meet-the-net

[meet-the-net]

Went down to the post office this morning to pick up some packages.

The survey response from @meet-the-net came back!

I'm going to open it and-

Oh great heavens.

Well that's another mark on the "Do Not Contact" list I suppose.

[meet-the-net]

Hello. The following is a message from the Teufort Census Bureau.

How would you rate your current employment?

Thank you for your co-operation.

@tf2-data-collection-agency

The pen almost raptures the paper, leaving on its surface deep scars in forms of letters. "Hello Teufort Census Bureau. Not good. Do not contact me again. Thank y͟o͟u for y͟o͟ur co-operation." Crooked and careless, the letter is shoved into its envelope as he makes his way to the mail room in order to send it. The audacity. The gall. He catches himself grumbling Nordic vulgarisms under his breath.

[meet-the-net]

Meet the Net (partially) 🦀

Character sheet/Masterpost. Continuous. Fun and not so fun facts about Frode. ⤵

Facts ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏

General 𖦹 Frode Havn, born 25th of August 1934 (34 yrs at time of employment with TFI) in Selbyen, Norway. 𖦹 Refused to take on the name "Ned" after signing with Team Fortress Industries. 𖦹 Support class, despite his defensiveness. 𖦹 Only child of Frida and Emil Team Fortress Industries. 𖦹 Brown eyes, black hair, 5'6. 𖦹 Ambidextrous. 𖦹 Trans man; voice went from this to this vocal range. 𖦹 Pansexual. 𖦹 Heavy smoker. 𖦹 No tattoos, only scars. Language 𖦹 Heavy Norwegian accent. Will occasionally outright refuse to speak English. Doesn't care about being understood or proper grammar. 𖦹 Raises his voice frequently, to intimidate or to make a point. A shrill, intense laugh, though rare. 𖦹 Swears like a sailor, despite his inability to sail a boat. Hobbies & Interests 𖦹 Brewing heimabrygg, a delectable ale made with local juniper branches and kveik, a brewer's yeast. What remains of it is sold to those who ask. May taste slightly soapy at times... 𖦹 With the ingredients right on his doorstep, Frode repurposes his brewing station to create soap bars of different fragrances. The slightly stinging smell of alcohol lies within each piece. 𖦹 Listening to classical music. The more dramatic, the better. 𖦹 Attempting to befriend the local fauna to no avail. He fears they can smell the guilt on him. Traits 𖦹 Enjoys catastrophic weather and will purposefully leave the house during storms and hail, the electric air inexplicably irresistible to him. 𖦹 Thinks fishing is boring, but finds the spoils of a good catch thrilling. Consequently, he mostly uses a harpoon to complete the task as quickly as possible. However, he will never gut or debone a fish. Never again. 𖦹 Stand-offish, and not in an awkward or charming way. Will eerily observe from the sidelines and either shut down or crumble at any bit of kindness thrown his way.

History ﹏ ོ☼﹏𓆞

𖦹 In 1940, when Frode was 6 years old, Nazis invaded the country and occupied the village for their resources, such as fish and metal. Many villagers stayed behind and were forced to work for and host the scum. But because dark hair and eyes were traits that could, at that time, get someone killed, and the Havn family happened to possess those, they fled into a hidden nearby mountainside bunker for self-preservation. 𖦹 Having learned about the ongoings in the village, his young mind began being plagued by the terror of his friends' peril at the hands of the Germans. In an act of disquietude, he exited the bunker in the stillness of the night to convince himself of their safety. 𖦹 Alerted soldiers caught wind of the small intruder. With all the velocity his short legs could muster, Frode hurtled for the only shelter he knew – the bunker – oblivious to the dire repercussions. Scratched up from charging through the bushes concealing the bunker, and barely having opened the heavy steel door, a young Frode was apprehended, wailing warnings into the dimly lit concrete block. In horror, he had to watch his parents and grandparents get dragged out of hiding and into the village and onto a truck. A last look at petrified faces screaming hurried "I love you"'s, the thump of metal doors shutting, and the vehicle disappeared into the dusk. 𖦹 As the only serviceable family member – due to his youth, health and nimble hands – Frode was quickly put to work in the production of cod filets to nourish those who'd taken everything from him. Countless of spines plucked out of descaled, hollowed fish – five years of labor. Meanwhile, he resided – but never truly lived – with his aunt Lena. 𖦹 The end of the war and retreat of the Germans brought barely any relief, the shambles of the village and the knowledge of having doomed his family too heavy on Frode's conscious. 𖦹 All remnants of the feverishly joyous child he once was had dissipated, leaving merely a furious husk. A front of anger had risen to disguise a deeply damaged, frightened boy. All he's had to hold onto was the self-made illusion of superiority, of usefulness. 𖦹 Guilt tainting his mind and regret staining his soul had brought him to actively seek out solitude – verbally and physically disunifying himself from his peers – disbelieving in the capabilities of human relations soothing his apprehension. He'd lost family to friendship. He would not let that happen again.

