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It was a sunny, beautiful day. The noise of the distant morning commute could be heard for miles, and the wind swept throughout the outskirts of town. The grass grew, the birds flew, and the sun shone.

However, there was nothing beautiful about the carnage taking place during that day. The sun itself was a witness to yet another bloodbath spilled daily near the two bases owned by two major corporations.

There was a ferocious battle taking place in Dustbowl. BLU team was pushing into RED territory, and RED soon found itself holding on desperately to their last control point. The Heavy had waddled his way back into a corner of the control point with the Medic strafing around him to prevent any future backstabs. The Soldier and the Demoman were waiting at the entrance for the enemy. The Engineer was already fixing up his buildings in a snug little corner. And the  Spy and Pyro were making their regular rounds about the possible entrance routes.

As arrows flew and the Spy came back with the smell of burnt hair and clothing, the Heavy noticed the BLU sniper was aggressively attacking him with his new weapons. However, where was their sniper? And where’s that little baby man?

None of this, though, bothered the two gentlemen who had ditched the action for the relative peace at Gravelpit. In fact, they were sitting on a control point miles away, having their own little picnic.

The Sniper got out merely because of an excuse about his bladder. After convincing the Medic that all he needed was a trip to the bathroom (and not surgical removal with the bonesaw), he hopped into his van and sped off to rendezvous with the Scout, who complained that his ball had flown out of the fence and he had to go retrieve it. Poor excuses, but nobody missed the two. The battle went on without them.

So it was, the Sniper and the Scout having a dainty little picnic under the shade from their umbrella.

“Beer?”

“Nah. I prefer tacos.”

The two sat back, listening to the noises of gunfire and explosions in the distance. Occasionally, the Sniper would go on a high perch and “fire” off a few arrows in the general direction of the noises while the Scout would hit his balls (he found a couple of Sandmen on the way). That way, they could claim that they were “part of the action.”

Crunch, crunch

The Sniper’s ear quickly picked up on the noise. He quickly reached under the picnic blanket for his kukri.

Instead of an open confrontation, he received a faceful of gravel that stung his face.

“Hey!”

The Scout brushed at his face, upset at the annoyance. “Gravel? What a nuisance!”

Suddenly, a BLU spy appeared right before their eyes. Dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, he looked far too well-cut to kick gravel in somebody’s face. He carried a gold watch in his left hand, instead of his normal gray watch. He looked at the duo with sheer disgust.

The Spy sneered. “Haw haw haw, what are you going to do? Run five miles and shoot me?”

“Ye-; No…” The Sniper was at a loss for words. How did he know? With his severely underpowered submachine gun, he could not fight at close range combat effectively. His kukri was ineffective at dealing with someone who actually knew how to fight hand-to-hand.

The Scout, however, had no trouble dealing with those “dime-a-dozen backstabbing scumbags.” With a single blast of his scattergun, the sneering gentleman instantly fell to the ground. And died.

The Sniper took off his hat to pay his respects. How often did the Spy go down so quickly?

“Not often enough.”

The last thing the Sniper saw was a silver revolver with a huge barrel and engravings on its side. He also heard the Spy’s signature cackle, the laugh that told him that he had been backstabbed once again. How did he know?

And then the blood poured out from his head.

* * *

The Sniper sat in his van, feeling miserable at his failure. Not only did a BLU spy dispatch him and the Scout, he had been chastised severely for playing hooky. Obviously, somebody noticed and tattled, although it might have been one of those cameras that she installed everywhere, from the dorms to the latrines.

How did she know?

He remembered the chastisement from the Announcer. He had been summoned after he and the Scout bought some tacos from the taco truck outside of their dorms.

*FZZT* SNIPER PLEASE REPORT TO THE OFFICE *FZZT*

He knew what to expect. The middle-aged lady sat in her arm chair, back facing the Sniper. The lack of lighting only made it seem more ominous. The stench of her cigarette was overpowering.

“Tell me, why did you skip out on the match?”

The Sniper’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Well?”

He scratched his head. Time to use the excuse that he had used so often. “Well…nobody seems to think much of me, ma’am. I mean, they claim I hang back too much, and-”

She waved and cut him off. “I’ve given you two unlockables already. The Huntsman and the Razorback. If you can’t make use out of them, then I don’t see what use I can make out of you!”

She paused. “Get out, and do NOT disappoint me again.“

Now the Sniper was lying on his bed. He couldn’t confront his teammates. Not after he had ditched them. His only refuge now was the pile of comics he had under his bed. Superman, Batman, he loved them. None of them had the merits of Saxton Hale, though.

