How to Make Enemies and Be Generally Unsociable

by Okhlahoma Beat-Down

Falling Into the Ring of Fired

Author's Note:

Well, before we begin, lemme tell you; Yes, I intend for this to be kind of a 'pet project' for me. If it comes to it, it may end up being a 'Magnum Opus' for me. Anyway, side note,feel free to ask me if you want to use my Sniper loadout for your TF2 purposes! I'd be more than happy to feature your name somewhere, maybe in a blog post, or, uh...a, um...Author's Notes of a chapter, maybe...I dunno, God, this is going to get difficult for me.
Send me any questions about anything, comment any suggestions about this thing.
Alright?
Cool.
-Okhly

BLU team was making yet another push, their Heavy Weapons Specialist ploughing his weight into the trailer-sized bomb cart. I, meanwhile, was one of the few things between them and their target; the slide-away roof of the fuel barrel storage beneath the ground of the base. Even though I'd worked here as a Sniper for about two or three years, I was still unsure of any reason why the BLUs still came here: we'd lost a fair few times, and every single time, the fuel silo would be refilled with 'fuel'. Making it even weirder was that the 'fuel' was gravel. But, to consider its explosive capabilities when the bomb cart managed to hit them, it was still worth defending apparently.

I checked how many rounds I had as I peered over the small jersey barrier I was crouched behind. 13 bullets remaining for my Botkiller Rifle, I couldn't find any SMG rounds, and my Kukri, as ever, was still as sharp as I made it. I flicked a round for the rifle into my hand, cocked the worn bolt backwards, and pushed it into the chamber. Then, I pushed the bolt forwards again, and hefted the weapon over the barrier. I leaned into the scope before any of the approaching BLU team could identify the problem I might be able to cause to them today, and set my aim on the nearest Medic. I recognised him; he was the guy that had been talking to the Administrator over the intercom the morning before. He seemed to be rich, actually; no matter how rich you were, though, that Stahlhelm could never stop the crack of a rifle.

"Hold still." I whispered, cheek against my rifle. I waited for the right moment, as the cart passed our destroyed sentry nest, he stopped to tap Mitch's corpse. I knew Mitch. I'm still pissed he died at that moment, and all it took was a single rocket. So, I considered whatever I could do now to act as defence, and the smug Medic certainly did not look bulletproof. I emptied my lungs, aimed down the scope at the available head, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil slammed against my shoulder as the hammer ignited the gunpowder in the round. The round flew forward, tore its way through the air, and, as my luck dictated, ricocheted off the Medic's helmet, momentarily stunning him, but also telling the enemy I was there. This is where I'd always slip up in combat; under pressure, I couldn't hit anything. The Medic wasted no time in buggering my day up.

"Achtung!" he cried loudly, pulling out his syringe gun and drawing the attention of their Demoman, a Soldier, Heavy, and their Sniper. I knew the Sniper; he was one of the highest trained guys around, and I now had the displeasure of dealing with him. I moved from my crouch, and broke into a sprint as fast as I could, zigzagging to avoid the hail of Napalm-Acid syringes that the other Medic was known for, and flipped myself over the nearest barrier that I found by the stairs to the 'office' above the rails for the cart.

I was thankful that the materials making up Badwater were insanely reinforced; the opposing Sniper, a BLU going by the name of Rising, fired his own rifle at me, hitting the wall in front of me exactly where my head would have been, and not ricocheting back to blow my head into bloody pieces. Quite the opposite; the round pretty much disappeared from the planes of existence, leaving nothing but a cloud of red dust where it hit the rock. I didn't dare peek up again, because undoubtedly he was geared up for another shot. The enemy Heavy, Soldier, and Demoman were probably making a push towards my position, and if I lost my post, then they'd probably be able to set up a sentry gun nest or a teleporter, and then RED team, my team, would be dead.

Wait.

They already were.

Goddamnit.

