A/N: Here's one for you: What do you get when you cross an insomniac, a terrible story idea and a deadline?
This chapter. Merry Christmas, everybody!

"Guys! It's snowin', it's snowin'! Oh my fucking God, it's snowin' like a motherfucker!"

The Scout was cheerfully running around the battlefield, now covered with a thick blanket of snow. It crunched beneath his sneakers and slid into the Bostonian's socks, but he didn't seem to mind it. More snowflakes fell atop the boy's head, upon the boy's Troublemaker's Tossle Cap. He ran in circles, laughing like a small child he was. The rest of the team stared into the sky in awe. There has never been snow in Gold Rush. Was it all a dream? Was it a glitch?

"Well Ah'll be…" the Engineer said in a daze, looking at the sentry spinning around near him. It was covered in white, icy powder. He just hoped that it wouldn't malfunction.

"It's snowin'! Guys, it's snowin'!" The Scout exclaimed. He then stuck his tongue out to taste a few of the falling miracles. "Lhook, guysh!" He said, his tongue still sticking out. "It'sh fhucking shnow!"

"Snow in December," the Sniper muttered, shaking his head. "Now Oi've seen everything."

"When did it start to snow?" Asked the Medic.

"Soon after my story," said the Heavy. The rest of the team narrowed their eyes at the large Russian. He shrugged.

"Nobody ask. I don't tell."

At that moment, the Spy walked out onto the field. The Sniper couldn't help but notice that the Frenchman was wearing a pair of old, wrinkled boots. He gave out a half-smile, but the sly assassin wouldn't even look at him.

"This may affect zhe outcome of zhe battle, non?" asked the Spy.

"Well now what?" The tinkerer pondered, unaware of the Bostonian, who was menacingly rolling a clump of snow between his palms. The Spy turned to him.

"This ees 'ow I see it," he began; "We are not used to fighting on this map in these conditions, so I suggest zhat we contact zhe Administrator, and-."

The Spy's face was taken over by a shocked expression as a ball of dusty ice flew into the back of his neck. He scraped off the snow with disgust and looked over his shoulder. The Scout stood behind him, sneering.

"Yo, knucklehead! Duck!" With that jeer, the young man continued to run wildly to and fro, still laughing. The team looked at the Spy, staring at the snow on his gloved hand. They half expected him to fall into a monstrous rage and stomp back into the base. Instead, he did something rather odd. He smiled.

"Zhat boy ees so dead," he said just before he cloaked. His colleagues had a good idea about what was going to ensue.

"SNOW GRENADES!"

In a blink of an eye, the Soldier and the Demoman were having a snowball fight of their own; using their standard weapons and new, dissolvable projectiles, they turned a simple snowball fight into something resembling full-on warfare. Their colleagues laughed as the Scot fired his grenades into the projectiles coming from the Soldier's rocket launcher, cheered as the Soldier attempted to jump over the incoming projectiles by making an impressive rocket jump, and hissed in sympathetic pain as the American launched himself right into a building and fell on a snowy hill.

"I do not think zhat zhe spine should bend like zhat," the Medic pointed out.

"Well, fellas," the Texan turned to them; "Ah'm gonna call the Admin to figure out what to do next. Until then…" He gestured to the snowy battlefield, where four mercenaries were already having a battle of their own. "Go nuts!"

It didn't take much convincing, as the Heavy rushed to aid the Soldier with haste. The Medic ran behind him, and even the Sniper followed, clumsily making a snowball that resembled a duck more than anything else.

"Snow on Christmas… God Oi hoite this hemisphere."

The Medic suddenly stopped and looked over to the mumbling abomination, shying away from the snow. It seemed frightened by the mere sight of the delicate snowflakes, falling on its protective suit. The German walked up to the firebug.

"Herr… Frau…" He coughed. "Pyro, I… I haff listened to your story. I know how much you hate zhe snow."

The Pyro nodded.

