#TF2 Programmer

[scouting-time]

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

Meow.... mmmrppp... 9/10?

Okay damnit gotta break my april fools gag for a second. Its a solid 9/10! I enjoy working here, the people are cool even if we argue sometimes.

[just-another-programmer]

🎶

Set fire to your hair

Poke a stick at a grizzly bear

Eat medicine.. thats out of date

Use your private parts as piranha bait

Dumb ways to dieee

So many dumb ways to dieee

Dumb ways to die-ie-ie

So many dumb way to dieee..

Get your toast out.. with a fork

Do your own electrical work

Teach yourself how to flyyy

Eat a two-week-old unrefrigerated pieee

Dumb ways to dieee

So many dumb ways to dieee

Dumb ways to die-ie-ie

So many dumb ways to dieee..

Invite a psycho killer inside

Scratch a drug dealers brand new ride

Take your helmet off... in outer space

Use a clothes dryer as.. a hiding place

Dumb ways to dieee

So many dumb ways to dieee

Dumb ways to die-ie-ie

So many dumb ways to die

Keep a rattle snake as a pet

Sell both your kidneys on the internet

Eat a tube.. of superglue

I wonder, whats this red button do?

Dumb ways to dieee

So many dumb ways to dieee

Dumb ways to die-ie-ie

So many dumb ways to dieee

Dress up like a moose during hunting season..

Disturb na nest of wasps for no good reason...

Stand on the edge of a train station platform

Drive around the boom gates at a level crossing

Run across the tracks between the platforms

They may not rhyme, but theyre quite possibly

The dumbest ways to dieee

The dumbest ways to dieee

Dumbest ways to die-ie-ie

So many dumb

So many dumb way to dieeee...

-✨️🪄

HA- me

Im useless as hell to my team aren't I-

If i had to pick a dumb ways to die character I'd probably choose this guy-

MMMMMMMMM moneee 🤤

[blumoontf2]

Absolute Territory (TF2 x Reader)

Cross-posted on AO3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63777574

You are the Programmer and you work as a member for GRN - Global Radio Network. With trouble arising in your previous job, you had been reassigned and given a nine month deadline to reestablish yourself as someone worthy of working under GRN, by improving and helping the communications and publicity of Team RED. But RED is different and a far cry from what you know, and the people seem to distrust anyone who works under GRN.

You’ve been tasked to help them but really it feels like you’ve been tasked to survive.

Content Warnings - n/a for this part! It’s just an introduction :)

Hot, humid and dry. You’ve been idly leant against one of the cleaner strips of wall in the waiting room you’d been settled in several minutes prior. Duffle bag hung around your shoulder for your refusal to set it on the filthy ground, you’re stood nearest a window blown wide open, feeling the breeze as it coughs onto your neck; your fingers, slightly shaking with nerves, play with the undersides of your nails, focusing your thoughts on anything but the unsettling dread that had been weighing down your chest.

With a huff you push off the wall, arms crossing as you check your shoes: the clock hung beside one of the doors was cracked and unticking, refusing the truth of time spent waiting. You were patient for the most part, but it had felt like half an hour had passed since you were last instructed to wait.

Looking around, you entertain yourself with idle observation.

The waiting room - viewed more as a dumping ground from the shoes sprawled about and lack of organisation - was quaint and rather tight. From the centre, you could tilt your body such that you could touch one wall then the other with your arms spread: length wise, it was four large steps for you to make it from one door to the next. The miscellaneous items spread about meant you had to be meticulous where you stepped (unless you WANTED to trip) and you had to balance yourself as you crossed the room.

The walls are lined with coats of various sizes and styles, hung ornamentally like a cluttered meat hanger - caked in substance you can only hope is just mud. The shoes, in similar states, are mix-matched across the room, kicked off in a hurry with no care to where they land. You idly kick pairs of shoes closer together, hands forced under your arms so as to not touch anything unnecessarily.

“Programmer?” a feminine voice finally calls, door opening with a slight creak in its hinges.

“That’s me…!” you cheer, pretending not to have been judging the room prior to her entrance.

You straighten up as much as your weighted bag allows, hoping your coat is as presentable as you think it is. Stepping around a particularly muddy pair of combat boots, you hold a hand out for the lady to shake.

“Miss Pauling,” she introduces, grip firm and quick as she pulls her hand away, “I was the one who agreed to the contract terms on the Administrator’s behalf. It is wonderful to have finally recruited GRN under the Administrator!”

