He had no Idea where he was . . . A fragment of his line of vision was discernible, but only the unmerciful desert brown of the sand met it. The rest was a jumbled blur of painful doubled and blurred vision that saw a barely visible flat horizon.

And yet, in this state of discombobulated confusion, he felt the surge of adrenaline in his blood, his Brain wanted to live, hewanted to live. He had cried for the past Twenty minutes, but along with his strength, his tears and saliva had gone, sapped by an unforgiving heat.

But even the strongest, most electrifying pulses of adrenaline die, even at the hands of the thing that gave it strength, nature. He fell. He could no longer discern anything. He felt the sand burning under his skin, but at the same time he couldn't, his brain frantically ignoring the most basic things trying to keep him alive, but alas, he faded. Darkness. Eyes closed.

His lungs filled with air, his eyes widening, his back stiffening, jolting up his entire being up with life. He screamed, his vocal cords shaking of the phlegm of the dry heat. When his lungs hurt so badly he could no longer scream, he stopped. He'd survived. He looked around, fumbling out of the bed, crashing against the Red wood. He splintered his hands, trying to get up, his strength slow to return to him.

Boots clacked with urgency on top of the wood, speed-walking into the room. A tall, grim looking man with smile lines gracing his face emerged from the door way. "What are you doing! Get back into bed immediately!" The man, wearing a white, button-up medical coat gripped his shoulders, rubber gloved fingers sieging him and forcing him onto the bed.

His name was Paul. He had no idea how he'd arrived there, or even passed out into the Desert in the first place. He laid into his bed looking up, breathing as fast as his chest pain allowed him. The man, who had a thick German accent, looked into Paul's eyes.

"Now! I am a doctor. You have nothing to worry about while talking to me, unless some sort of surgery is being done to you, then you only have around a 65 percent chance to be in danger." The man stifled a chuckle. "No, I'm messing with you; it's only around 40 percent." The man stood up. Paul noticed the Red Cross adorning his broad shoulders. Now he recognized him.

"You . . ." Paul said. "Y- You're the Medic!" The Medic looked at him quizzically. "Did I not just tell you that?" Paul looked around wide-eyed. "I- I didn't think you were real! You were just a video game character! I've played as you, and died as you, and- He was cut off. "Calm down. You're talking nonsense. It's just the meds. The extremely hard to make, rare, time consuming meds . . ."

"What are you talking about? What meds?" Paul quickly asked. "Jane found you while driving around, during his . . . "Daily Robo-patrol." He's a bit paranoid after his toaster fell on top of his foot. He was quick to assume that it was Gray Mann attacking us with more robots. Between you and me-" He blocked his mouth with a hand- "He's not the brightest." He stood up straight. "Now, I must go help some of the others, we're fresh from a new battle with Blu, one that we barely made- He stopped, as if remembering something. "Scheisse!" "What's wrong?" Paul asked. "I forgot to put Tavish's fingers back on . . . He's probably too drunk to notice, but . . . You know. Fingers, blood loss, I have to go. Tusch." He turned on his heel and left.

"What about the meds!?" Paul called out the door, sitting himself up. "Get some rest, we'll talk later." Paul, in a huff laid back down into his bed. He looked around. A dirty lamp sat on the nightstand next to him. The nightstand was a wooden, red stand with small ornate carvings on the wood. When he looked closer, he saw a small name etched into the side of the leg. "Jean . . ." He whispered under his breath. That's when he noticed a mirror across the room from him. He could see his reflection. His Brown Frazzled hair sat in its natural messy position atop his head, His Grey eyes, as usual, didn't really have much definition, but his somewhat defined cheekbones did. He had a thin face, and his dimples were unsually big, probably from the starvation.

The rest of the room was a plain, red, wooden room that was a bit cramped. He had not seen this map in-game, and he suspected that this area either wasn't released, or it was just . . . different than presented in game. But why? Why was this real? Had this war actually happened, tucked away by the government? Did Valve find this out and put it into a game? Paul had so many questions, probably none would be answered anytime soon. He tried not thinking about it, as it would get him nowhere.

He opened the small drawer on the nightstand, wide drawer on the nightstand. Nothing inside but a layer of dust and a dead fly. He shook his head, when he noticed something. The side of the drawer's opening mechanism had a strange looking gear system leading to the back of it. He wondered whether this was normal and stood up. He didn't want the Medic catching him again, for fear of a loud German Scolding, so he tiptoed very carefully.