I groaned, and began thinking of my options. I couldn't surrender, because their Heavy was wearing a Gibus, and likely didn't understand diplomacy. Their Soldier would probably swing at me with a Market Gardener, and the Demo could easily just belt a few pipes over the wall and kill me. So surrender was out the window. I could fall back, but then I'd lose my position and there'd be no chance of getting it back. Then they could push the bomb cart, and then open the hatch, and-

Wait a second.

The hatch.

If I stopped them opening it, then it'd be impossible to plant their bomb in it. But the only problem was that nobody on my team, me included, knows, or knew, how to get it open or shut it again. Hell, a better question is how the BLUs were able to open it every single bloody time. I could only assume they had somebody doing it for them. I frowned, wincing slightly as bullets pinged off the barrier behind me, yet not hitting. If they weren't hitting, that wasn't to say they wouldn't hit, so I began to look around my area as much as possible. To my left, the rails moved onto a small rail checkpoint, and on the other side of the tracks there was a small staircase where our Scout was incinerated.

We avenged him, sure, we took the Pyro out, which was sped up by my Jarate, but he did cost us our Medic, Spy, and Scout. "Bloody W+M1 guide tactic," I grumbled as I slipped around the corner. No mercenary liked the new or experienced mercs that decide to follow the 'suggested tactics' section of the guide issued to us all by our employers. It mostly had segments stating how we were meant to operate as our individual classes. Many who selected the job of Pyro were led to believe that running in a straight line whilst spraying fire everywhere was a valid tactic. That same book was also promptly used as toilet paper by me.

Just then, I noticed a glimpse of movement. Running towards a staircase we shouldn't have been accessing was a BLU Spy, wearing lime green equipment and with a smoking Charmer's Chapeau. He was looking at me as he slipped into the door, and it hit me. That must have been exactly how they kept opening the hatch. It was what was on the other side of the window we couldn't see inside for all those years. It was the control room for the entire facility. And there was a Spy sneaking inside.

"I don't think so, ya posh tosser," I muttered to myself, quickly making my way over to the staircase. I vaulted the metal railings as the bomb cart rounded the corner with almost their full team pushing it along. Just as I got to the doorway, a sniper round pinged off the handle, allowing my instincts to take over and fire back at Rising. In spite of my terrible aim, he actually took cover, allowing me the few seconds to flip them the bird and go into the control room, explosives slamming into the door behind me.

However, inside was a different story to the harsh weather outside; the small office was air-conditioned, with ceiling fans allowing a cooling breeze throughout the room. Around the place, there were a few filing cabinets labelled 'RED EMPLOYEES', 'BLU EMPLOYEES', 'CLASSIFIED', and 'HELEN', each looking less promising for me than the next. In the back of the room, however, there was a set of three windows with a desk of buttons in front of it. And, to my unpleasant discovery, an Ambassador and Knife placed near the side.

So the Spy was here. But I couldn't find him. Cautiously, not halting to look around the room, I put my Botkiller down next to one of the filing cabinets and pulled out my Bushwacka. Then, I began to scan the room.

Suddenly, there was a quiet 'beep' across the room, and a computer monitor lit itself up with a white glow. I looked at this, at the notification saying 'MESSAGE RECIEVED', and considered what I should do. I could read it, but then I'd get found out. I could read it and delete it, but then it'd probably go to the recycle bin and I'd be found out. Or, I could just print a copy to read later. So, I moved across the room, and right clicked it, highlighting 'print', then allowing it to be printed out. Slowly, the machine clanked into life, feeding a piece of paper into the slot. Yet, no matter how loud it was, and no matter what it was printing that I wasn't supposed to read, I was still somehow able to hear the sound of a decloak.

I span quickly, swiping with my Bushwacka in an attempt to catch the Spy off guard. Instead, he ducked, and smacked my hand with his elbow, causing me to let go of my knife. He followed this up by making a wild haymaker towards my head as he stood up, which encouraged me to block with my own elbow. He reversed this, wrapping his arm inside my arm and grabbing my jacket, before taking a strong swing at my face with his knuckles. Moving my head back, I took my leg and swept his feet from under him, knocking him down. He quickly took advantage, pulling me down as well and flipping me over onto my back. I slammed against the floor, stunning and disorienting me for a second or two. It was then I realised I was near my knife. I scrambled to grab the handle and, finally getting a grip of the hilt, I struggled back to my feet. However, just as I stood up, there was the click of a hammer going back on a gun. It was now pointed inbetween my eyes, and I had only one shot at the next part.