Her voice - though fluid and concise - carries a certain tone of borderline mania, actions strict yet lively. She doesn’t move erratically but with a casual precision you believe is accessory to her punctuality. Low bun and button up, she’s styled like stress is in fashion, bruised under-eyes working to compliment her purple attire. Slim yet fleshy fingers push square glasses up the bridge of her nose, eyes focused on the clipboard and folder she has gripped in her other hand.

The folder - which she juts towards you - is fairly heavy with the amount of paper contained within it: you take it from her in a hurry, a small mimic of her behaviour, and feel its weight in your hand.

“Okay, so, contained is all the information you’ll need for the job and your job description. I’ll be leading you to the meeting room where you’ll meet Team RED but I’m in a bit of a hurry so I’ll trust one of the mercs to tour you around base…”

Her speech is practiced, snappy, yet she still comes off as friendly as she addresses you, turning back to the door she’d entered from and opening it wide enough for you to step through yourself.

Entering the halls, you find the space just as welcoming as the waiting room.

The walls are tea-stained, so far used to boyish rough-housing and daily abuses. You can see where it’s been marked by curious licks of flame, or by muddied shoes - how repair had been neglected or conveniently forgotten about. A fluorescent light flickers near the end of the hallway to the right, three doors crowded around it like a strange congregation; to your left, you hear Pauling tsk as she nearly steps into a pool of water.

“Since the meeting room is at the end of the corridor, I’ll point out-” Miss Pauling had started leading you down the left, “the radio room is here to the left - this will be your office - and on the opposing side is the archives.”

You pass two more doors, ‘the library’ and, apparently, ‘the living room’ before reaching the end of the corridor. A large faux-oak door imposes on you, muffled shouting from behind causing the chipped ‘meeting room’ sign to shudder every so often, a threat to fall off its perch.

Miss Pauling looks preemptively annoyed, passing you a look that says ‘get ready’ as her hand reaches for the handle. She opens it to loud, boisterous cheering.

The hallway light spills into the room, Pauling’s shadow elongating against the ground. Peering over her shoulder, you see an arm wrestle happening at the table in the centre of the room, two blokes of similar build competing against each other. A slim figure and gas mask cheer to the right of a hard-hat, whereas an eye-patched man taunts the combat helmet to the left, with hard knocks of a glass bottle against the table you presume to be from threatening encouragement.

The slim guy - haven noticed the light from the hallway - perks his head towards the door, face brightening before he seemingly disappears, spontaneously appearing again in front of Miss Pauling with a cheer of her name. As he speaks, you pick out the important phrases he says - ‘Miss Pauling,’ ‘date’ - at some point he tries to casually lean against the meeting table, forgetting that it’s miles away from where they’re standing, and almost stumbles to the ground like he’s drunk.

It takes him several moments to spot you behind her, hand gripped onto your duffle bag and folder for moral support, and feeling awkward to his attempts to flirt with the woman in front of you.

“Yeah- w-wait, who the freak is that?!”

He points at you accusingly, cautious tilt in his eyebrows with a pout that almost makes him look like an angry, bent outta shape puppy. Miss Pauling just shakes her head.

“Gentlemen-” she starts, ignored, “Red Team!” voice a little louder, “BOYS!”

They jump almost comically, heads snapping towards her in a way that would be scary if it weren’t unprompted. The one to break that tension is the gas-mask person who gives a cheery wave to Miss Pauling, who gives a half formed smile in return before dropping it into an unimpressed frown. The men disperse to sit down properly.

You’re partially in awe of her ability to command attention in a room full of men. There’s something to fear of this woman, though you know this from working under GRN to begin with.

“Great. Now that I have your attention…”

She steps further into the room which you’re hesitant to follow. Slim-boy (or, Slim Shady if you’d like to be funny) is hovering by you at the door, eyeing you with suspicion, and that’s enough to prompt you to move again.

“As you guys HAVE been warned, the Administrator has hired a worker from team GRN to work in collaboration with RED in regards to communication services and status reports.”

With nine (eight and a half?) pairs of eyes on you, you’re suddenly a lot more self-conscious of the space you occupy, of the feel of your clothes as they rest on your person, and the weight of your bag as it hangs from your shoulder. You fingers trace the folders edges for distraction, though the reminder of its contents only serves to unnerve you more.

“Everybody, I’d like you to meet the Programmer.”

