Fun Fantasy: A BattleNations Short Story
Lt. Morgan, Ramsey, Private Perkins, and some friends from Team Fortress 2 have, well, a rather usual day in this BattleNations x Team Fortress 2 short story.
I offered to write my brother a short story on the BattleNations x Team Fortress 2 collab. The game just rebooted, and he loves it. Enjoy :)
The sun rose over the Outpost. Or, Lt. Morgan figured it did. It seemed to be perpetually daytime. Honestly, better if it was; more time to solve all these pesky issues that kept cropping up. He smiled, and breathed in.
It smelled perpetually of oil, burnt coffee, and questionable Imperial decisions.
Shrugging, he set off, walking between buildings cobbled together from metal, wood, and an oddly high number of fake trees—orders from the Emperor himself, allegedly to "prevent rebellion." As if rebels cared about the authenticity of foliage.
"Morgan!" Sgt. Ramsey shouted, startling him from his musings. "The raiders are coming in hot. Where’s the Soldier?"
"How should I know? You haven’t been able to find him?" Morgan sighed. "Grab Zoey and let’s handle this."
"Zoey’s busy…uh, 'motivating' Dr. Floyd to stop making radioactive sandwiches," Ramsey shrugged apologetically.
He groaned. “So ‘be ready in the morning for the raiders’, and ‘Zoey leave Dr. Floyd until the weekend’ were what? Suggestions?” His voice rose as tall as his face.
Ramsey, wisely, remained silent.
“I still outrank almost everyone here, right?"
“Yes sir!” Ramsey said, offering nothing further.
He sighed. “Let’s go. We’ll deal with them ourselves.”
Meanwhile, Private Perkins stood anxiously at the warehouse entrance. "Rats? Really? I joined the Imperial Army for this?" He held up a tiny stick, his weapon of choice. "Where’s Mr. Purrface?"
"Missing," a fellow soldier replied, eyeing Perkins' twig skeptically. "And if you think that'll work—"
"It’s a stick of intimidation!" Perkins insisted.
A particularly large rat leapt from behind a box and snatched the stick from his hand, then began happily to munch on it.
The soldier coughed, the clean-except-for-rats warehouse abruptly agitating his nose.
Perkins frowned. “Oh, bother that cat. Where’s he gone off to anyways?”
They searched everywhere for the cat, but he was nowhere to be found. What they were finding, in growing and unfortunate abundance, were rats. They all appeared to be heading back to the warehouse, too.
Rats! Or, no, but yes, gah! He slapped his forehead. He’d left the door wide open while they searched.
He came back and could see the other soldier watching with wide, Lt.-Morgan-will-be-upset eyes, as innumerable rats feasted within the warehouse. It would now nearly do less harm to shoot the whole place up.
But then he’d be in charge of repairs…
Then, from somewhere close and distant, came the sound of The Lovin Spoonful’s ‘Do You Believe In Magic’.
Across the battlefield, Morgan ducked behind cover, groaning. Raiders, led by the boar-riding menace Tronk, had the upper hand.
"You’ll pay for making my boars impotent!" Tronk roared.
"Pretty sure we can't take credit for that," Morgan muttered, returning fire ineffectually. "Ramsey, any ideas?"
"Survive, sir!"
Morgan blinked. “I can’t say that’s not an idea, but what I meant was—”
“THIS IS MY WORLD!” A blast rocked the small canyon and half a dozen raiders lost control of their mounts. “YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN MY WORLD!”
Morgan squinted upwards. "Is that..."
Descending out of the heavens like a malformed ballistic missile, the Soldier crashed into the midst of the battlefield and pointed his launcher everywhere except directly at the enemy; the strategy was oddly effective anyway.
Morgan sighed in relief. "Idiotic, wasteful, and perfectly timed. Let’s mop up."
Perkins and his friend first caught the glint of the desert sun off the black optical mask of a lone figure in a red fire-retardant suit. Flame spat sporadically out of the dark muzzle of the flamethrower, and a suspiciously stained axe hung from a belt.
The figure skipped jauntily along the dusty path, accompanied by that song, humming.
Perkins stepped back and motioned for the other soldier to do the same.
The rats continued to munch on sticks and food stores.
Returning triumphantly, Morgan’s squad found the Outpost suspiciously quiet. Perkins sprinted past, flames trailing off his uniform. "It’s under control!" he shrieked.
The Pyro waved cheerfully.
Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Define 'under control,' Perkins."
Perkins paused, gasping, smoldering, considering. "Fewer rats, sir."
Morgan sighed dramatically. "Great. And I suppose the smoke rising from the warehouse is…?"
“Not caused by rats!” The distant, cheerful voice of Zoey rang out, and she zig-zagged frantically around the buildings carting off a giant piece of sandwich, which billowed dark fumes.
Dr. Floyd held a clipboard, studiously noting the exact speed at which the remainder of the sandwich melted through the warehouse door.
Morgan closed his eyes wearily. "I hate you all."
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Why am I the first person to like this, and not Matt? 🧐