"But, uhm… ve vould hate you to be left out…"

"Hmm hmm't knhmmw…" the Pyro replied, stepping a bit further back. The Medic sighed.

"Suit yourself…" The doctor's eyes suddenly widened as he realized that the frightened firebug was holding its vicious-looking flamethrower. Normally, the Medic shuddered upon the sight of it, but this time, it presented a solution, a compromise.

"You know…" the Medic swayed and looked up to the dark sky. He tried to explain something to the Pyro in a matter he would explain something to a small child, if he actually bothered talking to one.

"You know, the curious thing about zhe snow is zhat… it melts." He looked at the firebug. "It's here one minute, gone zhe next. And you know how it melts?"

The doctor pointed at the large weapon it the Pyro's arms. The firebug cooed in confusion and interest.

"With heat."

"Hmmt?"

"Yes, Pyro. Heat. You know what gives out heat?"

The Pyro stared at the doctor for a brief second before looking at his flamethrower.

"Fhrrm?"

"Ja, Pyro!" The doctor said as the Pyro finally grasped the point. "Fire."

The firebug shrugged and slowly walked up to the sentry, covered in vicious snow. The Pyro closed turned its masked head away as its finger moved across the trigger. The Medic crossed his arms and tapped his foot. He was anxious to get into the action. Just now, the Spy managed to throw yet another snowball at the confused Scout. The Medic desperately wanted to see the Bostonian cry. He huffed at the Pyro, who finally tightened its grip around the trigger.

Instantaneously, the how, friendly flames whooshed through and made the bad, horrible snow go away. All that was left was some water, pooling on the sentry.

"Hmmph!" The Pyro exclaimed with an air of triumph. He raised its flamethrower over its head. It ran off, screaming and burning the piles of snow, much to the disappointment of the Scout.

"Hey, quit dat shit!" He shouted just before he was pelted with six snowballs at once and fell to the ground. The Medic chuckled at the sight. He didn't even notice the small claws digging into his coat as a small bird landed on his shoulder. He turned to it in puzzlement.

"Hello?" He said, more as a bewildered statement.

And there, on his shoulder, rested a bird. It was a rather small creature, plump as a dumpling. It pecked its long, white wing with its pinkish beak. It did look a lot like Archimedes, but slightly smaller, whiter. The Medic looked at the bird for a brief second before gently rubbing the feathers under its neck. It cooed softly.

"Velcome home, Hyppolita."

While the Medic was getting acquainted with Archimedes' new mate, the other mercenaries were still enjoying their long, rather violent snowball fight. Another snowball flew for the Scout, and hit him right in the eye. He twisted in place and landed on his face.

"Ow!" He rubbed his frozen, snow covered cheek hastily, trying to get some feeling back into it. "Yeah, real nice ya French bastahd! Now come on out hiyah so I can-!"

His raised fist remained still in mid-air, as his eyes widened at the sight of three snowballs flying towards him. The Soldier was holding up his rocket launcher, a wide, self-righteous grin across his half-covered face. The projectiles hit the ground inches away from the Scout, making him fly through the air and straight into a building. More specifically, the reinforced steel frame of one of the windows. The Bostonian could hear the sticky blood peel off his forehead as he fell down into the snow.

"Hmmph?" The Pyro stopped setting everything on fire for a moment and looked at the Bostonian's stiff body. "Hmm thmmk Shmmt hmms dhhmd…"

The Bostonian raised his face up and revealed the now even wider gap in his teeth. One of his teeth was lying beside him, covered in blood that dripped on it, poured down the boy's chin. He wasn't dead yet, though the Bostonian wished that he could be.

He spat out some red saliva and looked around the base, snow bombs still firing in the distance and blowing a burly American off a rickety ledge.

"Mwedic!" Scout cried, covering his mouth with his palm. "Mwedic, doc, cawm own, mawn!"