She gestures towards you as you meet her side and you let go of the bag strap to give a lukewarm, yet polite wave to the men. In your sudden shyness, you’d forgotten to recite your speech in your head, mind rebooting for an introduction you stumble to make.

“…As Miss Pauling said, I’m the Programmer… I’ll be helping with communications, reports, publicity - that is to say, I won’t be working on the field. I’ll… be in your care?”

For all your feigned confidence, radio is based on audio - not appearance - and you mentally kick yourself for the higher pitch that betrays your uncertainty in a place unfamiliar to you. They stare at you, like hawks to prey, judging the slightest movements you fear to actually make.

“Going around with quick introduction then,” Pauling starts, pointing towards each man as she speaks, “that was Scout, Heavy Weapons guy over there, Sniper’s next to him…”

When their name is called, most of them offer a wave to you with varying levels of enthusiasm. Scout - the boy harassing Pauling at the door earlier - gives you a mocking, egotistical smirk. The Heavy Weapons guy lifts a hand that thuds against his thigh when he drops it again, eyebrows weighed into this permanent scowl he uses to criticise you with. Sniper just tilts his hat towards you with a frown you hope is from sympathy and not pity, orange aviators disguising his true intention as he crosses his arms against his chest.

“Soldier and the Demoman,” a salute and tilt of a bottle, “Engineer and Medic - you two need to register them into the system, don’t forget - and that there is Pyro and-”

“I can acquaint myself,” a man appears before - one you hadn’t really seen before - and you almost jump back in surprise, “Spy.”

He holds a hand to his chest and gives you a modest bow, his other arm hooked behind his back. You can’t see much past what’s revealed by his balaclava and - although he disguises himself with civility - you can see the suspicious glint in his eyes, a clear distaste for your presence.

In noticing such, a quick observation around the room and you find all the men look at you in a similar manner. From the hollow round bulbs of the gas-mask, staring so soullessly at you, to the disinterested side glances you receive from the glaring eye of the drinking man, they make your place at the bottom of the food chain evidently clear.

Perhaps it’s because green is a product of blue - not RED - that they stare at you with the intent to kill: to stain the green garments of yours crimson. And as your earlier dread bubbles back to the surface, you regain the overwhelming sense to run once more.

“Right… with that done, I expect everyone not to kill the new hire…” Pauling says, which you would wistfully love to believe was a joke, “oh, um, Engie-” to which the man perks to the name, “could you give them a tour?”

He looks mortally offended by the request, immediately and effectively rejecting her out right.

“Hell no! The Administrator wants those teleporters shipped out by the evening - this meeting already cut into my working time-” then his goggles tilt to you, a sudden, guilty frown to his face, “ach, no offense to you Programmer, I’d’ve done so any other day o’ the week.”

He’s got that southern lilt that makes everything he says that tidbit sweeter, voice soft and sincere enough that you almost believe he cares for your feelings in this. Your hammering heart disagrees, and you manage to wave him off with a shaky smile, your presence already encroaching in the peace they’ve made here.

“It’s alright, Pauling, I’ll just-” you’re interrupted almost as soon as you open your mouth.

“MISS PAULING!” the Soldier interjects, “IF I MAY!”

Miss Pauling, seemingly well-met with this groups antics, pinches the bridge of her nose before turning to Soldier, beginning to answer him before she too is cut off, “yes, Soldier, what-”

“AFFIRMATIVE! I WILL TOUR THE NEW MAGGOT AROUND!”

You both stare dumbfounded by the factual way he says this, and for a moment, you briefly believe he was actually asking permission. But the sudden and violent grip at the scruff of your neck strikes a fearful frown to your face, body being yanked backwards and through the swinging meeting room door like you were about to be taken out back for a beating.

“Well, that makes my job easier…” Pauling mumbles as you’re whisked away, and even though you yelp, no one comes to your rescue.

[just-another-programmer]

c̶̯̝̟̙̦͍̙͚͚̒͑̈́͆̍̓̿̿͌͠͝ò̸̧̨͍͕̬̼͎͈̆̾͌̑̓̇͑̿̚m̶̧̞̩̬̠͔̳̮̼̞̹̘̃͋͜ͅȩ̸̛̫͒͛̃̀̄̈͠ ̸̨͇͓̜̜͔̤͒̐̊̄́̊́̉͘ơ̴̙͒̽̌̓̾̽͗̎̔͝n̷̼͈̺̏̓͊ ̷̢̢͙͙͙̝̹̠̈́̓͒̌̽́̈p̸̧̨̡͉̙̖͎̲̰͉̝̙̞͖̽̈́̊̐͗͗́̐̋͝͝l̶̦̣̯̖̫̂͒ẹ̸̪͇̫̥̙̱͍̮͉͙̍a̸̲͕͍̘͚͋́̊̒͠ş̵͓̣̙̙͕̼̭̖̹̫̝̺̩̔̓͛͑͆̋̅̽͗͝e̷̛̛͉͈͙̪̯̘̾̾̈͒̑͊́̍̂̃̈́̚͜͝-̸̢̧̩͓̳͔͍̲̟̽̈́̄̀̓͐̽͊͠