He, however, had 6 .50 calibre rounds in his Ambassador he retrieved from the desk.

So if I couldn't pull this off, it'd leave him with 5 .50 rounds.

"This is cheating." I said as he kept the aim steady between my eyes. He looked back in irritation.

"It isn't exactly cheating if they give you the resources to succeed." Spy shot back. (Not literally. - Okhly)

"It is if they lock the resources away so you're not meant to use them." I replied. This is where he made his mistake; his gaze drifted away to look out the window, where his team was shoving the bomb on the final stretch to the bomb-site. "Just break the glass. There's no point opening the doors if the bomb weighs enough to break the damn thing open anyway. And, as another point," I continued as he still remained looking out the window. "Never take your eyes off the enemy." His eyes went wide, and he turned back in time to realise I was pointing the Ambassador at him.

"How the hell did you do that?!" he sputtered. I prepared to pull the trigger after a witty one-liner, but his surprise was merely a ruse. He used his leg and swept my feet from beneath me, causing me to fall and fire a shot off in panic. It pinged off a filing cabinet, before ricocheting and slamming down the button to open the bomb hole. Then, while I was recovering from smacking my head on the wall, I realised what had happened too late. By the time I was getting up, a massive explosion shattered all the glass in the room, filling the dark office with smoke, heat, and pressure. I was quickly thrown off my feet, and back into the same place I put my rifle down. I felt the wall behind me smack me in the head and it all went dark.

---

I woke up about 7 hours later. It was dark, with the only light in the room flickering gently as the bulb's lifespan slowly bled out. I felt like I'd been dead for years; I stood up, cracking my back and jumping about slightly to loosen my arms and legs, and looked around the room to see what happened. Sure enough, glass shards were everywhere: The control panel, the filing cabinet tops, the BLU Spy I was fighting, all of it had glass on it. However, in spite of the fact it was about 10:00 PM at night, and that I was still wearing sunglasses at that time, I was able to spot the thing I was printing out. It had blown across the room in the blast shockwave, and it seemed relatively intact. I picked my gear up, slinging my Botkiller over my back, and moved over to the letter. Carefully, I grabbed the corner of it, unfolded it, and began to read.

To BLU Spy Number #889545, 'Ding', and RED Sniper Number #110899, 'Face',

It has recently come to the attention of your administrative groups that you two have been underperforming for the past 3 years. This 'test period' is where we identify those of you mercenaries that are worth keeping on the payroll, and the minimum number of successful enemy eliminations to remain on the payroll is at least 200. You two have barely succeeded in eliminating half of that number between you. That is why, after 'careful' consideration, we have decided to stop paying you, and have removed you from your respective company's employee register. This will be a barely noticeable loss, as we have already filled in your job positions with a dozen names willing to take your jobs.

And before you do attempt to file a lawsuit, please bear in mind that you:

A) Signed a contract

B) Have murdered other human beings, without prior government permissions, and

C) Are lucky we have not sent the gorgeous Miss Pauling to eliminate you both.

As a final word, any attempt to enter Reliable Excavation and Demolitions, or Builder's League United property is now a criminal offense, and if caught you may be driven to a nearby gravel pit and shot for trespassing.

It has been of no pleasure to have been paying you any of our funds,

- Helen, TF Industries Administration

I paused, and read it again. I was being fired? Because I hadn't killed enough men? What did she think I was, a crazed gunman? My job description clearly said that is EXACTLY what I would NOT be. And the fact that she'd also fired someone from the BLUs at the same time was even more suspicious. Had I been double-crossed? Maybe...I looked at the Spy's unconcious body, before tapping him in the side of the head with my red Tooth-Kickers. "Hey, asshole, get up." I sighed. He shifted uncomfortably, and I brushed the glass shards off his back, picked him up, and sat him against a filing cabinet. I was tempted to slap him, but then I realised that'd just be classified as assault now I'd been fired, and so had he. Slowly, but I'm pretty certain surely, he was getting up. His facial expression changed from confusion to shock as he realised I was in front of him. He jolted to move.

