A/N: A brief disclaimer that may be unnecessary but I can't help myself. When I wrote Autobalance, it was waaaaay back before they'd come out with any of the comics, and the newest video was Meet the Spy. So, when I started, I was working off of basically what you have out of the game. There is so much more to the Team Fortress story now, though, and there's no possible way I could try and make my story fit into the canon storyline. This is such an AU, now that there is actual (glorious, lovely, oh my gosh it makes me grin) canon.

So, basically: While this story may occasionally reference things from the comics, and will try to stay as true to the spirit of the TF2 universe as is possible, I'm trying to draw from game experiences as much (or more) than the comics. So. Yes. Just, y'know, bear that in mind, I guess?

(That really wasn't brief at all, was it?)

Anyway. I hope you guys enjoy! :)

Three Days Ago - Location: Two Fort

The RED Demoman tripped over what was left of his friend, the Soldier, and fell backwards down the long, long flight of stairs. He was, as usual, as drunk as a... thing that was very very drunk, and this, undoubtedly, saved his life. Because, when the Scottish cyclops landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, it was with bumps and bruises, but no broken neck.

But there was no time to be grateful for small favors. Somewhere above him was the BLU Heavy. The Demoman could hear the slow, purposeful tramp of his boots. He squinted blearily up the straight stair with his one good eye, and saw the silhouette of the Russian giant, dark against the remaining daylight. The minigun, black and gold and menacing, started to growl.

Hands grabbed him, and hauled him around the corner and to his feet. When he flailed, in a blind panic, the Scout's voice grated on his ears. The Demoman had never been happier to hear the obnoxious young man in his life. "Hey! Hey! Watch it, Cyclops, its just me! Jeez, you look like crap."

The Demoman grabbed the runner by the shoulders, solitary eye wide and perhaps a tad deranged. "Yeu're.. alive? Aie thought... everyone was dead." He swayed. "They're all... dead..."

The Scout gave him a worried grin. "'Course I'm alive, moron. I'm me." The younger man eased his staggering teammate's arm over his shoulders. "C'mon, we gotta get-"

From the stairs, the BLU Heavy's voice boomed out, in an ominous sing song. "We are coming for you, little man."

"-going," the Scout finished, in a mutter. With his help, the Demoman broke into a staggering run. The rest of the base was silent, except for the soft whirr-beep of the computer banks lining the walls. The Demo wasn't even really sure what they were there for, except to make ambient noise.

"They jus' keep comin'," he moaned. "Just... keep comin'."

"Aw, jeez," the Scout panted. "Don't melt down on me now, ya frickin' drunk lunatic."

But the Demoman had already been well past melt-y when the Scout found him, and felt there was no good reason to blunder his way back to sanity now. "No where tae go, anyway," he moaned. "Y' cannae run from the dead."

The Scout rolled his eyes, and steered his raving teammate down the hall, towards the Intel room. "Oh, my god. You've gotta be kidding me. Yeah, okay, we're kinda screwed and everybody's dead and everything, but... c'mon! Stop bein' such a wuss!"

The Demo made a half hearted attempt at pulling himself together. The Scout was right. Everyone was dead, and they were completely and utterly doomed, and it didn't matter how much they fought they were going to die... but, they weren't dead yet.

"Right, right." He pushed off to stagger on his own two feet, and fumbled with the security code on the door. "We're jus' fine. Peachy, even. We'll jus' defend th' bloody Intelligence 'til reinforcements arrive, an' then we'll go home... for... cake..."

He trailed off. Because, as he was speaking, the Demo had unlocked the door and pushed it open. Or, rather, tried to. It had gotten caught on something. Something stiff, and solid, and bloody, that lay sprawled across the floor, just inside the door.

There was just enough left of it to be recognizable as the RED Scout.

The icy, ruthless grip of reality sunk in, more effectively banishing the work of several bottles of the strongest whiskey the Demo had been able to find than a whole barrelful of espresso. He looked over into the grinning face of the false Scout.

"Whoops!" it said, cheerfully. And beamed at him, as he brought up his grenade launcher and blew it to bits.

Sobbing in terror as bits of the phantom rained down around him, the Demoman shoved his way into the Intelligence room and slammed the door behind him. With shaking hands, he coated the doorframe with sticky bombs, and backed up until bumped into the desk, where he sank into a trembling heap. The sticky bomb launcher was cradled to his chest. He just had to hold out. He just had to hold out. Just had to hold out.

The voice, when it came back, was muffled by the door. "Aw, c'mon, cyclops! Why'd you go 'n' kill me? I thought we were friends."

"Go away!" he howled.

It became the Soldier's voice, gruff and admonishing. "What kind of man are you, maggot! Letting your whole team die like that? You're a disgrace to the uniform! Just like you pansy, skirt wearing Scotsman! Go hide in a hole with your bottle of whine, while real men stand and fight!"

The Demo clapped his hands over his ears, and begged the voices to stop. Just have to hold out, just have to hold out, just have to hold out, just have to...