I̸ ̶t̵h̵i̸n̶k̴ ̸i̸t̷ ̴s̸h̸o̴u̴l̴d̸ ̴b̷e̷ ̷w̴o̷r̸k̷i̷n̴g̶ ̸n̶o̴w̵.̸.̸.̶

hello? Hi uhhhh, can I get uh large pizza- shit whats their usual order-

You catch the faint crackle of static from a nearby radio, just barely making what sounds like someone's voice.

H̵̪̹͖̆̍̀̂̏̇́͆̕͠ē̶̡̡̛̺̼̣͉͖͖̙̜̄͗̒̽̃̈̎̚̕͘͝͠l̶͎̹͔̽̃̾̐̑l̸̨̹͈̘̜̖͙̮̗͇͇̒̀̓̈̐͜o̴̢̯̟͎̙̺̫͚̙̥̜̬̬͌̊̏͑̚̚?̸̡̡̪̥̥̱̥̯̦̫̹͂̏̅͘ ̴̢̧̖̩͚̐̏͋͜H̶̡̨̤̰̖̘̦̺͇̦͋̈́͊̐͊͛̅̔̓͛̑͋̚̕ͅe̶̹̮̪̟̪̘̔̒͑̓l̶̥̈́̆̇̉̓́͗͛̾̍̑̃͝l̵̛̹̺̹̝̲̇̂͌̄̓́͑̏͘͜͝ǫ̶̡̱͖̖̗̻̘̘͕͑̅͠ͅͅ?̵̛̺̣͜?̴̭͙̮̝͚͚̔͝

̴̮̰͌̓̄h̵̹̃e̵̖͠y̸̫̿ ̷͔̊c̸͚͊ä̴̗́n̷͓̈́ ̵̦̀ỹ̷̢o̷͔͌u̵̪͌ ̵͍̎h̵̼́e̵̔͜ǎ̷͚ȑ̶̳ ̵̬̀m̷͍̊e̴̱̊?̴͉̈́

C̴͇̕o̵̞͐m̷̝̒ȅ̵̖ ̴̻̔ơ̶̜n̸̲͊ ̶͉̂I̸̺̊ ̴̤̐w̷͖̓a̴̺̐ṉ̶̀n̵̡͝ä̷͔́ ̴̙̿s̷̰̎ḙ̷̋e̶̩͐ ̸͔̒i̶̙͊f̴͚͘ ̸̰̐t̸͎̒h��̦͛i̷̘̿s̸̜̅ ̸̡̇s̴̯̔h̸̥͂ĩ̷̙t̵̹͑ ̵̭̃w̷͙͠o̶̻̕r̵͕̔k̶͎̋s̷̹͑-̶͔̽

@just-another-programmer

....¿qué demonios?

Who is there!?

[mysteryjunoskulls]

Controversial opinion

But the reason why I think the tf2 fandom is "dying" out is because of the fact that no one truly gives appreciation/support to the people that are keeping the fandom/game alive via modding, art, writing etc etc. The main people who complain about the game dying are people who look at what the creativity minds of the community and actively spit on it either saying "IT DOESN'T FIT THE ARTSTYLE" or "GOOD LUCK TRYING TO RUN THAT BY VALVE" but yet actively beg for people to scream at valve to give us another update. We need to rely on the community to keep the ship going and that means giving our support to modders, programmers, artists, writers. It's obvious Valve doesn't really care as long as they're getting money from crates and keys. If we keep on listening to people like ZestyJesus or just anyone else who spews that bullshit and actively continue to shit towards our fellow mercenaries (Fans) then we'll crash and burn for sure. But hey what do I know I joined back in 2016.

[infamouslydorky]

Do you think FixTf2 will actually work or do you think it's just going to be the same?