After examining both sides of the drawer, he concluded that only the right side had the gears. He looked into them, seeing where they led. He turned on the lamp and put it against it, illuminating the gears to their source. It went downwards. He took his hand and probed the underside of the stand, eventually finding a switch. He flipped it, and heard the gears slowly grind. He examined the drawer and found a small indent.

He felt it, eventually finding a small hinge. He pulled on the indent, and a secret compartment was revealed on the backside of the table. It opened, and something fell out. It was a small knife, no longer than his hand. He held it, feeling the leather in his hands, warming up to his body heat. Why had this been here? As his thoughts deepened, he heard a voice.

"impressive." Paul stood straight up as fast as he could manage, hiding the knife behind him, but instead flinging it at the ground. The blade stuck into the wood, just barely grazing his pinkie toe. It stung a bit, but it was nothing serious. The man stood at the doorway, stiff his leaning position, and walked towards him. He stooped, and as quick as a hawk, grabbed the knife and threw it into the air, catching it while maintaining eye contact with Paul.

He gripped his cigarette, flicking it off of the balcony leading out of the doorway. He grinned, the fabric of his ski mask moving upwards with the corner of his mouth. "For emergencies. I've only used it once, a few days ago. One of the bastards on Blu decided to take his rifle and try to pick off a few of us on the balcony. Tried." He took the knife and slid it back into the slot behind the stand and closed it, the gears again whirring.

"I understand that you are attempting to explore the small area you are confined to, but it may not be a good thing if you find something private. Scout once found Tavish's . . ." He sighed. "Scrumpy," and decided that he wanted to try it. Let's just say that the scout had to use the Life-link about 4 times before he could get a word out before his teeth were broken with the back of a Grenade launcher."

"What's a "Life-Link?" Asked Paul. "A machine that was put into us by the Medic before the fighting between Red and Blu began. Apparently they had the same technology, and they received it too. If one of our brains just happen to be Burnt, Vaporized, Exploded, or Destroyed in any other method, then our bodies will be torn apart at the molecular level and put back together where the machine is, usually our barracks for the area, with a brain that can at least rub a few cells together." Paul nodded, understanding.

"Well, I must depart, as the need for sleep is beginning to take its toll." He sighed, and waved his gloved hand at Paul. He had barely noticed that the sun had fallen, the horizon swallowing it up, revealing the moon. He was a bit tired, and decided he too would get some rest. He dug his head into his Mildly uncomfortable pillow, closing his eyes. He felt himself slipping away into the darkness of unconsciousness.

"WAKE UP!" Paul heard a powerful voice plow through his psyche, scaring him half to death. He jumped up, almost falling out of his bed, knocking the lamp off the nightstand, the lamp shade tearing on the corner of it. "WAKE UP PRIVATE! I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS LAZINESS! YOU TORE A PERFECTLY MEDIOCORE PARTLY STAINED LAMP SHADE AND- he began to laugh, his gravelly voice emanating from the doorway.

It was the soldier, also known as Jane Doe. He was doubled over laughing as a similarly familiar person, the Demoman, Tavish Degroot knocked into him laughing just as hard. "His face!" The soldier called out. "Lamp shade!" The Demoman cheered on. "I'm sorry about the lamp! I'll clean it up!" Paul said frantically. "No lad, it's perfectly fine, that bampot Jean put the worst, cheapest stuff he could find around here. Watch this!" He picked up the lamp, crudely putting the shade back on.

He pulled what Paul recognized as the Stickybomb launcher out of a small case he had on his utility belt. He shot a few bombs onto the lamp, making sure that at least three or four bombs total were attached. He handed it to the soldier, meanwhile putting his hand on a small detonator-type device around his waist. He smiled devilishly as the soldier held it like a football. The soldier threw it as hard as he could muster into the desert. When It reached the highest altitude, The Demoman pressed the button, chuckling as the lamp burst into dozens of pieces, bits of plastic and metal showering the radius of the explosion.

A few pieces of it landed next or on them, one stray piece of metal landing next to The soldier's foot. He laughed along with The Demoman, looking towards Paul. "But seriously private, you should get up, Dieter needs to talk to you." Paul wondered for a second who it could be, but then realized that the name was German, and there was only one German. "Yup." The Demoman said, turning to walk next to The Soldier down the balcony. "Everyone's favorite finger attachment botchin' psychopath." He mumbled a bit, looking down at his now disproportionately sized fingers. Paul looked too, noticing that his middle finger wasn't as large as his Ring finger, or his Index finger for that matter.

