Right... looky looky at what i've got.. hehe.. a thorough psychiatric evaluation of all the 9 classes of the Red Team.. i guess in a way this would also mean that you will be able to relate to the reason as to why your always playing THAT particular class.. haha. . anyways here it is... CAN SOMEONE PLEASE CHANGE THE DAMN BACKDROP.. hurts my fckin eyes!

--------------------------------------------------------------- A PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION OF THE CLASSES OF TEAM FORTRESS 2 --------------------------------------------------------------- From the files of Dr. Cole Dimpsey, PhD: --------------------------------------------------------------- At the behest of the members of the team, the commanding officer of Reliable Excavation & Demolition (Or RED) has recently called upon my services. Feeling that the numerous missions he has sent his men upon have taken untold psychological tolls upon them, and that morale is low for those reasons, I have been hired to give each member a psychiatric evaluation to see what effects the ongoing struggle between them and the men of the Builders League United, (BLU) has taken upon their minds. I went into this little job with an open mind, and hopes that this study would possibly net me a Nobel Peace Prize nomination, not at all expecting to meet some of the most fascinating, thoroughly depraved, and deeply disturbed individuals I've ever met. Enclosed are excerpts of my findings on each individual member of RED. There are 9 in all, all of whom refused to disclose their real name to me, instead demanding that they be referred to by their class identity. I was all too eager to comply, as I was the least armed person at RED's headquarters that day... ---------------------------- THE HEAVY ---------------------------- The Heavy, as he prefers to be called, is a very domineering and foreboding presence, to be sure. While I am normally a very level-headed man I was genuinely concerned that he might want to eat me. Fortunately however, that wasn't the case, since he seemed primarily to subside on a strangely infinite supply of sandwiches. As he took a bite I guess he could tell that I felt uncomfortable, and he laughed. "Do not fear the sandvich, leetle psychotic man!" I assume he meant psychiatrist. "Instead you must embrace the sandvich! And sandvich shall embrace you as one its own." That was another problem. In my experience with him he kept personifying numerous inanimate objects around him. Mostly this was limited to his two enormous chainguns (Whom he refers to as "Sasha" and "Natasha") and his endless stock of sandwiches. I asked him about the members of his team, and he responded: "Comrades are good company, but in battle I reign supreme! Vithout me they are weak leetle babies, under my gaze!" With that he began to stroke the top of his gun, which he'd brought to the meeting. "Sasha is upset now. You leave." ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: The way he speaks to inanimate objects suggests latent schizophrenia, and specifically his tireless obsession with his guns indicate the possibility of Sadistic Personality Disorder. I also detected signs of a God Complex, as he spoke of his own power and the weakness of his teammates. A curious case to be sure, but surely this is an isolated matter. ---------------------------- THE SCOUT ---------------------------- Of all the 9 members, Scout was easily the most annoying, consistently pestering me to see what I was writing down on my clipboard. "Whatcha writin? Whatcha writin 'dere? I wanna see!" Eventually I told him to stop bugging me about it, and he became very defensive. "Oooohh, big guy 'dere! What?? WHAT?! Y'think y'so big witcha fuckin' notepad and...yer fuckin' NOTES? Look at the big guy 'dere! College guy! Lemme tell y'somethin bruddah, I been where the action is. I grew up knee-fuckin'-deep in it. You wouldn't last a fuckin' minute, puss!" I had to muster up all my training as a psychoanalyst in order to ignore my annoying patient. Moving away from the subject I asked up about his teammates. "Pff. Buncha dinks, all of 'em. Lemme tell ya somethin', guy...Dis whole team here? Not necessary, brah. Jus' put me out 'dere all alone. I can get all the intelligence needed, and them wusses on th' other side won't even know I was 'dere." With that he began to flex his arm muscles. "I mean look at that, eh? Heh. That's beautiful, innit? Thing of beauty." In spite of any other questions I asked him, he chose to ignore me, in favor of complimenting himself and flexing his muscles some more, at which point I opted to end the interview right then and there. ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- Scout is a textbook case of narcissistic personality disorder to be sure, but I was intrigued by the other minor neurosises I was able to detect in him. He showed vague signs of homoeroticism in the way he handled the small aluminum bat he brought with him to the meeting, and the way he kept bragging to me certainly implied some sort of way of compensating for SOMETHING. (Histrionic Personality Disorder?) ---------------------------- THE DEMOMAN ---------------------------- "Arright." He mumbled, setting himself down in the chair opposite of me, with a half-empty bottle of scotch. "Y'can ask any question y'want. Even aboot th' eye." Alright. I asked him about how he lost his eye, but he snapped at me just as quickly as he'd told me it was okay. "ACH! What'd ah jus say?! Nae questions aboot th' eye, ya poncey bastard!" He was clearly inebriated, and he smelled like a combination of cheap alcohol and gunpowder. "Yer type jes ain't appreciative o' th' work ah do." He slurred. "Jes' like the rest o' this damn team." With that he began to make mocking gestures with his hands, neglecting to close up his bottle of scotch, spilling it all over the furniture. "Ooooh, they think they're sooooo smart! Tha' they can do this job without me! Oh anyone can blow somefin' up! Is eeeeasy!" With every word he grew more and more intense. "IS NOT EASY, YA FOCKIN' BASTARDS!!!" I was growing discouraged, but the Demoman kept ranting on. "There's a certain fine art fer' this sorta thing...One tha' me stupid teammates could ne'er hope ta understand! 