Tf2 suffers from a terrible ailment called "spaghetti code" that most programmers dare not touch. Honestly, those employed at valve that made the original game are likely not there anymore and now replaced with new programmers who wouldn't know how to make heads or tails of the game. Even if there are people from the olden days of yore that built the game still around, why would they want to spend their time untangling the mess of code that is tf2?

"Because the fans demand it"

It could possibly serve as incentive to fix the issue of bots in the game, though valve's mode of operation as a company, as half-life alyx final hours article indicated, employees work on what projects they want to, so no one has focused on a single title at valve until half-life alyx was released and progressively the tf2 team has dwindled more and more.

Will the company and its devs answer the rallying call of the people? I remain skeptical. But I hope they do

[shadokwastaken]

hello! i've just discovered your channel today from the tf2 video and im just so amazed by all the cool stuff you did and still are doing rn!! i really like your arts and animations and i've been thinking of trying out animation too, could i ask what programms are you using to animate and ask for some begginer tips? ( ´ ꒳ ` ) thank you for the content and stay cool!!

thank you so muuch

i'd say what i use to animate but it's kinda old outdated stuff that i'm too lazy to move away from right now. i know there's stuff out there that's free and open source instead of costing a lot of money/requiring piracy. There was actually a really neat archive of old macromedia flash online but it's been taken down and that SUCKS (it's what i used to first get into animation)

Here's a list of adobe alternatives by xdaniel on twitter

with beginners tip, there's ol reliable right there

something you can always do is analyze animations you resonate with frame by frame. see what makes it work and why the movement look so appealing (there's keys to move around frame by frame on youtube)

experimenting also helps a lot!! there's many times where i gotta tweak around and redraw when animating even if my stuff is relatively pretty simple

simple is something i value a lot in animation. we don't really have a whole team of animators to help with all the work animating takes, sooo i really recommend beginners to start animating with simple shapes and characters! stickmen will always be awesome forever

[spieluhrzeit]

imagine following me because i have the same interests you have

like i like anime or tf2 or i watch rtgame and made a semi viral post about his minecraft let's play being more pure and warmhearted than the minecraft movie teaser we got or i'm a linux user/programmer/game developer

and then BOOM! 80 posts in a row of german metal sex fire band

x

[alfaversionlunar]

Next - tf2 joke. Good i love words play joke)))

-Well, you sure did (burning). I'll get ready.

Stil on board, and wet, but scan programm are cool!, make it bright,like in life

[tf2-news]

Hello TF2 community!

Have you played the Team Fortress 2 video game recently? If you are still playing, you may have noticed a plague of computer programs (bots) that have been specifically designed to ruin your matches and make the game almost unplayable. These bots are known as "omegatronic" and are a big problem in the TF2 community.

"Omegatronic bots" are bots that have been created by malicious programmers specifically to annoy human players and make the game very difficult to ENJOY. These bots are organized into "hordes" and connect to group games, meaning that a horde of bots can ruin the game for many players at the same time. Additionally, the bots are programmed to move and shoot very effectively, making them difficult to defeat in a real match. The TF2 community has been fighting against these bots for some time, and they are putting pressure on Valve to fix the problem.

However, "omegatronics" are still a big problem for the game, and many players are choosing to stop playing until Valve finds an effective solution. If you are a TF2 player and are concerned about "omegatronics", there are a few things you can do to help combat the problem:

• Report any bots you see and ask other players to do the same.

•If you are in a game with a bot, try to convince the other players to vote to remove them from the game.

• If you are playing with friends, try to have everyone play on a private server together to avoid bots.

As members of the TF2 community, it is important that we work together to combat this issue and keep the game alive and enjoyable for everyone.

(examples of bot infested teams)

[kayden-valcourt]

💥 INTRODUCTION 💥

New intro cuz the old one is Hella outdated.

Notice: I will have some flashy blinkies on this post ⚠

Hello, I am Kayden! I'm a 17 year old digital artist, gamer, programmer, and an aspiring forklifter!

I love forklifts so much and am going to try to get certified as soon as possible!

HTML coding is my life, if u need some help hmu some time 💥

I am in lots of fandoms and like lots of shows and games! I also LOVE music!

Some shows and movies I like are

Breaking Bad

Better Call Saul

Beavis and Butt-Head

The Crow movies

The Matrix movies

Daria

Smiling Friends

Adventure Time

I also like old Disney movies (Aristocats, Bambi, Lady and the Tramp, etc)

I also really love video games, I actually LOVE video games more than myself!!