He walked with them, every once in a while listening to ranom banter between the two. "Private! This is the most important part of the day! Me, you, and Tavish must wake all of the other Mercenaries! All you have to do is knock on their door and pray to god they aren't naked at the window." First, they walked down the balcony steps, walking through the line of doors. Some were broken, some blackened with past explosions or fire, and some rooms didn't even have doors, exposed to the rough New Mexican elements.

Paul noticed that the place would probably have been a Inn, or a Motel before the war and/or abandonment of the area commenced, and it was a bit sad to see how far gone it was. They arrived at room number 14 and the soldier knocked. "Misha, Get up! Training time!" Paul heard him mumble something in a half conscious stupor. "Too bad! Get up!" The soldier replied.

They continued walking, and as they did Paul looked through the grimy 4 pane window. The Heavy, or as he now knew him, Misha, was slowly standing up. He took a sandwich out of the drawer in his nightstand and began eating. Paul guessed the he never didpart with his Sandvich, even during sleep. "Private! What are you doing? Catch up!" With one last glance towards the Giant man, Paul jogged back up.

The trio continued down the walkway. They went out of the shade into the Glaring sun's rays, walking to the other side of the complex. The soldier went up the stairs to what said on the door, room 9-Something. The other letter or number was gone. As they did last time, he knocked on the door, yelling at the person inside to get up.

"Je- he was cut off by the door opening. The spy, or who Paul figured out to be named "Jean", walked out adjusting his suit collar. He cleared his throat, and with a head tilted towards the sky, briskly walked down the stairs past him and the other two towards the large main building a bit further up towards the northern side. The soldier looked at The demoman quizzically. He responded with a shrug. "Pretentious. Heh."

They continued, knocking on the door a few doors down, 12-B. "Get up Scout!" He said. "I'm tired, I ain't getting' up for at least another hour." The Soldier, now a bit angry, yelled even louder. "Well isn't that just too bad! Now get up!" "Screw off bucket head." The scout yelled back, still half asleep. Now furious, he kicked the door open, taking his Trumpet out of a small pack around his waist. He blew it as hard as he could at the scout's face, causing him to immediately jump out of his bed, fall off and hit his head on the doorknob to what Paul concluded was a small bathroom.

"You freakin' son of a bitch!" The scout yelled, grabbing his baseball bat off the top of his nightstand. The Soldier, laughing, walked out and closed the door, holding it closed by the doorknob with his free hand, putting the trumpet away with his other. The scout pounded on the door for a minute, yelling insults at The Soldier. Both him and The Demoman were smiling, satisfied with the results. "You know what? I'm fine, alright? I'm cool, I'm getting' dressed." The scout called out. Paul swore he could hear the scout mumble something along the line of "Bastards" In his thick trademark Boston accent.

"Last one!" The Soldier said happily. As they approached the last door, they heard some sort of crackling. "Oh boy . . ." The Demoman said grimly. "What? What is it?" Paul said. "Don't be scared of him private, he's basically like a teddy bear, a fire obsessed psychopathic teddy bear." Paul knew who he was talking about. The soldier put his head to the door, and pulled it back, rubbing his temple. "He's done it again Tavish." "Mother of god . . ." Paul looked at The Demoman. He had backed himself up, his shoulder leaned towards the door.

The Demoman charged the door, surging through it! Fragments of woods, some burnt, flew like shrapnel from a grenade as he stood back, admiring his work. He rubbed his Red shirted shoulder. "Oh, that stings" He muttered. Even more heat than the powerful sun residing above burst from the door, flames licking the sides of it. Paul looked at the fresh hell that The Soldier was charging into head first. A bed, in the middle of the room was engulfed by flames, the inferno gripping like hands at the ceiling. A man . . . A woman, something was staring at it. It was the pyro.

Pyro rubbed his hands together as if it was at a campfire. The bright reverberant jumping red, yellow, and orange reflected off of his goggle-like optics. He cocked his head towards Paul. "Huwa hud hudda?" He suspected that Pyro was asking who he was, but he was a bit too dazed by the whole scene unfolding in front of him that it wasn't the first thing to graze his mind.

The Soldier looked exasperatedly towards the pyro. "Again? I told you not to do that!" The pyro replied. "Buh buh buh-" The Demoman cut him off. "Don' worry! I got it!" Paul had just noticed that he had been carrying a bottle of the so-called "Scrumpy" On his person. He threw it as hard as he possibly could into the bed, hoping to extinguish it.