As Hyppolita flew off the doctor's index finger, Heimlich released a loud sigh. If the Bostonian was requesting him after two minutes, even more casualties were on their way. The older doctor stomped through the snow, hurrying to grab his Medi Gun. He didn't even notice the Sniper, falling beneath his feet after he had been struck with a rather heavy, frozen object. The German huffed, stepping over his face.

Mundy narrowed his eyes at the figure that appeared before him; a suited mirage, tossing a snowball in the palm of his gloved hand. The pompous expression on his face was unbearable. The Australian let out a puff of steam from his nostrils, prepared for his fate.

"'Ow did you get so good at this, Spook?" He asked, regretting the fact that during his childhood in Australia, he had been unable to make a decent snowball even once. Using it as a projectile was out of the question. The Spy, however, did not experience the climate-related issue.

"I learned from zhe best," he said, stopping the snowball in his grip and raising his hand up over his head.

"Now, bushman," he started; "Zhis little move ees called 'La sœur sphère du désespoir'.

Thirty broken bones, seven gallons of blood, six French names for epic snowball maneuvers, three broken noses, one snowman, one large combustion that surrounded the base, one successful extinguishing mission and nine cups of hot chocolate later, the team was back in the base.

The Scout ran his tongue over his newly-grown front tooth as the Medic handed him a cup of delicious liquid delight.

"Best…snowball fight…evah!" Scout exclaimed, looking out of the window. He stared at the snowman, its black beady eyes made out of charcoal supplied by the Pyro, its long, thin arms made out of broken boards, and the two carrots sticking out of it; one posing as a nose, one set a bit further south, for comic relief. He was oddly proud of it.

The Sniper blew his nose into a tissue while angrily glaring at the Spy, smugly smoking his cigarette with his drink.

"How the bloody hell didja learn half-a those moves, dickhead?"

"Jealous, Mundy?"

The answer was clear, even though it wasn't given.

"Yo, seriously man," Scout started; "Spy totally kicked your ass!"

"Yer da one ta talk, lad," the Demoman said, still pouring some Scrumpy into the chocolate; "Everyone kicked yer scrawny, wee ass. And Eye do mean everyone."

"What da fuck day a mean, scrawny?" The Scot asked, more insulted by this remark than by the fact that he had just been pummeled half to death by his teammates. "Fuck yo shit, my ass is freakin' sexy."

"Pfft!" The Medic shook his head at the egoistic child. "You, Scout, are ein medical marffel. I cannot even make out vhere your back ends and your legs begin. Ze mere fact zat you are sitting is mad on its own."

The Scout smiled fiendishly.

"Been starin' at my ass lately, eh Doc? 'Sides, Natasha didn't complain 'bout it last time she clinged onta it for dear life."

The Medic's face turned red with anger, steam was practically whooshing out of his ears as his voice turned into a high-pitched screech.

"VAT ZE FUCK DID YOU SAY ABOUT MEINE LIEBE?!"

"Da, leetle Scout," Heavy said quite calmly. Oddly enough, this made Scout more nervous than anything else he had ever encountered. "What deed Scout say about Heavy's seester?"

The Bostonian gulped and sat back on the couch. The German looked at his Russian colleague with a devilish grin. Having the Heavy on his side could be quite advantageous when it came to dealing with nosy idiots like the Scout. The Medic nodded to the Heavy Weapons Guy in a thankful manner.

At that very moment, the Engineer walked into the room. His facial expression was blank, his eyes completely glassy. He had just spoken with the Administrator.

"Well?" The Spy asked carefully. The tinkerer smacked his dry lips together, trying to find the right words to explain the situation now at hand.

"Well, uh…" he swallowed some spit and cleared his throat. "The snow got into the respawn system. Nuttin' too big, but it will take a while to clean out. Needless to say, fighting tomorrow would be risky, so…"

He looked back at the mercenaries, staring at him in anxiousness.

"The battle's been postponed fer a couple of weeks."

The silence that ensued was brief, but very unsettling. Snow was still falling outside, representing their unlikely savior from tomorrow's fight.