Saxton Hale. The Australian Alan Quartermaine. That handsome, muscular man with the large amounts of chest hair and incredibly short cut-off pants. He was his childhood hero, his idol and model. And like the Hank Aaron poster in the Scout’s dorm, he had posters of him. Pictures, flyers, comics, even fanfic that he never dared to publish. Whenever the Sniper had a bad day or just plumb was in a bad mood, he turned to Saxton Hale for answers.

He started flipping through his comic book. And there he found his answer.

It was a comic. And not just an ordinary one. It had somebody just like him, bullied around by a troublesome BLU spy. And on the second row, he saw himself, reading a similar comic. It was him, discovering Jarate.

Just like how I am learning about it now breathed the Sniper in amazement.

Suddenly, he yelped. He kicked a chair across the room. It was all coming to him now. And something happened just then -

He remembered everything. From the ancient Aborigines, he saw the ancient art in his head now. From the ancient ancestors of long past, he understood the guarded secret. And from the Australian blood in his veins, he felt a connection to Saxton Hale – the Australian Chuck Norris. This message was a god-send, and he was now a prophet.

I’ll never have to worry about lack of urinary privileges ever again! thought the Sniper as he cut out the order form and put in the $5 from the allowance money Mum sent him.

* * *

The box came to the Sniper almost two days after he sent the order in. In it were Saxton Hale Jarate pills, a trophy, and a couple of jars. However, the Sniper didn’t read the instructions. Even worse, he didn’t even read the part about the Saxton Hale Pain Tonic. It wasn’t in the box.

The Sniper downed the pills. Within seconds, he felt something near his sides expand. The size of his kidneys tripled as expected. They started filtering his liquid wastes like never before!

After a minute, he had completely filled all four jars. And he still needed more.

He had to keep it a secret though. After all, the instructions had told him to keep this secret art to himself for reasons of “public health and decency.”

It wasn’t easy. He saw the Announcer pop a few aspirins and a few forehead veins after he ran out of a briefing mid-meeting. The Heavy looked at him with an odd look on his face, troubled by the Sniper’s constant running in and out of the dining hall. He told the Engineer to take his night-watchman post, as he could not stay for a few seconds before having to urinate again.

I really gotta buy more jars thought the Sniper as he walked to his van to take a trip to the local convenience store.

Hours later, the Medic came across the moaning and mumbling Sniper, clutching his chest as if he wanted to rip his organs out.

* * *

The Sniper woke up to a world of aches and pains. He felt as if a million little Spies were inside him, puncturing his organs with their butterfly knives. It felt as if his organs were shutting down. He was bedridden and had to be kept under watch 24/7 to prevent his symptoms from getting worse. Only the Sniper’s glassy, pitiful eyes prevented the good Doc from satisfying his curiosity on him.

“He looks awful.”

“Musta been the tacos.”

The Sniper took the trash can and vomited for the 14th time in the day. And most of that vomit was blood, too.

Being between life and death and teetering towards the latter, he thought of his Mum and his Dad. He thought of past memories on the range, living on his own in the outback before he had been taken away to fight for RED. Most importantly, though, he thought of his friends, his teammates that he had abandoned. He should’ve helped him – after all, he was of some importance, right?

“Maybe I should’ve been a doctor like Dad said,” groaned the Sniper as he gave in to his exhaustion.

* * *

White. Was he in heaven? All he could see was white.

He blinked. No. It was some sort of material. What was it?

A paper. It was familiar. As the light reached the Sniper’s eyes, he saw that it was quite colorful. The morning light was going through the paper, filtering the colors from the other side.

He turned it over. It was that same comic, the one he had read back in his trailer. Before he had gotten himself into this mess with that Jarate crap.

How could you, Saxton Hale?

Looking closely at the paper though, he saw discrepancies. The first part of the comic was just the way it was before. However, in the last part of the comic, he saw that the original drawings had been scribbled over. In its place was a crude drawing of figure reminiscent of the BLU Spy. Underneath his feet was a corpse with a knife sticking out of the back. And that corpse was on a hospital bed…

No…

He heard a chuckle. He heard the flicking of a knife. He heard it too often. And for once, he found himself helpless. Even scared.

The BLU Spy flicked his knife once more as he advanced on the bed, carrying with him a sinister aura. The Sniper swore that he could fit a slice of watermelon in the Spy’s smile.

