THE END OF TF2: part 5, in which Righteous Indignation is Done.

On the final night...

It was dark. The lights were going out all over Dustbowl. Most of the trains, filled with laughing, shouting passengers and the popping of champagne corks, had left the dusty station, but one final carriage (presided over by a stoic Engineer) waited for stragglers, and for the Men of God.

Who are the Men of God, you ask?

Well, right now, two or three of them are ankle deep in sewage.

Humming a terrible, malicious little tune, one Demoman fired three rounds of stickybombs at the mouth of the tunnel. Punctuating each beat of the song ("Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory") with a bomb launch, he wandered up the tunnel, before leaving three final sticky grenades at the other end of the pipe. Still the terrible little humming continued, echoing up the sewer's length as he threw a handful of grenades back at the tunnel. He emerged above ground level and wandered over to the other Demoman- a BLU- who was packing dynamite lovingly around the base of a key structural support pillar, as though tucking in a sleeping child. God knows how he did it, the night being dark and the- ahem- ocular disadvantage being in play, but perhaps he was motivated by something higher. The RED patted him on the shoulder, and together they began to move to a pre-arranged spot some way out in the desert.

Eventually, from all over the base, Demomen emerged- some brushing soot from their face, some beating dust from their sleeves, all looking strangely depleted in the armory department. They gathered in a spot some- in fact, many miles- from either base, and about halfway between both. No words were exchanged, for they were Scottish, and reveled in meaningless Celtic stoicism. They seemed all to be waiting for something.

At last they found it- a RED Demoman, barely more than a dark smudge against the sand, approached the pre-arranged spot. Was it the moon which cast that grey and ominous shadow behind him, or was it grim fate that mired him so inextricably to- no, in fact it was neither. The black shadow connecting him to the base was a piece of string.

Hmmm.

The RED Demoman approached his compatriots and nodded gruffly; a sign that some vital work was completed. Finding a Y-shaped twig, he stuck it fork-side up in the sand and delicately- ever so delicately- he placed the end of the black string on the very crux of the fork.

A pause.

The crowd of waiting Demomen parted- revealing the plump, round form of a Pyro ("honorary" Demoman summa cum laude.)

The Red Demo nodded.

Delicately- oh so delicately- the click of a tiny button on the side of the Backburner brought to life the tiny blue fragile flicker of the pilot light. Cautiously- as though frightened of scaring it away- the Pyro eased forward, and delicately-

O-h-s-o-d-e-l-i-c-a-t-e-l-y- he swung the flame over to touch the tip of the string.

Gradually, it smoldered, and caught- flashing fire to the darkness, before it settled to a steady, travelling smolder.

Travelling? Why yes, it was travelling along the black string back to the base.

They watched it go, the steady hiss of the fuse and the chirp of the crickets the only sound abroad. When the sliver of flame hit doorway the Demomen- as one- raised their remotes on high, in a strange salute. (The Pyro didn't have a remote, so he raised a fist- that seemed to work.)

And when the flame disappeared- they pressed the buttons.

The noise was something beyond deafening. It was like someone dropping a tectonic plate, and the resulting shatter was creating continents. God was playing dice with the universe and, as gods are wont to do, he was rolling twenties. A fireball arced one hundred feet into the sky, taking with it bits and pieces of the RED and BLU base, and leaving behind smoldering support beams that burnt merrily, with a devil's abandon.

A whoosh of dust and sand travelled horizontally for at least ten miles around, causing the Men of God, even here, to shade unprotected eyes quickly and fearfully. Apart from one, that is. The Pyro was staring into the flames with a vigor approaching that of first love.

It would seem that their plan was a success.

They congratulated each other, sharing hearty slaps on the back, unintelligible words and swigs of the specially-brewed "Firecracker" celebratory poteen. As a man, they turned, laughing, to the train station, where luggage and the long ride home awaited them.

Apart from the Pyro. Who couldn't have moved, even if he had wanted to. Because tears- large and unashamed- filled the glass panels of his gasmask. Why, you ask?

Because someone-

somewhere-

had finally found a use for the Afterburner.

Would you believe the whole five-chapter arc was building to a really pathetic "Afterburner" snap?
...No?
I thought not. Still, as my ol' granny always said, there's only one way to end any really good story- with EXPLOSIONS. That's five of five, people (though I might do an alternate ending if my computer stops being such a charmingly incompetant bitch.)
All critiscism appreciated.