"So… that's it then, private? We aren't fighting tomorrow?" The Soldier asked, tilting his helmet upwards to take a better look at the announcer.

"A-yup."

"Wait, dat-… dat means we get to go home, right?" The Scout concluded. A wide smile appeared over his face, and his next sentence was jittered by a short chuckle. "Alright! We get to go home, guys! This is…" he looked at his teammates; "This is what we wanted, huh guys?"

The other assassins did not respond. They were deep in thought, every last one of them. The Scout soon figured out why, as he remembered that it was already Christmas Eve.

"I won't be home for Christmas this way either- planes don't leave for Boston that early. Best I can hope for is ta get home like, really late tomorrow. I'll… I'll miss the whole Christmas dinnah." He said this with a slow monotone, and he felt like he had been surrounded by a gray aura of clarity.

The wind whooshed through the old houses, reminding them that, even though they were no longer trapped there, they were not liberated either. Some didn't want to go home. Some had no home to return to. And some couldn't return early enough to truly enjoy Christmas this year. The Demoman gave up drinking the spiked chocolate and gave in to drinking the clear Scrumpy right out of the bottle, as he usually did. Even the Heavy bowed his head down in sorrow.

"Hey, look, blokes;" the Sniper began, standing up from his seat. "Don't let this thing ruin today, mates! Sure, we can't go home roight away, but would it really be such a tragedy to spend the night here?"

"Why, yes," the Spy nodded to him, a frown not leaving his masked face for a second.

"Yes, it would be."

"Oh, come off it, Spook! I mean, wot's the big deal? We talk about everything, we're alwoys here fer one anotha'… We're practically family!"

The last word set off a string of loud hisses and protests. Nobody wanted to associate these trained killers, these sadistic, demented maniacs, as blood relatives. Even the Sniper winced upon saying that.

"Not family then…" the marksman searched the back of his mind, trying to find the right phrase. "We're loike…friends."

This word was greeted with less venom, though even then, some mercenaries shook their heads and waved their hands to show discontent. There was a word for their dynamic, but it wasn't this.

"How about acquaintances you have no trouble getting killed in front of?" suggested the Spy. The team was already willing to accept this addition as a valid definition of their relations, until a voice of protest silenced them.

Oddly enough, the voice was not Sniper's.

The Engineer walked up to the sharpshooter and placed his arm around him, much to Mundy's surprise and slight embarrassment. Dell Conagher looked at the mercenaries, now gazing at the duo.

"Now, now, folks, Down Under's onta summin'."

The Sniper looked at the top of the Texan's hardhat, as the somewhat shorter builder stood close to him, scoping the room behind his heavy goggles. Sniper felt incredibly strange. Nobody ever took a stand for something he had said. Even now, he was anxious to hear what this man had to say in his defense.

And what he heard was…was… Well…

Astonishing.

"Ya know folks, I've been with you here for 'bout two years. Fightin' by your side, celebrating victories, contemplating defeats, planning strategies… spending every waking moment with you fellas. And you know what? Ah'm glad to say that Ah don't regret it."

The group fidgeted around, reminiscing the times they've spent together. They remembered every one of the Announcer's cries of victory, and her gloomy proclaims of defeat. Every bullet hole, every fractured rib flew into their brains, and the sound of the Medic pushing his heart inside his ribcage made the Heavy wince. The memories were there, clear as a bell. Though none of them cared to admit it, everybody felt slightly nostalgic when remembering the day they all met in the resupply room. The first day of the rest of their lives.

"Ya know, we think that it's jus' the fightin' that makes this a team. Well, it ain't. Ah mean, not entirely. Ya see fellas, schemes and battle strategies don't win us battles."

"Yes they do, you take that back!" The Soldier responded in shock. His helmet practically flew off his face as he jolted up into the air, only to be brought back down to his seat by the Heavy, instructing him to shut up.

The patriot crossed his arms against his chest as the Texan continued.