The Sniper got off the bed and backed away. The adrenaline was pumping within him now. He took out his kukri. If he was going to die, he would with his face to the enemy.

The Sniper glared at the Spy. “How did you get in here?”

The Spy smirked. “Your poor fat friend was obviously distracted with his disgusting food. The Sandviches. When I killed him, he found three other sandviches just lying around. Fat got his tongue.”

He lit a cigarette. “I see that you’ve resorted to desperate measures just to defeat me. You disgust me. You were so gullible, falling for that lowbrow ruse I called Jarate.”

The Sniper’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

“I sneaked into your trailer. I gave you something from your so-called childhood hero, Saxton Hale, who is obviously in financial trouble. I mean, who would charge people $5 just to teach them how to piss in a jar?

“The truth is, I did it to humiliate you. What would the world think of a the great “Adelaide Assassin”? He now pisses in a jar just to defeat someone like me!” The Spy’s laugh rang throughout the room. “You’re nothing, you don’t stand a chance against me. And the world will finally see the fool in you. And I will finally be known as the best class in the world!”

Then, once again, he disappeared.

Blood pounded in the Sniper’s head. What am I going to do? His teammates were gone, he was alone with a kukri against a skilled assassin. He rushed out of the room in sheer panic.

“You can run, but you can’t hide!” rang out a voice somewhere near the Sniper.

He rushed down the hallway. As much as his sides ached, he had to keep going. he didn’t know where to go, or what to do when he got there. His legs just carried him.

“What are you going to do? Run 20 meters and shoot me?”

The Sniper burst into the lab room, where the Medic usually operated on his hapless subjects. He bolted the door and sat on the blood-stained operating table, gasping for breath. There was nothing he could do…

I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die-

“Peekaboo!”

An arm snaked out of nowhere and slashed at the Sniper. Had it not been for the Sniper’s quick reflexes, he would’ve received more than just a facial wound. Nevertheless, the shock of it all drove the Sniper back into a row of shelves, where the Medic was studying the Sniper’s urine samples.

The Sniper, bloodied and battered, looked up above him.

Take it…

As if on instinct, the Sniper snatched a jar from the shelf. What am I going to do with this jar of urine?

Use it…

“Maybe they should bury you in that van you call home!” cackled the Spy as he raised his knife for the kill.

Now!

The Sniper tossed the jar of urine. As it arched across the room, the Spy’s smirk was quickly replaced by one of shock. It was then replaced with a look of fear.

The jar shattered as the Spy received a faceful of the Sniper’s liquid bodily wastes. The urine stained the Spy’s Hugo Boss suit. There was a sound of electricity, and then the Spy was fully uncloaked.

“Is this…?!” cried the Spy in anguish.

With the last ounce of his strength, the Sniper stabbed the Spy with his kukri. Before the Spy died, though, he gave the Jarate master a look of agony, a look of the deepest hate that one could possibly possess.

The Spy spat out these last words through his gritted teeth: “I HATE -”

The Sniper took out his kukri and the Spy fell to the ground covered in the Sniper’s urine and his own blood.

The Adelaide Assassin paid his respects.

* * *

The following days passed quickly. After finding the Spy’s cache of Saxton Hale Pain Tonic Pills (which he took from the box before it was delivered to the Sniper), he quickly recovered.

The Medic didn’t get to satisfy his curiosity. However, the Sniper’s incredibly effective kidneys never ceases to amaze the Medic.

The RED and BLU Spy’s disgust for the Sniper only grew. “Filthy jar man,” they would mutter behind the Sniper’s back.

Thanks to the Sniper’s ingenious new weapon, he could now fight effectively at close-range. He would toss his jar of urine at the enemies. They would cower in fear and lose the will to live. They would die either from the Sniper’s kukri or from the bullets of his teammates. And even if they escaped, it would haunt every living, waking moment of their lives.

Even better, everybody was now grateful to the Sniper for saving his life when the Engineer accidentally left the task of grilling burgers to the Pyro. They were all a little disgusted, but nevertheless, grateful. And the Sniper quickly learned that he was now a team player, and that friendship is indeed golden.

After a day of chucking his jars around, the Sniper retired to the trailer. On his desk was not only a picture of his parents, but also a jar of urine.

And if you look closely enough in the yellowish fluid, you can see the smiling, rugged muscular Australian man who turned the Sniper into a weapon of mass destruction. It’s cheap, it’s found everywhere, it’s easily used -

It’s Jarate.