Some games I like are

Team Fortress 2

Fallout 4

Fallout New Vegas

DOOM + DOOM 2

DOOM 64

DOOM ETERNAL

DOOM 3

DOOM 2016

Elder Scrolls Skyrim

Postal 4

Left 4 Dead 2

Garry's Mod

TF2 and DOOM are my current fave games and I can go on about them forever!

My main classes in TF2

Scout, Sniper, and Medic. They're the three classes I dont suck at and I love the most, I also love their lore and personality! I loved the tf2 comics! I also am somewhat decent at Demoman

Lastly is music!

I LOVE MUSIC!! Industrial is my favorite

(yes I am a Rivethead/Industrialist/Industrial Goth)

My favorite bands are

Nine Inch Nails

KMFDM

Pigface

OhGr

Skinny Puppy

Sister Machinegun

Rammstein

Ministry

Gravity Kills

Chemlab

Slick Idiot

MDFMK

Menticide

More Machine Than Man

The Prodigy

16 Volt

Night Club (band)

Dope

Orgy

Machines of Loving Grace

Static-X and Wayne Static

Nonpoint

Bile

And more!!

I have an industrial playlist on Spotify check it out please!!

I TRY TO ADD NEW MUSIC AS I DISCOVER SONGS! Active Playlist!

I also take suggestions! (if its the right genre and it sounds good!

I ALSO HAVE A PUBLIC DISCORD SERVER WITH MY FRIENDS PLEASE JOIN!! 💥

We can talk about music, art, drawings, games, bands, roleplay, and interests here with tons of people! Dont be shy to join we have emojis and take suggestions :) I also do streams or movie night sometimes!

Make sure to read the rules and be respectful :)

I love art! My ocs mean a lot to me I plan to make comics in the future! Not so many Fandom ocs more just my own ocs for my own stories.

Mostly digital artist but I doodle on my notes at school, use sketch books, and do lettering on paper! I also journal some!

Redrawing my old drawings (especially if the character has a new and better design) is so much fun to me! I also love designing and redesigning characters.

My favorite kind of characters to design/draw are Industrial Goths, Goths, Metalheads, characters with neon/bright colors, characters with sunglasses, and characters with super curly hair (its fun to draw!)

Here's some of my art as of January 2025 :)

I mostly use this acc to post art and drawings of mine so uhhh check them out 👊

Art trades are open to friends and random people, hmu if interested

No art requests sorry 😔

Edit 2-21-25

I will take requests, however I may ignore, postpone, or deny your request! I will draw stuff from *certain fandoms* like if its a Fandom I am in or your ocs/fandom ocs! I might not make full ass pictures for you but at least a doodle! Feel free to reblog or add the art to your ToyHouse if its an OC (my TH is Vodka_Muffin)

Request and comm rules, basically no extremely violent or sexual stuff, no vore or shit like that even if its a "comfort" hell nah gtfo I'm not comfortable with that 😁obviously I won't draw any Zoophile, Nazi, MAP, Nazifur, hateful, disgusting, or pedo flags or anything of that nature, which if you fall under those categories go ahead n block me ion wanna see your ass on here, I might make fun of you. No kink or fetish requests either, hell nah gtfo. I rarely draw humans but I may draw a certain oc/character if I like their design enough or if they're from a fandom I'm in. Basically that's it, dw about skimpy revealing outfits or swearing or anything I'm chill just no straight up porn/sexual material. If you have any questions abt requests feel free to DM or ask in your request! Thanks 🖤

Commissions and stuff coming soon

Dont be afraid to reach out I need more friends

Thanks for reading this have a nice night.

[just-another-programmer]

Squimshes you

He promptly slaps your hand away softly and ducks his head away. EOAUGH TOUCHINGGGG- sorry- I'm not really the type to like any physical uh...stuff! I am so sorry- uh maybe a warning next time please IM SORRY-

[blumoontf2]

Absolute Territory (TF2 x Reader)

Part Two! - Cross-posted on AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63777574/chapters/169826689

You are the Programmer and you work as a member for GRN - Global Radio Network. With trouble arising in your previous job, you had been reassigned and given a nine month deadline to reestablish yourself as someone worthy of working under GRN, by improving and helping the communications and publicity of Team RED.

But RED is different and a far cry from what you know, and the people seem to distrust anyone who works under GRN.

You've been tasked to help them but really it feels like you've been tasked to survive.

Content Warnings - n/a…? Reader gets thrown like eight times.

“What country were you BORN and BRED in, MAGGOT?!”