"No, the BLUs have as good of a battle strategy as we do. But ya know, there is one thing that keeps this team a team. It's the same thing that makes us high-five each other after every won battle… it's the same thing that makes up help each other out. Ah mean, heck, there ain't one of ya in this lot who wouldn't take a bullet for one of their teammates."

Though the group wanted to protest at this last sentence, they remembered that they had taken a bullet for somebody else quite frequently. They considered this common courtesy at times.

"There is a word for that. There's a word for the bond that makes us a well functioning team. It's a simple word, ya know, Ah'm surprised nobody has used it yet. Ah mean," the Texan stretched his arm out, laughing at himself because of the simplicity of what he was trying to explain. "Ah mean, it's so obvious we care fer each other. How can ya deny it after we had just spent hours listenin' to all those stories?"

The Texan released the Sniper from his grip, half expecting him to back away. Strangely enough, the Australian stayed in place, still looking at the Texan.

"Our dynamic is simple, fellas. Ah'm surprised you can't admit it. The force that keeps us together… it's… friendship."

He lifted up his helmeted head to his teammates and met their reluctantly approving gazes.

"And dang it, we may not be blood relatives but we are fam'ly. Sure, we're a dysfunctional, insane, homicidal, vitriolic, tumultuous fam'ly…" His eyes widened slightly as he let out a chuckle, resembling more of an exhale. "Nah, we're just a normal fam'ly. And frankly, Ah don't care if you ain't admitting it. Ah sure as hell will."

He slapped the Sniper's back with surprising force. The rest of the team shifted their eyes, nervously looking away if they caught somebody else's gaze. The Heavy was the first one to speak up.

"Doctor weel be Heavy's family. In honesty, Heavy considered him like brother much before Natasha's engagement."

The Medic nodded to the Russian with a hint of a smile.

The next person to speak was the Bostonian.

"Fine den," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I ain't cawlin' yous my fam'ly, but I guess you're kinda-sorta-not really my friends. Kinda. Not really. I dunno."

"Mmmph mmmph mmhm-pph mhhm mhhhmp, hmmph hmmvwenn." The Pyro's statement came out like a breath of fresh air, and nobody was left unmoved by what the firebug had said. The Texan was starting to pride himself of his achievement, even if it was quite a banal achievement.

"Fuck it," the Spy said through his cancer stick. The masked man was now being watched by fifteen eager eyes. He sighed loudly.

"We may be family, but I will still dislike you." He eyeballed the sharpshooter briefly. "Especially you."

"Ditto," the Sniper responded.

"Well," the Texan rung his hands as he looked around the room. "Ah'm goin' back to Bee Cave to see mah other fam'ly first thing in the morning. Until then…"

He observed the silent mercenaries, looking for suggestions.

"I suppose we'll do what we do every day to celebrate," the Spy said, flicking the gray ashes of his cigarette on the floor. "We'll drink and bad-mouth ze BLU team."

"Dat's depressing, ain't it?" Asked the Scout.

"Any better ideas?"

"Well," the younger man scratched the back of his head, trying to think of something. "We can listen to some-a my records. I got a whole pile of 'em. I mean, it ain't a party without music."

Silent, almost incoherent mumbling filled the room. The Soldier then stood up from his chair and walked straight past the almost completely drunk Demoman. Standing in front of everybody, he placed his hands on his hips and tapped his foot.

"If you insist on a party, we are going to have a party." He pointed at the Scout menacingly, and his voice turned into a low growl.

"But don't expect me to dance, and if you play one…and I do mean just one Beatles' song, I swear to God…"

I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John
he said he had the misery but he got a lot of fun
Oh, baby…

The Spy casually listened to the Bostonian singing his heart out to one of Pyro's records. Though the masked marksman wasn't in the room, he imagined that the Soldier had already left, that the mercenaries put on this record as soon as the patriot's foot left the threshold, and that the Scout was currently doing some Elvis-inspired dance while singing off-key. The muffled bursts of laughter coming from the other mercenaries were heard even in the other room.