"No point." I said quickly, stopping him dead. "You're Ding, right?" His face went back to shock.

He began stuttering. "H-How did you know-?"

"Believe me, it's not the most positive way to find out your name." I muttered, before handing him the paper and helping him to his feet. "Read this. It was addressed to both of us." Cautiously, he took the sheet of information and began to read it, pacing around the room as he read. I didn't really care about his response, but I could tell he wasn't best pleased by the news. In the time he was reading that, I decided to go through all the filing cabinets. After all, it isn't corporate spying if you have no intent to sell information or you're not in a company, no? I decided to look in the most obvious choice of filing cabinet, which was the one labelled '[CLASSIFIED]'. I slipped it open, discarding the folder on the floor. On the top, there was a letter from Saxton Hale himself, addressed to the Administrator. I opened it carefully, lest I fall prey to one of Mann Co.'s signature 'Opened Letter-Activated Railgun' traps. It does exactly as it says on the tin. When my face wasn't instantly melted by a piece of Tungsten shot at massive speed, I calmed slightly and began looking at the contents.

Again, not corporate spying if I'm not in another company.

My dear cactus flower who likes steak dinners and sex with handsome men,

From what Bidwell and Mr Reddy have been able to gather from visiting your aforementioned locations, there is definitely some inter-dimensional shifting going on here. The crashed 'spaceship' as you called it definitely had no relation to the 'Grordbort' weapons that several Mercenaries have been finding out in the field, judging by the architecture and materials, and the fact it was on fire with purple fire. And the alien itself? We gathered all the information we could from its corpse AND THEN I ATE IT! Now no stinking Hippies will start ANY conspiracy theory as to what Mann Co. could possibly be doing out in a farm in the middle of nowhere.

Therefore, it's a win-win for both of us! Hahahaha!

- Saxton

I studied this. Something must have been seriously wrong, because the big muscular Australian man wasn't signing the letter with either his fist or the signature stamp we Mercenaries were so used to seeing. I lifted the letter slightly, to find three photographs. They were definitely taken by somebody with no prior experience of camerawork; The images were grainy, blurred, unfocussed, whatever word you wish to use, but I could make out some shapes as to what they were. Vaguely. The first image was of a farmhouse, with a tired old pick-up truck, dust trail leading up to it, wooden gateway and fence, plus some crop fields out back. There were two large grain silos with a large farmhouse and barn flanking either side of it. However, that's when I could barely make out a trail of damaged ground leading to the side of the barn, but that was really it. I flipped that picture beneath the letter, and checked the other two photos. Both showed scenic views of the aforementioned farmhouse, but each showed a different thing about it in more detail. Well, less actually, because the pictures may have been close-Ups, but the camerawork was so shoddy it was impossible to tell exactly what it was.

Just then, I heard Ding sigh behind me. "Well, you're certainly right about the 'not a positive way to find your name' thing." he finally said. I turned to him, letter and photos being folded up to fit in my pockets.

"Exactly." I replied. "And they didn't think to wait until the battle was over to E-mail that to us?"

"It seems not." There was a moment of silence between us as we looked each other over, BLU Spy and RED Sniper. I cast my eyes over all the filing cabinets, specifically the ones labelled '[CLASSIFIED]', and eventually temptation took over. I turned to Ding.

"Gimme a few minutes to go grab my backpack," I said, gesturing to the filing cabinets, "And I think I have an idea for how we can leave a lasting impression on our companies." As I went towards the door, Ding began following. "You're coming with me?" I asked, beginning to descend the iron staircase towards the moonlit concrete below.

"I'm getting my backpack as well." he replied, patting my shoulder. "Can't just let a friend go stealing corporate secrets on his own, now, can I?"