Both The Demoman andThe Soldier had been thrown back by the fury of the explosion. The pyro was blasted clear out of the window and onto the balcony, kept from falling by the hand rail. The Demoman, the front of his shirt blackened, turned on his heel towards the pyro. "Yeh killed mah scrumpeh!" He put his hands to the Pyro's throat, but pulled back before he made contact. "No, no, Tavish, calm yerself, he didn't mean it . . ."

The almost full bottle of Alcohol had Exploded on contact with the flames, causing some of the roof to fall and extinguish the flaming bed. Paul and The Demoman looked over the balcony, and saw The Soldier limping towards the building. The Medic, or Dieter, was running out, Medi-Gun in hand, followed by the Engineer.

"What in the name of gottis this!?" The Demoman tried to answer but The Medic didn't let him. "You do know that destruction of this and nearby property is strictly forbidden, right?! We could lose this job! Do you have any idea what doing this twiceis going to look like to our employers?" The Soldier stepped forward gripping his leg. "Um, Doc? I'm pretty sure my leg is completely broken in 1 . . . 2 . . . 3, yeah, wait, no, 4 parts. Could you help me out?

The Medic groaned an pointed the contraption towards his leg, pushing the valve and releasing a steady stream of Red energy. "Never again! Pyro, you are strictly forbidden from being in a room alone . . . You're going to stay with . . . What's your name?" "Paul." He replied. "Yes! Pyro, you are staying with Paul for the remainder of our occupation of this area!" He looked at the pyro, expecting a protest from it. When it noticed me looking at it, it turned. It held a thumb up. "Hafla!"

The Soldier approached the Medic, a bit shorter than him, but stronger. "It'll be fine Dieter. There's no reason to be angry. Right?" The Demoman took an expression that he hadn't seen before, a look of solemnity. The Medic took of his glasses and wiped his forehead and eyes with his forearm and put them back on. "Ok. Lets discuss what we need too." He looked a bit worried an turned, beckoning Paul to follow.

The Engineer stood behind The Medic, waiting for him to pass before he silently laughed, his smile stretching ear-to-ear. They walked into the building together, The Medic, The Deoman, The Soldier, Paul, The engineer, and pyro, The Heavy and The Scout following a bit behind.

When they walked up to the door to the complex, it was opened before any of them could open it themselves. Jean, the Spy, stood beckoning inwards. All of them walked into the building, only The Demoman saying a brief "Thanks mate!" To him. He nodded.

The door led to a wide, open lobby, windows on the top long gone, allowing bright sunlight to fall into it. Broken down tables, destroyed desks, and a caved in staircase, one of two of them, the one on the right being the one still properly fixed up, leading to a similarly dilapidated 2nd floor that only added to the mood the building gave off. The soldier put his arm around Paul's neck and Gesticulated to the lobby. "Our headquarters, private! Look out for the northeastern side, the floor's sticky, no idea why."

The Medic swiftly walked to the only desk in the entire lobby that wasn't a ramshackle pile of wood and metal and sat down behind it. Each of the remaining 7 mercs sat down around the room, Jean leaning against a wall to the right of The Medic, The Demoman and The Soldier standing by the entrance, The Engineer sitting cross legged on a broken desk, The Heavy, as before, munching on a sandvich by him, The scout swinging from some metal Pipework by the left staircase.

"So! You want answers, don't you?" The Medic said to Paul, who stood center towards the desk he sat at. "All that happened was is that we found you dead. Your were obviously malnourished, and your body was very bony and thin . . ." The medic scanned his torso and arms with his eyes for a second. "And it seems like my treatment didn't exactly help that problem . . . But anyway, I was able to revive you with an extremely hard to make life giving serum that I managed to formulate. It takes several months of gathering quite specific materials, a few worth mentioning are type of plutonium, a small amount of ink, 4 brands of Toothpaste, just random things that just happen to be able to bring the dead to life.

"Wait a minute-" Paul said quizzically. "Couldn't you have used that life-link thingy to bring me back?" The Medic sat back in his chair, folding his gloved hands. "Unfortunately no. If you're too far from it, than you risk not being able to be revived by it, plus you don't have a device for it lodged into your pancreas, which you . . . May have soon." Paul could have sworn he saw a small grin cross The Medic's face.