The Spy did not want to witness the Scout's embarrassment. At least, not yet. After the Engineer's talk of family, he found himself standing in the hallway, his eyes set on a large phone wired into the wall. Suddenly, he understood how the Sniper felt just before making his mandatory daily phone call to his parents back in Australia. He grasped the smooth phone handle firmly and brought it close to his face. A cigarette was hanging from his mouth; he didn't even bother to put it out. He cringed once again as the Scout attempted to strike a high note.

Well, we have some fun tonight
I said we have some fun tonight
Woo
Everything's all right
yeah we have some fun tonight!

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. His index finger then made its way to the large gray phone dial. He turned each number slowly, and cringed at the sound of the dial winding itself back into its default position. He hated the buzz it emitted at that point. Luckily, it wouldn't last long.

The phone beeped as the call was dispatched. At one point, Adrien found himself breathing heavily. Maybe she changed her number. Maybe she had moved out a long time ago. Maybe she would hang up as soon as she heard his voice.

Nonsense, he thought and stabilized his breath. She wouldn't hang up on him. He had done nothing to deserve it.

At least, nothing that he knew of.

The phone line crackled and hissed as the woman he called answered. He could hear her soft, slightly nasal voice. She was angry at something.

"Accept the charges? What charges, I'll show 'em…" She cleared her throat and spoke louder this time, her following question directed at the caller.

"Yeah, who's dis?" She asked, albeit not politely. Adrien smiled at her annoyance.

"Madame Stevenson?" He asked, though he already knew he was speaking to her. The line went silent for a second.

"…Adrien?" She asked. A soft thump was heard in the background, as if she had just sat on something. "What, uh… Whatcha doin'?"

"I wanted to talk to you about your proposal you made a while ago, ma petite chou-fleur."

"Uh…" She cackled. "I'm afraid you're gonna hafta be a bit more specific, hun."

Adrien gulped.

"You know how you asked if I could spend the holidays with you and I politely declined?"

"…yeah. I think yer exact words were "Not a chance, she-ry"," she mimicked his accent badly. Adrien felt a strange surge of guilt rush through his body.

"Yes, well…" he fixed his tie nervously while sticking his face onto the phone handle. The Bostonian was still singing badly. "I… have been thinking…"

"O, boy, here we go…" she exhaled quickly. "You changed your mind? You wanna come here?"

"…oui. Now, listen," he quickly added, already imagining her rolling her eyes at his notion. "I know eet's a bit too late. That is why I will only be visiting you in a couple of days. You don't have to make any preparations, just stay there and…"

" '…Stay beautiful'." She clucked her tongue. "Right. Look I have like, no problem with you comin' ovah, as long as I know you're stayin' more dan a few hours."

"…I promise."

"You ain't lying to me, are ya? You're actually comin' this time?" Her voice turned lower and quieter, almost a whisper. For a second, Adrien thought that the line crashed.

"Your son's gonna be here, too."

"I would be delighted to see him," Spy said, clenching his hand into a fist and trying to steady his heartbeat by dragging on his cigarette. "So, I suppose I weel be visiting you and the child in time for New Year's Eve."

"I won't wait up, Adrien."

He smiled at the phone, picturing her beautiful face, frowning skeptically.

"I will try not to make you wait, chérie."

A few seconds of absolute silence went by. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was comfortable, soothing, necessary. Adrien found himself thinking about her warm embrace up until she asked him one final question.

"Why the sudden change of heart?"

The Frenchman did not feel like explaining himself to anybody. Not yet, the wound was still raw. So, instead, he used his best possible strategy. He said something, something that she needn't understand, couldn't understand, and possibly shouldn't understand, but would hopefully reduce her level of curiosity, regardless.

"Je crains que ce soit juste pour moi de savoir. Je t'aime, madame Stevenson."

His lover sighed, thinking that he had just said something deep and meaningful to her. He could almost imagine her smiling.

"I love you too, numb-nuts."