𖦹 Frequent outbursts and the tension that loomed over the house afterwards put Frode at near constant risk of expulsion from Lena's residence – empty threats attempting to straighten out his attitude, unbeknownst to him. Exasperated by the tornado subsisting in the spare bedroom, she had to establish a reverse curfew, forcing him out of the house through most of the day. 𖦹 To busy his hands elsewise, to numb his mind somehow, Frode frantically delved into various hobbies, picking up quite a variety of different skills. Neighbors' toolsheds secretly served as facilities for his experiments, combining what he'd observed the village brewer concoct with the material available in the sheds to create truly atrocious beverages. When inevitably found out, the neighbor couldn't refuse to help a curious mind get further in life, and referred the 15 year old boy to the brewer, who initially reluctantly took him under his wing. 𖦹 Through being salaried and using his free time to help out various other shops for small allowances, saving up enough to eventually move into his own small apartment at 20 years of age. He took on many side jobs, never leaving himself enough time to think and therefore burst into wrath. 𖦹 A company, run by outsiders of the village community, called Dyr Her & Der Animal Relocation emerged out of nowhere to monitor and manage the rapidly increasing seal population. When they started offering guided tours of the seals nesting grounds as a marketing strategy, the number of international tourists in Selbyen rose exponentially. But a lack of infrastructure, as the village ironically lacked a proper fish shop, resulted in the quick dwindling of tourists. Frode made a pretty penny in those months as a plushie producer, although he had trouble selling his wares at the souvenir shop, partially due to his loose grasp on the English language, another part due to his brashness. 𖦹 ... 𖦹 ...

𖦹 Empty 𖦹 ... 𖦹 Frode stirs. Fluorescents shrink his pupils. The memory of a hauntingly vacant village pierces his mind like a rusty screw. He cannot place it, it must've been an odd dream. Purple blurs leaning over him analyze his predicament. Something about 'The cloning process…' and '…memories deviate from the blueprint's.'. Screaming bloody murder in the tongue of the north, clawing himself free of the tubes in his arms, taking dazed swings at the people in their shining lab coats and violet dress shirts – all that proves sufficient for administration to deem him a fitting member of team Reliable Excavation Demolition. The declawed animal has fangs yet. 𖦹 After re-awakening from sedation handcuffed to a chair, the woman with the black hairdo and crooked glasses is able to explain to a snarling, fuming Frode both his options: Work for them or perish. 𖦹 Despite his life's mediocrity and self-inflicted solitude, it's dear enough to him to decide for the labor. After all, not much in life would ever be as taxing as digging his fingers around the freezing corpses of cods, near continually for half a decade. He never could've suspected how much worse it'd be; having him work with weapons so similar to those they had pressed against his temples when his vision blurred and his knees buckled beneath him from exhaustion. 𖦹 Incapable of showing a hint of his immeasurable terror – be it due to pride or shame – he has no choice but to oblige, albeit unnecessarily nonchalantly. 𖦹 While gritting his teeth through the signing of his contract, he's filled in about his very existence being nothing but the misshapen copy of an existing man. That all memories of half a life lived are nothing but artificially firing neurons, fabrications, unreality. A premise so ridiculous it boils his blood, dizzies him, throws him for a loop. Yet when his lungs and eyes start burning from the volume of his defensiveness, and being met with a little red pointing light on his chest, he manages to chalk it up as some excuse for much worse events having transpired in his amnesic state. The last information he receives before being evicted from the administration building is the village's vacantness, that for this paid slaughter they needed to move out the residents. Including Lena. Despite their differences, she sustained him until he was ready to live on his own, and beyond. He couldn't possibly let another family member come to harm at his hands. 𖦹 One of those very hands grasps the suitcase holding spare uniforms, the contract and the components of a handheld harpoon gun. When he reenters Selbyen, when he makes his way to where he thinks he resided, he finds an emptiness. But not a silence. Sorrowful tunes waft through the air from the opposite side of the village. There is someone else. Someone with an uncannily similar visage that he'd face soon enough... Their meeting here. To be continued.