Every other syllable rings in your ears. The mental work of dissolving sentences in your head melts with the manner Soldier speaks, pointed and snappy with a direction to his words. It doesn’t help the growing ache in your head that he speaks so loud, nor did it help that you’d been hoisted from the dark meeting room into the heat of Teufort with little say in the matter.

He’d positioned you - more so thrown you, as you’d rather describe the notion - into the shade formed by the first brick building, your shadow not quite reaching the light where he stood himself, marching back and forth like a mechanical toy forced into action. His limbs lay flat and jointless, thick planks of muscle that broaden his shoulders, perpetuating him in an upright stance; his arms swing at his sides like a weighted pendulum, moving in conjunction with his steps: he faces the sun when addressing you, and walks by its side when he’s not. When the light hits him, his contours are lost - fed into the coarse gravel background and turning his face pale like the sand. The light bounces from the muted metal of his helmet and your eyes burn to readjust to the sudden offence.

You… think he meant to say raised… not bred…

From your daze, you scramble for a mental grounding, words blustered and forming uncomfortably in your mouth. You attempt to find your sense, though you must’ve forgotten to pack that when you got this job.

“I- uh… I was born in-”

“Silence SCUM!”

He halts in front of you, body stiff - poised in a formality as though etiquette helped in war - and governed in a way you couldn’t quite say was his own. His finger jabs towards you, following it like a dowsing rod until it stabs into your clavicle, twisting into the bone like he were butting out a cigarette. His features - now darkened from the shade - pull into a vicious scowl, his head tilting up to glare down at you by his nose.

“It doesn’t matter WHAT weak country you were born into - you’re on American ground now: you ACT like you’re on American ground!”

His hat jolts about, the metal rattling against what must have been a cave of a skull, knocking what little sense he may have had. His words come out pronounced - accusatory - and his breath falls chillingly against the heat of your skin.

“I may not be the smartest doo-hickey in the arsenal of nuclear weaponry, but I know a Spy when I see one…”

Teeth flat and grit, he stares at you with a malice you find hard to forget. You get the impression there is an instability to fear of this man - unpredictability. He swiftly swipes his finger up, flicking your nose harshly enough that his rigid nail snags you, making you cup your nose in the utter shock of it. You watch as he backs off, resuming his pacing with a strict formality.

“You’ll be put to the test, Spying Scum! There is no regiment crueller than that of RED!” he barks, sounding pleased with himself, “if you survive my training… then you’ll be put down by my hand…”

At this point, you can’t really hide your annoyance, scowling as he monologues about the ‘superior and dangerous initiation of team RED’. This only makes you wish you were sent to BLU instead. Your duffle bag had started weighing into your shoulder, digging into the skin so harshly you know it’ll leave a mark, your head was still ringing with the emergence of a headache, and the folder Miss Pauling had given you had begun to make your arm ache. And now, as you scrunch your nose, you’re given the choice to die suffering, or suffering to die. What was this? Lose-lose?!

“NOW! On with the tour, newbie!”

Soldier leads the one man march, with you tailing behind with less enthusiasm. He takes several detours, sharply turning in odd directions; you forget he’s actually leading a ‘tour’ and not trying to get you lost. He yammers, hardly stopping for breath, speaking in non-sentient ramblings you quickly learn to tune out. Focusing instead on your surroundings, you find that the base is much smaller than it looked.

The courtyard exaggerates the base's size. Chain-fenced and guarded with cameras, most of it is empty, tracks beaten between buildings and formed by time; you believe the base was previously government owned - demilitarised by the Administrator and renovated by YLW. Where you walk was probably the parading grounds: where you came from - the administrative building.

The building he takes you to first is domed and ugly. A sad beige littered with specks of grey presents itself to you, dug into the ground slightly sending you down a flight of stairs when you enter. The doors make a horrible rattle as they slide open, lights flickering in canon revealing malnourished, brittle shelving that appear to have been cheaply made - the Warehouse. Each row gives ten shelves total for storage with yellow fluorescent lights between them: the thin strings of metal somehow hold the various boxes scattered about with only one shelf crumbling from the weight. Crates are segregated at the back near a large industrial door, second to the one you’d entered from.

You are ‘warned’ (more so briefly and off-handedly told: had you tuned him out this very moment you’d’ve missed it) that the door leading outside is heavily guarded and ‘weaponised with tools only the genius of RED could come up with’. Your presumption is that it wards off anyone from BLU attempting an infiltration: another part of you thinks it’s a way of keeping you in.