Though Adrien hated the nickname, he did find himself forming a content grin upon hearing it. As the phone handle was released from his grasp, he stood still, still smoking. Not even a full day ago, he was alone. And now, he had his friends. He had his Stevenson. Somewhere out there, he had a son that he did not want all that much, but still cared for him simply because he was Stevenson's child.

He had a home.

And it felt incredible.

"So, what da fuck do ya knuckleheads have ovah hiyah?" Asked the Scout.

The nine mercenaries were outside in the snow. The Demoman and the Soldier had prepared a wide range of pyrotechnics. And at that point, everyone knew that hilarity would ensue.

"We got tired of yer dull old Christmas party, so we decided ta make our own."

"With fireworks!" The Soldier added, loading his rocket launcher with three large sticks filled with fine, colored powder.

"Ain't fireworks more 'ppropriate fer New Years', blokes?" Asked the Sniper.

"Yep," the two men said in perfect unison.

"So… woi fire then up on Christmas?"

The proud American scoffed like a fifteen-year-old girl.

"Because America!"

The patriot nodded to the Scotsman, filling up one of his grenades with a fine, powdery substance. To some it might have looked like glitter. But it wasn't. And nobody dared to ask what the hell it was.

"Alright!" The Soldier shouted. "We fire on three! One…"

His fingers tightened around the handle of his rocket launcher, ready to fire on his command.

"Tw-…"

Oddly enough, the Demoman wasn't keen on waiting, and he fired his grenade up into the air. A loud pop was heard as the grenade whooshed out of his weapon and soared into the pitch-black sky. It flew up, the whistling sound growing quieter and quieter with every ascending foot. The Soldier snapped at the Scot.

"God damn it, Cyclops! Do you or do you not know how to count to three?"

The Demoman blinked, or in his case winked, and tilted his head to the side.

"Uh…three? Eye always-," he burped, "Eye always thought it went one, teu, episoode one, episoode teu, hats."

"What kind of counting is that?! I've got half-a mind to stick my foot so far up your ass you'll taste it!"

At that very moment, the grenade popped in mid-air, causing a massive explosion. This explosion, however, did not cause a gigantic fireball, much to the Pyro's disappointment. Instead, it spread into sixteen thin, bright red lines that scattered across the skyline. The radiating light shined upon the mercenaries' faces, and they found themselves staring at the sight in awe, occasionally letting out a harmonious noise.

"Ooooh… aaaaah…"

A few more grenades were fired up into the air, and a couple of rockets joined the bright lights as well. Each rocket dragged a thin ray of red, white and blue that stretched across the darkness and then fell downwards like rain. The men stared at the display, all slightly embarrassed of how much they enjoyed a simple pyrotechnics show.

"Pffft," the Soldier jeered at another one of Demoman's grenades that exploded and painted the sky green, to everyone's joy. "You ladies ain't seen nothing yet."

He shoved a large rocket into the barrel of his weapon. It was an extremely snug fit, and for a second, it looked as if it was going to get stuck inside. But the Soldier did fire it, and it shot high up into the air. It exploded as it should have, but this explosion was different. It had more flames than before, though it only managed to create a small fireball. A dud, some might say. The odd thing about this fireball, however, was that it was now coming straight at them. They Pyro seemed to enjoy the sight. The others scattered across the field in panic.

When the flaming fireball of death suddenly crashed into the snow, extinguishing itself, it was clear that the ball of fire wasn't a ball at all. It looked more like a square carriage, decorated with many red ribbons and festive bells, all of which were now ablaze. It seemed to have been driven, or flown, with nine skinny-looking reindeers. Their eyes were glassy, and they did not care much about being on fire. They stood on the snow, looking into nothingness. A large sack ruptured upon impact, scattering its contents. It consisted entirely of colorful toys, which were now being burned to ashes. Pyro liked this image a lot. Especially when a rather chubby bearded man in a plush red suit ran out of the carriage and began rolling around in the snow.