[meet-the-net]

𝐃𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.

To accommodate for the higher temperatures in New Mexico, compared to the nordic ones, some adjustments have been made to Ned's uniform. Though not necessarily to his benefit, but that of TFI.

- His hat remains. As a constant, agonizing reminder of where he came from, as well as at least some protection from the sun. - His thick yellow sweater has been replaced by a light cotton button up shirt. He still rolls the sleeves up, because the rigidness of the shirt prevents him from bending his elbows all too much. - His cardigan, too, has been replaced by a lighter, short sleeved button up. - For added mobility when crouching, as well as leg ventilation, Ned rolled up his pant legs and called it a day. TFI couldn't be bothered to get him a cropped pair either. It'd be a waste of resources to provide custom tailored clothing to their workers. For free at least. - His rubber boots have been replaced with Converse Lake Stream wading boots. Just in case he should ever get near a body of water again. - Additionally, he's been given a pair of chamois leather fishing gloves. It helps his now even sweatier hands to get a hold of his mostly metallic weaponry. Due to some motoric malfunctions when he wears full gloves, he's cut off the fingertips. This also helps with ventilation. Don't tell TFI...

[meet-the-net]

„The only Jack...“ Ned repeats under his breath. Without much hesitation, Ned lays the newspaper on the ground and rises from his chair as he was taught growing up, to shake Jack’s hand. Realizing he's taller than the RED stranger alleviates some of his misgivings, though the thought that Jack had officially confirmed himself to be a collegial enemy gives him a bit of a stomach ache. “Fr– Ned. Ned, they call me Ned. All the way from Noreg. Oh wait, no. You would call it "Norway", I think. The way of the nor...–th. Hah. North way. I just got that." he smirks as he mutters his realization mostly to himself, his gaze at the empty ground next to them, his hand ceasing the shake and his arms crossing before his chest now. Just to give them a place to rest, as to stop fidgeting around too much. "Happy to know your name, Jack. But…” His expression reflects his perplexity, albeit through a grin. A quite cheeky one at that. “...Would it not be a little difficult to find two people called Jack in a group of eleven people? The, uh, chances seem very low for there to be multiple Jack's. Is that... really a special thing to mention? "The one and only"? I do not mean to down-talk your uniqueness, I am just wondering if you have ever been in a group of eleven people, that was made of more than one person called Jack?" his smug grin momentarily increases into a chuckle before he rests his face into an overconfident sneer.

🎣 @the-jack-class with Jack :]

'... Though, when I think about it, many people have corner teeth* that sharp.'

"Thank you. It was my father's. Now it is mine. How did YOU acquire your hat?" he attempts some small talk, immediately regretful of the plainness of the question.

(*canines translate to hjørnetenner in Norwegian, hjørne = corner, tenner = teeth)

[meet-the-net]

🎣~ Ned the Net (Tf2 OC) Stimboard—

🌊~ For— @meet-the-net

🎣~ With— Fishing, Ocean and Marine life related stims

🌊~ Credits—

🎣/🌊/🎣

🌊/🎣/🌊

🎣/🌊/🎣

[meet-the-net]

OC questions

60 questions that can be made into an OC ask game, or you can just fill everything out yourself to get to know your character a little better :)

___

[1] What first impression do they typically make? Are they likeable from the get go, or take time to grow on people?

[2] How does their social personality differ from how they act when they’re alone?

[3] What emotion is the hardest for them to deal with?

[4] How physically and emotionally affectionate they are?