"So what is it that you need me here for?" Paul asked looking at a few of the others. The Medic promptly responded. "That serum takes months to complete, and it originally was going to be used if something goes horribly wrong during a fight between us and Blu. It hasn't been seen anywhere else, so it's extremely valuable . . . What I'm trying to say is, is that you need to repay your debt." "And how would I do that?" Paul replied. As amazing and mind-boggling it was to be around his favorite video game characters, he was a bit tired of the Grueling heat of the New-Mexican desert. He hoped in the back of his head that it wasn't some sort of labor.

"The Scout-" He turned and pointed to The Scout, still swinging on the piping. "Is highly trained and specializes in . . . Scouting! He runs fast, takes intelligence, pushes the offensive line-" He turned to The Engineer who was chuckling to himself under his breath. "And has a very important ,job." He turned back. "The Engineer, we call him Dell, sets up sentries to prevent Blu infantry from getting to intelligence or a payload, and is quite the defensive type of mercenary." The engineer, still sitting cross legged upon the desk, saluted him, grinning. "And I make sure no one has to wait to be revived with the life link or die a painful death, so that the defensive line doesn't fall. What I'm trying to say is that each of us specializes in something, and each one of us, except maybe the pyro, can teach someone that information- pass it down, if you will. You made me use that serum, and you have to repay us. Me, Jane, Tavish and Dell have predicted a large battle that'll take place a few miles up north. We won't be receiving supplies for a few months, neither is Blu, so neither of us can fight without running out of ammo in the first few minutes. In that fight, there will be Nine Blu team members. We have Nine too. Unless you become the Tenth."

"Wha- What do you mean?" Paul said wide-eyed. "We have around 4 or 5 months before the fight. We have about 9 different types of mercenaries here. We have one clean slate. My plan, and the plan the rest of us have agreed on, is that each one of us will teach you how to be what we are. You will spend time with each of us, learning how to use the weapons, learning the skills, learning the techniques required to be that mercenary. When the time comes, you will choose who you want to be, who you want to specialize as." Paul looked at the ground, mystified. This was something he'd thought of in his wildest fantasies, fighting alongside the mercenaries, becoming victorious in the field of battle with his comrades. This was an honor.

"Are you okay? Do you need a minute to think?" The Medic said to him. "What? Oh, no, I'm fine, it's actually a great plan!" The Medic, upon hearing that raised an eyebrow, smirking. He turned to The Engineer. The Engineer sighed and made a slight rolling motion with his head. Paul assumed he was rolling his eyes, but his trademark goggles masked them.

"So! That was a good conference! The only thing left to decide is to decide who you want to train with first!" The Medic said, perking up, still looking at Paul. Paul tried hard to remember who he had played the most in the game . . . How could he have forgotten? He'd seen that loading screen every time he logged in. At that moment, Paul began to realize once again how insane the situation he was in was. He was being asked which Team Fortress class he wanted to be first! This was one of his long time fantasies! He thought for a moment, but remembered the task at hand. All of the sudden, it came back to him, the class he played the most.

"Spy! That's who I want to train with first! Spy!" Paul called out. The Medic looked at him quizzically. "Really? Why would you- Never mind. Alright!" He looked at the spy, who stood straight up on the frame of the entrance door, smirking. "Of course he picks me . . . Finesse is the basis of-" He was cut off by shoes clacking heavily on the linoleum floor. A man with a strong 5 o' clock shadow and a White tank top had landed from a balcony atop the destroyed left staircase. He wore brown cargo pants and a Cowboy looking hat on, curved up on the right side. Paul recognized him as the sniper.

"Did I miss something?" The Medic turned to him scowling. "Only the entire plan regarding him." "My bad mate, was a bit busy keepin' the desert under control." The Medic looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "And who's going to attack? Being that far from their life link would be a death sentence if they were killed by one of us." "I don't know, but it's better to be safe then sorry, right?" The Medic rolled his eyes and turned back towards Paul. "We're done here everyone, go do. . . Whatever you where doing." The scout let go of the piping and fell to the floor. "I'm goin' back to sleep fellas. Night night." He began to walk out, but The Soldier grabbed him before he could. "Hey, what're you doing!?" The Scout began to tug away from his grip, but couldn't get himself free. "You're coming down with me, Tavish and Dell to get to work on fixing that old bar. We need somewhere besides some stuffy old motel room to get shade." "But those stuffy motel rooms have beds, the saloon doesn't!" The Scout replied, this time with a hint of annoyance. "Quit being a baby Scout. We all have to work." The scout sighed and said "Fine." They walked out of the building and into the old bar down the road a ways, the Engineer eventually catching up with them.