---

I flicked the light-switch on in my van. I'd dropped Ding off at a nearby roadside café, bid him farewell, and found a place to sleep on a hillside a few miles away from a place other Mercenaries called 'Thunder Mountain'. It was one o' clock in the morning, but I couldn't care less; my bloodstream, like most Snipers, pretty much consisted of coffee to keep me awake during difficult days, and that resulted in both my lack of blinking as often as other people, and me not going to sleep often and only doing so for a short time. I muttered quietly to myself about who I should sell my half of the TF Industries secrets to, pouring myself some coffee whilst crickets chirped gently outside. Finally letting the last few drops land in my 'Moderately OK Sniper' mug, I turned, sat at my table in my van, and looked out the window. Now I didn't have a job, what was I going to do? I mean, yeah, I could sell the secrets, maybe get a LOT for them, but then what's stopping the TF Industries guys from hunting me down and doing exactly what they mentioned on the letter? And what could an ex-murderer do for a job? I don't think that'd look good on my Job Application form; 'Ex-Mercenary, has killed about 120 men, can't aim very well, but makes some pretty damn good coffee'. That'd get me, what, arrested?

Just then, I noticed a blue flash in the woods outside my van. I put my coffee down, frowning at where the source might have been in the dark midst of the trees. "The hell...?" I murmured quietly, taking a final sip of my drink and grabbing the shotgun I kept under the sink. Then, carefully, I stepped out of the door of my van, moving as quietly as possible around the side, and then slipping into the treeline. I kept my weapon raised as I looked between trees, half expecting to find that 'Slenderman' thing people kept claiming they'd encountered. However, it was only when I made it about twenty metres into the woods that I called out. "Hello? Is somebody out there?" I half-shouted. "Speak out!" There was no response, my voice simply disappearing into the darkness and being absorbed by trees. I waited for about ten minutes after, calling out occasionally, before eventually I concluded there was nobody there. Sighing, and admitting to myself I'd wasted 15 minutes, I began to trudge back to my van.

Though, I couldn't help but feel as though somebody, or something, was watching me.

---

5:59 AM. Friday.

I was woken by the sound of somebody knocking on my van door. I assumed it was nothing, and rolled back over to sleep some more.

6:00 AM. Friday.

DEET, DEET, DEET, DEET, DEET, DEET, DEET

"Ugh, fuggin' alarm clocks..." I groaned, before picking the thing up and throwing it at the door. The small electrical appliance shattered into what might as well have been a million pieces because Mann Co. didn't understand the concept of 'less is better' when it came to technology. Hell, they made a car once with more moving parts than a nuclear reactor, and that was just the wheels. How they managed to fit that much Uranium into a few inches thick of plastic rims and rubber tyres is beyond me...

The knocking persisted. Finally, I rolled myself out of bed, picked myself up, and put my hat back on. Idly, I scratched my back as I moved towards the door, clickih my spine in the process, and just as I reached for the door handle I stopped. It was still dark outside, and dawn wasn't for another hour, plus I'd stolen some corporate secrets. Who'd be knocking? I thought back to everything that the E-mail said. It mentioned 'Miss Pauling', and I certainly knew who that was. A friend of mine was taken out by her; she literally just walked into his flat with a .44 revolver and blew a non-metaphorical hole into his chest. All that I really knew about what she looked like was that she wore purple, a cross of red and blue, a symbol of neutrality. But she also killed insubordinate mercenaries, so not entirely neutral, then. So, if it was her at my door, then I'd have to be prepared. Quickly, I grabbed my beloved Botkiller, kept it level with where the head would be when I opened the door, and counted to three. Then, at the count of three, I kicked the door open, and kept my rifle ready.

To my pleasant surprise, it wasn't the purple minx I had been expecting. Instead, stood at my door was possibly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She had a gorgeous facial complexion, flowing blue hair that seemed like it was blowing in a breeze I couldn't feel. She had a decent tan, a perfect waist, and fantastic breasts, and definitely didn't seem like one of those roaming prostitutes I heard about at the fuel station. In fact, judging by the black and blue dress she was wearing I could make the assumption she was of a much higher class, royalty even. There was only one thing 'off' about her, and that was her irises. They were perfect teal, with thin black lines through them as though she were a predator or creature of some kind. I ignored it. Maybe...a birth defect. Birthmark. Immediately, I lowered my weapon. "G'day." I greeted, tipping my hat slightly.