[5] Are they good at keeping secrets?

[6] How direct are they in conversations, do they speak in hints and riddles or bluntly say what they think?

[7] Are they a good liar, and what would they probably lie about?

[8] How open they are about their true feelings, both positive and negative?

[9] What is their love language?

[10] How quickly do they fall for someone?

[11] What are small things that make them happy?

[12] How high is their self-esteem?

[13] What kind of sense of humor do they have, if any?

[14] What does it take to make them laugh, and what does their laugh sound like?

[15] How do they act around people they don't like?

[16] Do they easily rely on others to help them out, or prefer doing everything themselves?

___

[17] What is their biggest struggle that no one around them is able to understand or believe?

[18] Do they ever have to hide their identity and for what reason?

[19] If they could change one thing about their past, what would they change?

[20] When they’re sad or upset, do they need company or some time alone?

[21] When they’re sick, would they want others to visit and take care of them, or they would rather prefer not to be seen at not their best?

[22] Do they have nightmares, and if yes, when did they start and what are they usually about?

[23] What was the worst, the darkest period of their life that they have been through?

[24] How hard it is for them to not allow their emotions to cloud their judgement?

[25] Do they have fears and phobias, and if they do, do they usually keep it to themselves or talk about it openly?

[26] Do they have any physical or mental ilness, how do they handle it and how open they are about it?

[27] Do they have any scars, how did they get them and how do they feel about them?

[28] What is something that they will never be able to forgive?

[29] How do they deal with loss, stress and anger?

[30] What are their most healthy and most unhealthy coping mechanisms?

[31] How hard it is for them to own up to their mistakes and wrongdoings?

[32] Is there something they've done in the past that they deeply regret till this day?

[33] What are one of their fondest and most treasured memories?

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[34] Do they have vices they don't want others to know about?

[35] Do they like their own appearance, and what do they do, if anything, to alter it in any way?

[36] Do they own items that have sentimental value?

[37] How would they spend a lazy day when they have nothing specific to do?

[38] What do they usually do or where do they go when they need to feel comfortable and safe?

[39] What is their sleeping habits and favorite sleeping position, either alone and with someone?

[40] How picky they are with food, do they have specific dietary requirements based on their health or culture?

[41] What’s their usual morning routine?

[42] What is their idea of a perfect friendly hangout and/or romantic date?

[43] Do they enjoy flirting or being flirted with?

[44] On a party, where would you find them?

[45] For an event, would they dress like they typically do, or go all out?

[46] Would they rather dress to look attractive or to feel comfortable, and what would they never wear?

[47] Do they drink alcohol, and if they do, how much and how often?

[48] Are they, or were they at some point in their life, a part of any subculture?

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[49] Do they possess any unexpected skill or knowledge that surprises others, and otherwise, what is something anyone would assume they know or can do, but in fact they don’t?

[50] What are they really good and really bad at?

[51] How good are they with money?

[52] Do they speak any other languages aside from their own?

[53] Do they like to sing and how confident they are with their singing?

[54] Do they like giving gifts, and how good are they at picking good gifts?

[55] How long does it take for them to make a new place feel like home, and what do they need for it?

[56] How would they react to hearing a dirty joke?

[57] What was the most stupid or dangerous thing they have ever done?

[58] In the situation where they had to choose, would they rather stay loyal to their morals or to people they love?

[59] What would they want to be remembered for?

[60] If they were to commit a crime, what kind of crime would it most likely be?

---

some of these question were written myself, some are the courtesy of my friend, and some were brought from my questionnaires in my old fandom. if you use them, please reblog or link back to this post

[meet-the-net]

Gulp. "Heeeeey Maya..." through a timid grin.

Hello Maya!! I hope this letter finds you well! I found this question in a magazine about speaking to people. Since you will never know who sent this letter, I will hereby admit that I am too scared to ask it in person. Not because I am scared of y͟o͟u͟, but because I am scared of the answer. I hope you understand. Best wishes, Secret :^)

(The magazine snippet just barely contains the text:) Question 20: If they were to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so? (It seems to have been cropped right below the bottom row, cutting off the descender of the letter y and grazing the comma, snipping off its tail. Crammed above the word ‘platonic’ is a little drawing of a heart and a fish. ᰔ ><>)

Maya: I don’t think I can say anything about familial love.

