Epilogue: The Team

Ivan. Johnny. Shane. Ian. Sean. Jacques. "J." Johannes. And Jack.

Strength, spunk, skill, strategy, spontaneity, subtlety, single-mindedness, salubriousness, and speed.

With less alliteration, Mr. Pine assigned them codenames.

The Heavy. The Soldier. The Engineer. The Sniper. The Demolitions Man. The Spy. The Pyromaniac. The Medic. And the Scout.

At the same time, he picked out a codename for himself to go by, one that he'd been brewing in his mind for a long time:

Syndrome.

He had the team players, he had the catchy nicknames, and he had them all working together in a fairly cohesive whole. Now all he needed was the advertising campaign.

Mirage sat at a table opposite Ivan Ivanovitch. It was very much like Syndrome's first interview with the Heavy, only now a camera whirred behind her and it shook a little as the Heavy lowered Sasha onto the table and growled, "I am Heavy Weapons Guy. And this –" he surveyed the weapon proudly – "is my weapon."

"Very interesting. Will you please tell me about it?"

"What makes me a good Demoman? If I were a bad Demoman, I wouldn't be sittin' here discussin' it with ye now would I?!"

"No, Mr. MacEoin, I suppose you would not."

"I – I don't even know where to start with you. I mean, do you even know who you're talkin' to?"

"The Scout?"

"No, seriously. Do you have any idea, any idea, who I am?"

"Mr. Jack Bratt Nimble?"

"Basically, kind of a big deal."

"Ah."

"Snipin's a good job, mate. Plenty of work, outdoors, and I guarantee you'll not go 'ungry. 'Cuz as long as there's two people left alive on this planet, someone is gonna want someone dead."

Mr. Johnson paused. Then he added, in a rare personal mood, "I tell you, though, my parents? Do not care for."

After a few of these interviews, Mirage had the idea to instead write and perform little skits. Most of them she integrated into the interviews to give them more life and flair, because just simple interviews rarely got the true spirit and intensity of the characters across. So, the Spy got an entire skit all to himself, and the Engineer got an interview in an arranged setting. The skits of the Pyro and the Medic took the longest time to arrange and film, but they were, without a doubt, worth it.

And what advertising campaign would be complete without a group picture? There was the official photograph with all of the Classes striking an impressive pose, and when that was done they dragged Syndrome into the photograph, where he smiled and jostled with the others, one of the boys, one of the team.

Syndrome kept that picture in his private study, and gave a copy to each of the boys.

"Go go go!"

"Boink!"

"Yee-haw!"

"Right behind you."

"Mmmrrff mrrfff mrff mrff!"

"And… boom. Headshot."

"Ah-ha ha ha! Cry some more!"

"That was doctor-assisted homicide."

"Och, they're gonna hafta glue you back together… in hell!"

"Very good boys, very good. Another fine day's work. Now, have a good rest, and we'll do the same thing tomorrow."

The End

And that's it. I thank you all for reading, for your kind reviews, for being patient with me when I vanished for two weeks, and for enjoying the story as much as you have. For your sake I almost wish I had more written, but this was always meant to be a bit of brief fun. And anyway, with all the nifty new backstory being unearthed on Team Fortress 2, this fic is already partly invalidated. But, it's been fun for me, and I'm glad that you have enjoyed it so much.

Thank you all.