"Good day to you as well, Mr Face." she responded in a silky voice. "My name is Nancy Michaels, I'm here to offer you a job." I was surprised.

"Uh, sure, come on in." I said cautiously, inviting her into my home on wheels. She smiled, and stepped inside, seating herself at the table. "If I may ask, how'd you know I've lost my job and where I was?" She didn't drop her facial expression.

"Well," she began, rolling her eyes slightly as she started to explain, and placing her purse on the table. "I met a fellow at a service station last night whilst I was having a drink there, and he sat in front of me, we started talking, he was a nice guy, actually. Strange dress sense, though; ski-mask, green-accented jacket, green-rimmed chapeau, green spats, rather posh."

"You met Ding?" I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee. I pointed briefly to the pot. "You, ah, want any?" She waved a hand dismissively.

"No, no, I'm fine." she replied. "Anyway, yes, he seemed to know you. He explained he had lost his job, and I offered him the same one I'll offer you. Anyway, he was also kind enough to point me in the direction you were going, which was up the road. And considering how late it was, I assumed you would have headed up here."

"So...you must have been here before?" I said. I might be able to bring up the light that I saw last night.

"Yes, a few times. I used to come up here as a teenager and, ah...you know..." she trailed off. She began blushing.

"Oh. So you've been up here and assassinated people?" I asked. Yeah, I get what she means, best not sound like a creep, I need this job. She looked at me in the 'are you serious' way, and rolled her eyes.

"Ah, no, I just kept myself 'amused'. Anyway, enough of that. So like I was saying before, I spoke with 'Ding' and he said he would gladly take the job, and pointed me to you. So I waited until morning, drove up here, and almost found out just how dangerous it is to wake up a sleeping Mercenary." she giggled.

"Yup." I replied calmly. "So what was this job offer?" She looked me in the eyes, and I felt genuinely unnerved.

"This job involves..." she searched for the right words. "...travel, shall we say. To a far, far place, fraught with danger. I've been to other places and employed people, so you'll be with people you're just like." I was tempted to ask if we were visiting Glasgow, or Dundee, but something about those eyes was keeping me in place. I was almost too creeped out to move. And just when I was about to get myself another cup of coffee, she placed her hands on my left hand, and I found myself unable to leave the table. "Listen, if you want this job, you'll need to be aware that you might not return." Nancy finished, removing her hands and looking away at the clock. I made a 'pfft' sound.

"Nancy, you're telling Face McShooty II that he might not return from doing a job." I said calmly. "Seriously, I've been thinking that same thing every single day for the past three years plus. I've worked as dangerous pest control and fought Tigers, Bears, and all kinds of dangerous creatures with just my Bushwacka, and maybe a gun. It's where I got the teeth in this hat from. I've fought a mechanical menace so dangerous they managed to blitz through most military defences in a matter of hours, and came out on top with a few others. It's where I got the robot head on my rifle from. I've worked as a Mercenary for three years, defending the same place, every day, and somehow survived every single battle by being tactically ineffective. It's where I got the idea that I've really served no purpose in my life from. And yet, you seem to think it's a necessity to tell this guy that he might not come back? Seriously, Nancy, I'm kind of a John Doe. I'll do anything as long as it pays." The woman in front of me smiled.

"So, I'll take that as a yes?" she asked. I nodded, tipping my hat slightly in the process.

"Certainly. Do I need to sign a contract?" I replied. In reply, she reached into her purse and pulled out a single slip of paper. She put it in front of me, and handed me a quill. "A quill? Must be a pretty important deal." I whistled, picking up the feather. She smiled warmly.