Bonus:

Maya: The fish drawing was a bit of a dead giveaway, dear, but thanks for writing to me.

[meet-the-net]

Click. The tape containing Maya's response ejects from the player. Click. Ned removes the cap from his pen and composes another letter. It reads "Hello Maya! Caught me! (←Haha.) I listened to your answer. Very insightful, I thank you for that. :^D Actually, now that you mention it, my harpoon gun has been acting up lately. It has a little pull to the right. Big disturbenc disturbance when shooting people in front of me and not to my right. So, when do you have free time in the future? Best wishes, Fro Ned :^)" Click. A soft pop from his knees as he bends down to shove the paper underneath her door.

Hello Maya!! I hope this letter finds you well! I found this question in a magazine about speaking to people. Since you will never know who sent this letter, I will hereby admit that I am too scared to ask it in person. Not because I am scared of y͟o͟u͟, but because I am scared of the answer. I hope you understand. Best wishes, Secret :^)

(The magazine snippet just barely contains the text:) Question 20: If they were to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so? (It seems to have been cropped right below the bottom row, cutting off the descender of the letter y and grazing the comma, snipping off its tail. Crammed above the word ‘platonic’ is a little drawing of a heart and a fish. ᰔ ><>)

Maya: I don’t think I can say anything about familial love.

Bonus:

Maya: The fish drawing was a bit of a dead giveaway, dear, but thanks for writing to me.

[meet-the-net]

𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐛𝐨𝐰𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐧.

This Nordic man needs to get used to the scorching heat. He will definitely get sunburnt a LOT. His previous woolen uniform will have to be adjusted so he doesn't melt. Stay tuned ;3

[meet-the-net]

𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.

Just half a year later. Mere four thousand three hundred hours. Squeezed between had been some off days, but generally, Ned had lived through six months of hell. An infinite seeming loop of killing and dying. Uncountable rebirths through technology. Each free moment spent trying to get a hold of his displaced parents. Each foiled plan of establishing contact fueling his belligerence. At least the village itself held enough memories to soothe him into reminiscing better days. Until the dreaded letter was delivered.

The unsigned paper informed Ned of a thing called "location rotation", that BLU's and RED's time on Selbyen was up. Furthermore, they reported that the buildings of Selbyen had been riddled with bullets beyond repair that its upkeep was no longer a viable strategy for the company. Two small passenger airplanes would arrive the following day to take the teams “back” to the USA. Petrified of forever leaving the only place he’d ever known, Ned’s flight instinct overpowered him once more – as it did when Team Fortress Industries had first arrived – and he crammed himself beneath the floorboards in his bedroom that usually held his secrets. That night, he was the secret. An ever so disorganized stampede of indifferent mercenaries boarded the planes, navigated by administratively decreed pilots. A head count only came to one of their minds, halfway across the Atlantic at that. Short of one head – and a bit ashamed of not having noticed earlier – the “bravest” member of BLU was determined by vote and pushed stepped forth to gingerly admit their mistake to their purple pilot. To not delay their arrival any further – transporting a bunch of assassins with twitching, trigger happy fingers and immense boredom was a hazardous job – administration decided to deploy their fallback. Ripped from his Manndatory vacation, The BLU Pilot was tasked to either capture and return The Net… or “terminate his contract”.

Caught staring at the horizon that’d swallowed the plane containing the teammates he’d become accustomed to, the roaring of a small private two-seater plane from behind him left him exposed as a deer in headlights. Hiding quickly turned out to be a futile endeavor with every meter the plane crept closer to the short rocky path serving as an impromptu runway. After short, exasperated exhortation – The Pilot really had better things to do than chauffeur this stubborn fisherman across the globe – Ned agreed that the agonies endured and the time spent getting moderately accustomed to everyone in that half year would’ve been for naught, if he were to cast away his life contract, and therefore his family’s steady income, due to such rashness. After whispering bitter farewells to the sand, the shells, the seagulls and smoking his last cigarette on Norwegian grounds, Ned and his entire life contained in solely the two suitcases they’d found in the cargo hold, entered the airplane. Eighteen hours were spent in the air – it took Ned about four of them to cast a first glance out of the window, viewing the sea from heights he’d never been at in his life – and six hours in different airports for refueling the plane, their stomachs and their minds. After countless amounts of cigarettes smoked inside the cockpit and conversations made unpreventable by the confined space, but eventually appreciated and sought out, the airplane wheels touched American ground. The Badlands await him.