'ave they e'er been stuck with th' decision between nitro glycerine, glyceryl trinitrate, an' trinitroxypropane?! NO! They'd all be dead men if t'weren't fer me!" Our discussion was cut short however, when he passed out and fell out of his chair. I decided to let myself out, as he began drunkenly singing "Danny Boy." ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- The alcoholism is obvious. Less obvious is the bi-polar disorder that keeps popping up over and over. I suspect that's what caused all the outbursts. That he knows so much about explosives is troubling, but I don't chalk that up to any sort of mental disorder. He just has an odd job. THE SNIPER At first glance he didn't seem like a bad person, in fact for the first half of our session I was quite charmed by him. He's a very likeable and friendly fellow who answered all the questions I asked of him politely and cordially. It's just a shame that his job is to kill people... "It's noice work if y'can get it." He chimed in a chipper voice. "If yeh good at it, too. And I AM good...Not t'boast, though." When I asked him about his family however, he grew that much more cold. "Y'can't 'ave a family in this line o'work. It's just not done....and m'parents? Don't talk t'me about em. All th' time they're buggin' me about how my honest line o' work is nuffin' more than commitin' atrocities." He leaned in as if he was explaining something extremely complicated to me, and I felt a little bit distressed by this. "Y'see...Assassination is by proxy a SERVICE. An' there are people that NEED the service, which I provide to them. It's not an atrocity, it's economic stimulation. Now 'ere's a good example...Y'don't begrudge the exterminator for ridding your house of vermin, do yeh?" I agreed. "Roight, then what business do people have to begrudge me for ridding the planet of people for someone? What is a sniper after all, but an exterminator of human vermin?" I could see his logic, but that didn't help the foul taste in my mouth. ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- His contempt and disregard for his fellow man (And willingness to compare them to vermin) indicates a strong case of depersonalization disorder, and while I know that it's important to know about your craft, his expanded interest and knowledge in his job of killing people was disturbing to say the least. Ergomania- more commonly known as being a workaholic -may be a factor. ---------------------------- THE PYRO ---------------------------- Goodness, where to begin with this one? I couldn't understand a word that he (or she?) was saying behind that gas mask, and I asked him/her many times to remove it, but adamantly he/she refused every time. Perhaps it's just as well, though. For the majority of our session he/she paid no attention to me whatsoever, choosing instead to play with the lighter that he/she had brought with him/her, or to simply gaze around the room. (Presumably to look for more things to burn.) He/she disturbed me more than Heavy or Sniper had, and that was compounded further by the fact that I couldn't see his/her face behind the gas mask, so it looked as though it was always staring blankly and emptily. It was very surreal. After a while Pyro left early to go chase some butterflies. (And set them ablaze.) Fine. We were making little progress to begin with, and that he/she didn't care enough to pay any attention to me was irking me. ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- I shouldn't have to spell out the implications of pyromania. A part of me wonders too if he/she also suffers from some form of communication apprehension in how he/she refused or avoided the opportunity to communicate clearly with me. One can only wonder. ---------------------------- THE MEDIC ---------------------------- Any hopes that talking with a fellow man of medicine would be even slightly enjoyable were quashed almost immediately with Medic's first line of dialogue: "I should say right now zat I have nothing but contempt for you and your trade." That threw me for a loop, so I asked him to clarify. "Oh PLEASE. Psychiatry? Pfff! Zat ees not a REAL science! You and all your predecessors are hacks! Trying to figure out vhat makes zee human mind tick by talking...Dumkopf! Zhere ees only vun- UNT ONLY VUN -vay to figure zhat out." With that he pulled a hacksaw dripping with what I HOPED was tomato juice. "Unt zat vey ees manually." Chills ran up my spine. The rest of the session didn't go well, because I couldn't get through a single question without Medic stopping me to make fun of me, my PhD, and my trade as a whole. He also spoke in great, extremely graphic detail about his time spent working in places not generally associated with his usual craft. Among them slaughterhouses, leatherworking shops, morgues, and even a suicide clinic. "Ja, those vhere fun times." He waxed nostalgically. "In addition to my usual pay I got my pick of zee carcasses. Zhose made for some fun experimentations." Then apropos of nothing he added: "Did you know zhat I vunce took za brain of a notorious murderer and brought it back to life in za body of a silverback gorilla?" There was a long, awkward pause. "Lets see your psychiatry do ZAT, eh?" ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- Definitely sadistic personality disorder, mixed with depersonalization disorder. A mental cocktail of distressing proportions. ---------------------------- THE SOLDIER ---------------------------- While speaking with Scout was annoying, nothing could have prepared me for my session with Soldier. At least Scout was reserved enough to simply ask what I was taking notes on, and brag obsessively. Whenever I tried to do ANYTHING, Soldier would shout at me and chastise me for "doing it wrong." "YOU CALL THAT PSYCHO-ANALYSIS?! You sickly little WORM! You couldn't utilize the Jungian method if you were the man himself!" Soldier seems to be stuck in some sort of delusion of reality where he is a drill sargeant for everything. For all his shouting and barking of orders though, there's not a whole lot to back it up...except for his enormous rocket launcher, of course... For every question I asked him he went off on a strange, long-winded tangent, without ever actually answering the question. "You question me?! How DARE you question a superior officer in a time of war! You should be court-martialed, you scum!" "I've never SEEN such insubordination in all my years, maggot!" "Don't you ask me questions, pipsqueak! I WILL ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE! Now why aren't you asking any questions?!" "I've dealt with punks like you before back on the beaches of Normandy! And now they're 12 feet below sea level with shrapnel in their heads!!!" That particular outburst was strange to me, because he didn't look to be that much older than me, and if he HAD been a commanding officer at the storming of Normandy, he would have been about 90 years old by now. Since he had no recollection of time however, I was able to end the session quickly, but not before he forced me to do 50 jumping jacks. ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- A clear case of dementia coupled with delusions of grandeur, which as a result have also produced a form of perfectionism in him. There is so much wrong with this man that it's staggering to think about it. He refused to tell me anything about his past, so there's no way that I can know for sure what's brought on all these neurosises. ---------------------------- THE ENGINEER: ---------------------------- When I met Engineer for out session he offered me a beer, and opened our conversation with a quote from Chaucer. I liked him immediately. Engineer is very much grounded in reality, and seems to be a rather happy, hard-working individual. We had an enjoyable conversation and he was cordial and polite all through it, and I felt charmed again like I had with Sniper. Speaking about his job he spoke in a very deep manner: "Now y'see, these other fellers I work with? ...They like to destroy. Even th' Medic. Me on the other hand...I like to create. Admittedly some of my creations assist in destruction in one way or another, but I feel a lot better going to sleep at night." The only thing about him which felt off was the way that he consistently was looking behind his shoulder, expecting there to be a spy. "You'll have to excuse me, but when you've done this as long as I have, you come to expect spies at every step...See, they're always sappin' mah sentry, see...and destroying all the good work I have put my effort into. I don't suppose there's a medical term for fear of sentry-sappin', is there?" I told him there was no such term. "Ah, I didn't think so, but I thought it wouldn't hurt t'ask." he said with a chuckle. ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- Minor paranoia, coupled with some perfectionism. I might say that his fear of spies sapping his sentry turrets is an irrational fear, if it didn't happen so much as he says. ---------------------------- THE SPY ---------------------------- Spy made his disdain for the whole psychiatric evaluation known immediately with a single phrase: "Let's get zis over with. I have pressing business to attend to." He didn't say much, and was very disrespectful of me the whole way through. The inflection in his voice gave off a very smug feeling of superiority. He was either very rude or very angry. Or both. "You want to know about my job? About how I like it? Fine. I'll go along with zis idiotic little ruse. My job is in simple terms to both not exist, and be other people." He went into detail about how seriously took his job...extremely creepy details. "It's not something you go half-heartedly with. Any amateur can simply put on a mask and go 'Look everyone! My name is....Heavy! I'm zee guy you all know!" Apparently he didn't know anyone's real name either. "I on the other hand, in all my prying, snooping, and spying, take it a step further. I have vital information on all the members of the opposing team. Complete, intricate biographies, their hobbies, their dislikes...everything." I was deeply disturbed by this. "Spying and acting after all are one and the same, except with acting you entertain your audience...with spying you murder them." He took a long drag on his cigarette. "Can I go now?" ---------------------------- DIAGNOSIS: ---------------------------- Perfectionism, sadism, identity dysphoria, and a cold contempt for his fellow man. It was all there, and I hope for goodness sake that I never have to share a room with such a troublesome and sinister character ever again in my career. --------------------------------------------------------------- Those are my diagnosises on the members of the members of RED. At this point there is nothing else to do but to send my report in to the head of the organization. I think I will deliver it to him personally. --------------------------------------------------------------- This article is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Cole Dimpsey, PhD. The man was killed delivering some files by a RED Spy, who thought he was carrying the squad's intelligence. He will be postumously nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. 1961-2009 ---------------------------------------------------------------



haha crash out~