"Yes, quite." Nancy replied, before leaning over and carefully pointing to everywhere I needed to sign. By her direction, I signed where I needed to, and then gave her the quill and slid the paper over to her. She checked it over, pulling out some reading glasses, and finally smiled in approval. Folding the paper up, she looked at me again. "Thank you, Mr. Face. I look forward to watching you work in Equestria." I thought for a moment whilst Nancy stood up and went to my side of the table.

"Equestria?" I asked. "Is that in Glasgo-mmmph?!" The sudden intrusion of her lips against mine stunned me into silence, but the thing that normally would have encouraged a panicked stabbing instead resulted in my sudden feelings of obedience to this woman. I was even managing to find a way of enjoying it, resisting any temptations to move my hands 'down south', if you understand what I'm saying. I'd already scored with her, and I'd only been talking with her for five minutes! Woohoo! Finally, she pulled herself away, and stood up to her full height. She was definitely a LOT taller than I remembered.

And also was now a black unicorn with armour plating and a misty mane that was blue. "The deal has been set, then." she said almost triumphantly. "Welcome to your new life, Mr. Face. My name is Nightmare Moon." My van began to dematerialise around me, with everything simply disappearing and leaving me and this strange mare in a white void. Faintly, slowly, I began to notice the void burning out like a cinema reel, revealing bright cartoonishly coloured greens and blues and all other colours that definitely were NOT a usual colour palette for Earth landscapes. I looked around in a panic, reaching to my back for a rifle or knife or whatever I could, desperate to feel some degree of comfort in this frantic time. Finally, after about twenty seconds, I was able to see my surroundings.

Floating in the sky a few miles away, there was a large cloud, covered in rainbows and what looked like buildings shaped of the condensed water vapour. Even more noticeable was a large set of mountains forming a cluster around the huge, colourful land, and the fact one of them had what seemed to be a small city built into it only made it weirder. Had I travelled in time? To another universe? Was I piss-drunk? Still sleeping? I was gonna make the bloody most of it. It was only then I realised I was hovering about 50ft above the ground. "Have fun, until I call upon you." 'Nightmare' smiled devilishly. I will admit, in spite of the fact that she was a talking horse, I still found her slightly attractive. (Is that weird? - Okhly)

I was just about to question what she was talking about, when I suddenly dropped sharply towards the ground. I attempted to grab something, anything, that might stop me from hitting the ground, when I looked down. Below me, fast approaching, was a small stream set in a town, with a few residents barely visible in the dark light. Knowing my luck it'd probably be a few inches deep, but I was going to have to try landing in it. Angling myself, carefully, I aimed for the water, remembering what I learned from the flight and aviation books I had stolen from dead BLU Soldiers I had no hand in killing. Angle, aim, arms out, like a bird...what else...?

Oh yeah, landi-

SPLASH

Ugh, 'welcome' to Equestria, my ass. Nobody freefalls this far into a lake unless they're part of a UGC Highlander Spec Ops team...

Psh, like I had the skill for THAT.

Comments

[KelGrym]

AAAH!

I didn't even read it. Sorry mate, but you need to format your story. That wall of text equals an instant turn down for me and lot of other readers.

[Okhlahoma Beat-Down]

4215020 Well, apologies, but I write most of my stuff on a Nokia Lumia 710. It's pretty much impossible to judge paragraph length with it, so I do end up writing a fair bit in between speech. I think I fixed it, however, but just point out how many lines, sentences, or fancy words a paragraph needs to be, since it's gonna be pretty difficult to count myself without going through the time-consuming process of waiting for just over a week to write some of this on a computer.

[grayhound]

Grammar isn't something i care about as long as the story is good.
but since this is a tf2 fic. I'll fave it.

Also no offense. but If It's not a huntsman than screw that noise.

[Chad]

I see nothing wrong with this. Great grammar, everything is put together nicely, lots of description of the surroundings, WHY DOESN'T THIS HAVE MORE LIKES THAN MY SHITTY STORIES!?!?!?!?

I write about 2,000 words per chapter in my RED Soldier fic, and I got 100+ likes! I barely even put that much detail in! You sir, are a great writer/story teller! KEEP UP THE GREAT FCKING WORK!!!!!!!!

I love you!