[meet-the-net]

"I would not say s͟c͟a͟r͟e͟d." he answers with a breathy chuckle, eyes scanning the intimidatingly empty surrounding area before returning to the stranger. "A bit nervous, yes, but that has more to do with my own beliefs. Beliefs that I d͟e͟f͟i͟n͟i͟t͟e͟l͟y have to revalue, because right now, they just seem r͟i͟d͟i͟c͟u͟l͟o͟u͟s." he trails off, fidgety forefinger and thumb rolling up the very corner of the newspaper in his lap. Merely the rustle of the paper brings his attention to the perfunctory activity, which he immediately ceases. To distract from, what he perceives as, his great rudeness, he picks up the scraps of information he'd received before. Before he'd scared himself into believing in the supernatural, that is. Although his environment – the respawn machine, the healing blue beam of his team's doctor, the weird green glow coming from the explosion man's eyepatch – would prove at the very least the existence of something beyond the natural. "...Not as ridiculous as not knowing where you come from, and if the people who are also from there all dress so d͟a͟p͟p͟e͟r?" He pronounces the cognate like its Norwegian variant, removing all enunciation from the 'E'. "People from this village usually only dress like that for special events, like weddings and funerals. I must say, I am a great fan of the vest. And the hat, but we already talked about the hat. A bit." he adds cautiously, a tense grin on his face.

🎣 @the-jack-class with Jack :]

'... Though, when I think about it, many people have corner teeth* that sharp.'

"Thank you. It was my father's. Now it is mine. How did YOU acquire your hat?" he attempts some small talk, immediately regretful of the plainness of the question.

(*canines translate to hjørnetenner in Norwegian, hjørne = corner, tenner = teeth)

[meet-the-net]

“Please do.” he sharply accepts her offer to check the plans for his parents’ home, more tortured by the worry, the anticipation, than out of malice towards her. Merely prepared for menial inquiries about light fixtures or more automatic doors, he allows himself to relax his shoulders, raise and unfurrow the eyebrows he notices had been strained throughout most of their conversation. A grave mistake. The last thing that truly remained his was his own privacy, the freedom to walk about the grounds and grumble and snarl at everything surrounding him to his heart’s content. Seems like all he gets to retain now is the loud, incomprehensive whirring of his own thoughts. A sudden numbness in his hands almost causes him to drop the speaker, so he clutches both increasingly sweaty palms around it. He approaches the window and distraughtly peers outside, eyes trying their best to scan the almost ink black premises for any sign of surveillance – a blinking light, the circular refraction of a lens, anything. In his concentration, he almost forgets to pick words from the whirlwinds in his mind, to speak them. Almost. “What… in the world… do you mean? What do you mean, cameras? Why cameras? Is my word and signature for a lifelong service and loyal…ness not enough? I have to be babysitted by machines now, too? You have got to be joking with me. PLEASE tell me you are joking with me.” his exasperated voice begs, cracking when it cannot handle the volume, almost as quivering as his bottom lip.

🎣 for Miss Kimiko pls! except she’s sort of not a field person so it’d mostly likely be through either phone call or the Contracker itself? whichever you feel is interesting haha

Suspiciously, as Ned wasn't expecting his parents – or anyone else for that matter – to call, he retrieves his rotary phone from his cupboard. God only knows why he keeps it there. Actually, she probably doesn't know either. Palms already perspiring, he masks the nervousness in his voice as he picks up – a voice foreign to him as of yet, less controllable than the one he'd lived with for 34 years. "Hello? Who is speaking?.." A mix of embarrassment and pride flush his cheeks in a soft rose tint as he manages to produce a voice crack in such few words.

[meet-the-net]

𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐯'𝐝, 𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐭.

