted man who did not seem to lower his voice now that the Engineer was closer.

“ARE YOU GETTING COLD FEET ALREADY? YOU’RE A GROWN MAN ON A BATTLEFIELD NOW, YOU DON’T HAVE TIME TO HESITATE!” he bellowed, his face inches away, to the point that the Texan thought he felt a bit of spittle land on his face.

He was kind of stunned, really. He had never served in any armed forces, not even during the second Great War, since he had been in college studying all the while, so the manners and responses to such a situation were unknown to him.
“There’s a battle goin’ on now?” he managed to stammer out, unintentionally curling up, trying to make himself look smaller.

“STAND UP STRAIGHT,” came another shout, and the soldier drew away from him, arms crossed, “There is no battle going on at this o’ three hours. That that doesn’t mean you should let your guard down. You must always be vigilant, always be ready, for that is the nature of /war/.” He intermingled his statements with swings of his fists, pacing back and forth.

Vaguely aware that he was being sized up, Engineer stiffened his back and lifted his chin. He put his arms at his sides and generally tried to look as much of a soldier as he remembered them looking.

“Of course,” in some reprieve, the man’s volume was closer to a normal level, “you’re a new recruit, so I’m going to take the time and lay it out for you.”

He flung out his arm, gesturing at the area around him, “This is Dustbowl. Our purpose here is to capture points. Lately our miserable bunch of vagrants have been held down without gaining any ground and that. Is. Unacceptable!” He punctuated each of the last three words with more punching air. “That is where you come in, Engie,” suddenly the man’s voice was a whole lot more chipper, almost eerily so, “Your job is to place sentries at pivotal locations, and get our team into the thick of it ON THE DOUBLE! IF THEY’RE NOT BEING SHOT AT WHEN THEY STEP OFF YOUR TELEPORTER, THEN YOU ARE NOT DOING YOUR JOB!”

“Yes… sir!” Engineer answered, standing even straighter. Did they really expect him to be able to build things while people are shooting at him?

“You may call me SOLDIER, PRIVATE,” he boomed, smirking a little, “Though ‘sir’ is permissible.”

The Texan raised an eyebrow in response, “Soldier—ah, sir, aren’t we all soldiers?”

“HELL NO. If we were all Soldiers, NOTHING WOULD GET DONE. I’m the only Soldier on this team and DON’T YOU FORGET IT.”

“Jesus Christ, Solly. It’s three in the morning. Where the fuck do you get the energy to scream?” two other people had wandered onto the platform, a young lanky looking man wearing some gray-blue pajamas and a… person in what looked like a hazmat suit, only they were wearing a gas mask.

Soldier approached the two with a huff, puffing out his chest and raising his voice once more, “I have the energy because I eat REAL FOOD. Like MEAT and vegetables and RAW EGGS! I don’t rely on sissy sugar drinks to give me energy.”

“Hey, man, say what you want about me, but don’t knock the Bonk til’ ya tried it.”

“Well maybe if YOU tried eating something besides junk, you’d gain some weight and won’t go so far flying when you run into a Demoman!”
The kid he was talking to rolled his eyes and that seemed to agitate the man further.
“And if you’re so concerned about your beauty sleep, why don’t you get back to. Your. bunks?” He punctuated his sentence by prodding his finger against the boy’s forehead.

“Mm hurr hn prrk ump smmhnn,” the person in the gas masked replied, gesturing at a wide rip in their suit on its left side. Their voice was heavily distorted by the mask, or else they were just mumbling, but Engineer couldn’t understand them at all.

“Yeah, and its not like we /could/ sleep with yah yapping at the Engie replacement,” the young man shot back.

The Texan loosened his stance, staring back at the teenager with what sounded like a northern accent, “Waita minute. Replacement? What happened to the last Engineer?”

To his unease, the boy sneered, “He died.”

“—what?” Now he felt kinda queasy.

“Yeah, the guy went nutso and threw himself infronta the last train that came here. So the next one brought you.”

He blanched, and his jaw visibly dropped. Well, had the woman lied to him, then, that casualties were rare? But then again, did suicides count? Good god, what kind of place was—

His collective thoughts of horror were suddenly interrupted, however, as both the younger man and the masked figure burst out into laughter, one being hysterical guffaws and the other’s sort of muffled chuckles.

“Oh geez, calm down, Engie, I’m just screwing with yah. Oh man, that look on your face.” He continued laughing, giving the masked person a slap on the shoulder.

“Then what happened to the man?” he insisted, scowling deeply.

“He was transferred to another regiment.” Soldier answered, curtly, “And I think we’ve spent enough time lollygagging. DISMISSED.” He shouted, gave the group a loose salute, and stormed off past the group.

Engineer watching him go until a door swung shut behind him and he was left with only the view of the entrance of the base.
“So… is that our commandin’ officer?”

The young man crossed his arms, sneering, “Pfft. Solly? Fuck no, he’s a grunt just like the rest of us.”

“Then who’s in charge here?”

Out of nowhere a cool, calm voice gave an answer, “Right behind you.”

Turning around wildly, Engineer saw a man sitting at the edge of the platform, facing away from the group and inspecting the storage cars of the trains. He was… tall, slender, looking like he was all limbs. The pinstripes of his neat suit only emphasized that appearance. He could not see an inch of skin of the man, as he had some sort of mask over his head.

“Ah…” he gaped for a moment, before shifting that tight stance he had taken for Soldier, “Sir.”

“Non, not ‘sir’.” The man turned around, and his face was mostly covered, save for bands of exposed skin around his eyes and mouth, “Call me Spy. We all ‘ave our names ‘ere. Ze ‘ooligans behind you are ze Scout and ze Pyro.” This Spy’s voice was dipped with a French accent, but he understood him well enough. At the names, he glanced back at the two. The Scout gave him a dry wave and the Pyro imitated soon after.

“Now, it eez late. I am sure you are tired from ze train ride. Scout, if you would be so kind as to escort ze Engineer to ‘is room?”

“Yeah, whatever,” the young man shrugged, “C’mon new guy. Your room’s right next to mine.”

“Whnn, Hm nnd mmh pmmhn,” the ‘Pyro’ interjected, approaching the trainside.

“Ah, right. The patches for your suit.” Spy nodded, “Well, zey’re in zis shipment. But I zink we will be able to find zem faster if we unpack together, non?”

The Pyro gave a groan, but agreed. The two began to open the boxes of the train as Scout led the Texan off into the base, down dimly lit hallways filled with the sounds of snoring.

The Remote is the main setting of a multifandom roleplaying community.

The OOC community is here.


( Cut for FAQ )