The Sniper climbed back up the wreckage and into the second floor, while the Heavy walked out into the desert, eventually reaching a water pipe, where he pumped some water into a bucket resting by it. The Medic waved goodbye to Paul as he left, returning to the check-in room behind the motel rooms and next to the bar. The Pyro returned to the room Paul woke up in originally. As Paul waited by the door watching the others leave, he felt a hand clasp onto his back. "Well my good man, it appears that you have at least some sense in the finer points of the art of war, the more graceful and sneaky points." He chuckled and continued, except walking this time and leading Paul by the hand on his shoulder. "You chose the right class mon ami, and you will be far better trained at this skill than the others will train you in theirs. I can only hope that within the next months you won't be flying through the air from detonating explosives under you, drunk on scrumpy."

Eventually they got to the end of the line of motel rooms, and continued walking through the desert. A little bit ahead of them, Paul saw another building, what looked like a long rectangular building. When they arrived, The Spy walked forward and opened the door for Paul. Paul uttered a quick "Thanks" and walked in. It was what looked like a large training building, with 10 sections. Paul walked in, looking around in wonderment. The Spy tapped his shoulder and pointed to the end of the building.

They walked for about 2 minutes before arriving, as the complex was quite large. A large gathering of ballistic dummies and targets lined the walls. A gathering of rafters where on the ceiling. A few deactivated sentries where stuffed in the corner in a box labeled "Sapper dummies". Paul turned to The Spy. "Why do you need this stuff?" "Practice. The most important part of sharpening your skills . . . And blades-" He threw his knife point forward to a dummy, the knife shooting surging through the air like a dart. It pierced the dummy, fake blood oozing from the wound.

"Complete upper orbital breakage-" He pulled the knife out and walked towards a large metal tube with a valve attached. "In other words, and almost instant death." He turned the valve, and something similar looking to the Medic's healing came out, fixing the wound in the dummy. "Woah." Paul uttered. "I know. Highly advanced technology, we have Dell to thank for that, him and Dieter for this equipment." "Should we get started?" Paul asked. "Tomorrow. We must rest for the night and most of the day. In the meantime, we should help with basic chores. We have to fix the handrails up on that bar's top floor and do basic maintenance.

The rest of the day for Paul was mostly working on basic chores, just as the Spy recommended. All that broke up the day was an hour long lunch break, where they all sat together under the shade of the Motel's mess hall. The Demoman and The Soldier mostly sat together, taking turns drinking, sharing stories, one in particular being about a friendly Kit Fox The Demoman found and cared for by a cactus on Robo-Patrol. The Heavy sat by the windows, humming a song and still eating an almost identical sandwich to the one he woke up with. The Medic, The Engineer, The Sniper, and The Scout sat together, discussing the oncoming battle with Blu. The pyro was flicking a Zippo next to the Heavy, every once in a while making a sound along the lines of "Huhuha!" And showing a flame to The Heavy, who would then laugh and continue eating his sandwich. Paul, The Sniper and The Spy sat together. The Spy kept to himself, eating a few slices of turkey. He heard The Medic even remark about how he procured those exquisite foods while all they had to eat was The genetically Scout-tested roast beef that The Medic formulated.

Eventually, it was bedtime, the sun had fallen and most of the others had fallen asleep. As Paul flipped the blankets on himself and closed his eyes, he heard something. "Hmmm . . ." He turned to see The Pyro with a lighter, holding it to something. It sounded fore-lorn. Paul sat up and looked at him. It was quite large, broad shoudered, so Paul decided to assume it was a him until he had proof otherwise. He approached Him. "Um. . ." The Pyro snapped back to looking at him, jolting up. The Pyro had been holding a large book, and had slammed it shut when he approached. The Pyro laid down, Closing his lighter, sighing. Paul laid back down.

With time to himself finally, Paul thought back to what he'd experienced. He wondered what was going on with the pyro, but at the same time thought about what had happened. How was this real? Was this a dream of dehydration? A halluncination? Paul almost pinched himself, but that would be stupid, he was certain it wasn't a dream. How was this a game? How is this not known by the Government, or Valve? Do they know? Paul was tired, and he didn't want to answer these questions, after all, he was living a fantasy at this point. And he was enjoying it, despite the hot weather. Paul had a lot to look forward to, training with the spy for the first time and living more with his favorite characters. He closed his eyes and smiled. This was going to be a great few months.