-20hp -20hp -20hp -20hp -20hp -20hp -20hp

OOPS! The bucket didn't seem to have any effect. Congratulations to the winner! GG WP :D

𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐯𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞.

Will the slime of Ned's fish prevail?

Will it extinguish the bottled blaze hurled towards him by @trypo-p's Barman?

You decide in the Team Fortress 2 OC competition

[meet-the-net]

The Barman VS Ned

(Full matchup list here)

Alright team, here's a recap: This is a contest to determine who amongst you will take the top of the leaderboards and be hired at TFI! Simply put, whoever gets the most votes gets to move on, and whoever doesn't... Well. They'll be put down swiftly and cleanly. :}

So, mann your stations, because here are your next contestants! Vote for your favorite mercenary who you want to win the TF2 OC Contest! - P

OC INFO UNDER THE CUT!

We highly encourage you to take a peek to make your decision!

The Barman (Thomas Armstrong)

@trypo-p

Image credit: @/trypo-p

Born and raised in Stratford, Ontario, Barman is an affable gentleman who specializes in the art of mixology. Among the mercenaries, Barman is relatively tame in comparison; he gets along with everyone and is seen as an almost "parental" figure to most of the team. Whether it be telling old stories of his life back in Canada, or smacking Scout on the back of his neck for forgetting his manners, he has his ways of making the team remember that he's their elder.

Most of the man's time is spent in his makeshift bar in the team's base, or in his own room. That, of which, contains a multitude of model train sets. Sadly Barman was unable to live his dream of becoming a train conductor, but he can still lose himself in the fantasy when he's alone in his room with his models.

When he's in his bar, however, he gets to have casual conversation among his teammates. During his time working for the team he had become quite friendly with Demoman and Spy, often spending nights with them at the bar after a long battle. He'd listen to everyones worries, give them advice, then laugh the rest of the night away to lighten up the mood.

Ned

@el-beau

Image credit: @/el-beau

Frode ‘Ned the Net’ Havn is a 34 year old fisherman who led a grief stricken, excruciatingly boring, quiet life in the village he was born and raised in – Selbyen, Norway. Having spent his days fishing, taking care of the wild seals and perfecting his net tying skills, the least he expected was that damn company.

Team Fortress Industries bought up the village in their insatiable thirst for land, intending to empty it to reform it into a violent playground for Mann Co.’s mercenaries. Frode, as the last man standing, took it upon himself to rebel against the cruelties of the company through a display of such violence, that they had no other choice but to SEAL a deal with him, to use what few capabilities he has to their advantage – or at least watch him get stuck in a near infinite loop of dying and respawning for their own sick amusement. Through the contract, he’s at the very least capable of sending the entirety of his paycheck to his displaced family and friends, wherever they may be.

Stripped of his name – replaced by the stupid rhyme Ned the Net–, equipped with a baboon heart and with the shakiness of a wet dog, Ned is thrown into battle with nothing but his trusty old tools, an additional handgun, and a formidable rage that’d built up his entire life, ready to be unleashed upon unsuspecting RED team members. If they’d suspect him, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Which is why he uses his immaculate knowledge of his birthplace’s layout to his advantage, sneaking around and CATCHing people off guard with his weighted NET – the ‘Big Catch’. Although a support class hailing from peace loving village people, he’s not reserved about defending himself if must be. By being ambidextrous, the man is certainly capable of – though not always successful at – pulling off a pin ’n’ kill combo, by reeling enemies in with the reinforced handheld ‘Harm-poon’ and letting them SLEEP with the FISHES with the ‘Sleeper’, a small pistol.

His near unhinged frenzy and trembling unpredictability might prove useful on the battlefield.

[meet-the-net]

𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐯𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞.

Will the slime of Ned's fish prevail?

Will it extinguish the bottled blaze hurled towards him by @trypo-p's Barman?

You decide in the Team Fortress 2 OC competition

[meet-the-net]

𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝟓 𝐅𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐧

When he spotted a teammate charging into battle wielding a common kitchen utensil, he realized that anything is a weapon if you need it to be. How practical, how handy!

There's grease and fish skin stuck to the pan's inside.

And soon, there'll be blood and hair stuck to its outside.