"Oooh! Hot, hot, hot, hot!" He muttered, strangely unmoved by the flames going up to his face and burning his thick luxurious beard. Though the fun could have lasted longer, the Pyro finally extinguished the man with one powerful air blast from his weapon. The man stood up, panting and dusting off the soot from his suit.

"Thank you, good boy… girl, um… thank you kindly," the man said politely. The mercenaries stared at the large, jolly figure, not understanding where it came from. Scout seemed to be the only one that knew who the strange man actually was.

"HOLY FUCKING CHRISTMAS BELLS! IT'S SANTY CLAUSE!"

The half-burned man waved to the young Bostonian.

"Hello there, son. I'm…"

The Bostonian rushed the man and embraced him tightly, bouncing up and down as a string of questions left his mouth.

"HOLY CRAP, YOU'RE REAL! ARE YOU REALLY REAL? I TOLD EVERYONE! I TOLD EVERYONE SANTY CLAUSE WAS REAL! BUT DEY DON'T BELIEVE ME! BUT YOU'RE HERE NOW AND DAT'S FREAKING AWESOME! WHATCHA BRING ME, SANTY, WHATCHA BRING ME, HUH?"

The supposed Santa Clause pushed the young boy off him and ran his gloved hands over his suit. He nodded to the others. They nodded back. Oddly enough, seeing Santa Clause was not the strangest thing the mercenaries had experienced. No, that would have to be seeing the spirit of Australian Christmas. And boy, that guy was something else. Old St. Nick paled in comparison to that maniac, strangeness wise.

St. Nick chuckled at the men.

"Ho ho ho! I know who you guys are! Why, you're the REDs!" He twitched his index finger at them to show disapproval. "You have all been very, very naughty. Except for you, Pyro."

"Hmmph?" The firebug pointed at itself. It soon received a colorful package from St. Nick, that he formed out of thin air.

"Pyro gawt a present?! No far! I wanna present, I wanna present!" The Scout yelped, flailing his arms around.

As the Pyro pulled away the festive wrapping paper excitedly, the mercenaries shot one another a "Why the hell is Pyro considered to be nice?" look. They were even more confused as they saw the inside of the package. It was filled with black, gravely rocks.

"Coal? I thought you said that ze abomination was good zhis year." The Spy lifted up his eyebrow.

"The kid wanted coal," Santa shrugged.

"Hmmphk yhmm!" Pyro said politely, rummaging through the coal. One of Santa's reindeer vomited out some purple-colored blood.

"Uh… is he okay mate?" The Sniper asked.

"Oh, he's fine. That's just something that happens from time to time. That's what you get after centuries of reindeer inbreeding."

"Centuries?" The Medic jolted back, semi-disgusted. "I'm sorry, but, how are zhey able to stand?"

"They aren't."

At that point, Ruedolph The Green-nosed Crime Against Nature plopped down on the ground, dragging its inbred friends, tied together with a leather harness, with him.

"Well… Guess I'm stuck here for a while." St. Nicholas looked at the mercenaries, sticking his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "Mind if I use your phone?"

"Uh…" The Engineer cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's uh… right in there." He pointed towards the base.

"Thank you. Merry Christmas, gentlemen!"

The men waved at Santa Clause, slowly making his way away from his burning carriage. The reindeer now began to gnaw at one another, but nobody said a thing.

"This is some fucked up shit, man," said the Scout, disgusted at the sight of Dasher chewing Vixen's leg off.

"Agreed," said the Spy. "I think I need another-…"

He was interrupted by the Demoman, handing everyone cups of clear alcohol. He was very intuitive, that Demoman. Either that or he had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to drinking. The Spy thanked the Scot and firmly grasped the cup.

"Right…" he started as he raised the cup. "Here's to a very bizarre Christmas."

"And a crappy New Year," the Sniper added.

The men clinked their cups together, toasting to a very odd Christmas indeed.

Hopefully, there were many more to come.

The End