When you leave, Soldier drags you through four left turns, effectively circling the large building you’d just been in. As you walk, dragging your feet behind Soldier’s more peppy steps, you catch the sight of some of the other mercenaries as they move on with their day; even from across the courtyard, you can feel their pitying, yet hateful gazes on you. It’s the type of look that portrays you, wounded with bloodhounds on your trail; dread - had it not settled yet - becomes much more evident. They watch you like they’ve seen you before: like you weren’t the first of many.

In particular, the tall kid (you strain to remember his name) laughs mockingly in the distance, seeing your exhausted state from the weight you were carrying and from the laps Soldier was forcing from you. He makes it a point to call out.

“Hey Soldier-!” and he stops so suddenly you nearly crash into his back, “what do you call someone who can barely walk a hundred yards? THE PROGRAMMER!”

He cackles, as does Soldier who stomps his foot and slaps his knee.

“I’d just call them BRITISH!”

Suddenly you think you’re in school again, sitting in a classroom while your classmates laugh through the window. Goddamn comedians… they never get far in life. But neither did you, evidently, to wind up here.

He bolts to the building he was heading to, the longest and farthest from where you stand. You’re sure he does this in an attempt to taunt you, proving you’re weak, slow and beneath him, and in a way, he’s right, but only because you don’t feel like chasing a man who wasn’t worth your time.

For all the efforts the warehouse put into its camouflage, the second building Soldier takes you to immediately nullifies the effect. Usually, you’d describe a building of this state to be ‘one a bomb had been dropped upon, demolishing what little dignity it had towards its function’. In this case, you fully believe it to be true.

The body is charred across its right side, a near perfect split between one half of the building and the next. Where blown out windows are bandaged with wooden planks, broken glass and rubble accompany it, not yet removed from the stage of destruction. It’s a scorn against the image of the base - a shameful mark of carelessness that’s patched in a way of negligence. The wall is scalded with soot stains the shade of black coffee, patterned across the red brick like an oil spill and darkened in the areas of impact. A coal scent lingers, dancing with the vapours of oil. The building’s twin - the left side - remains unmarked, at least, not to the extent of the right. It serves as a reminder to its abuse: to the decency it lost.

Coming closer, the sounds of machinery spark. A garage door stands, sealed on the bare wall to the left, muffling the horrors enacting behind it. It sounds like sundering metal and you can presume who is the cause of it - the Engineer.

“PROGRAMMER!” Soldier speaks suddenly, as though you’ve stepped on his heels, “do you want to see something… FUNNY?”

You perk to the suggestion, a feeling of camaraderie coming to you - an opportunity for connection in this place, to prove yourself worthy of being here! You agree readily, disregarding the feeling you have in your gut, and he grins at you furtively. He leads you closer to the garage door, like a stalker to its game, to a smaller one off-set at its corner. When you’re moments away, he hoists you at the collar, kicking the door and chucking you in.

The weight of your duffle sets you off-balance and you clatter first into the edge of a table, and then second to the ground. Your files spill from your hands, papers scattering alongside a holder of pencils, and your scream is only slightly out-classed by the jolted hollar of ‘DANG NABBIT’. When you peel your head from the tile floor, you're met with the image of a very angry, very stressed, Southern man.

“Lil Pop Quiz for you: when a door has a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on it, what d’you do?”

It’s a simple question yet your words elude you. Turning for support, you find your ‘guide’ has disappeared, leaving you in the wreckage. Your eye twitches involuntarily, yet somehow you feel this is your fault: logic speaks that it’s not, instinct claims it is. You begin your plea, body lifting from the floor like you’re begging forgiveness from the Lord Himself.

“I’m so sorry, I did NOT mean to-”

“You’d better start praying, boy-” he interrupts before restraining himself, knuckles fisting as his sights sit past you, “Soldier. You have a part to play in this.”

It’s not a question but the Soldier answers like it is anyway, ‘affirmative’ coughing from his throat. It’s like he teleports behind you, unable to keep from getting involved in the situation HE CAUSED. You thought he disappeared to have plausible deniability and yet he doesn’t fight to claim his own ‘innocence’.

“...why don’t you get along now before one of you gets hurt?” the Engineer suggests with barely contained irritation.

You make a sound of agreement, scuttling for your papers before you begin sweeping up his pencils by hand: he clears his throat harshly, barely disguising the hateful sneer on his lips. It gives you pause long enough to offer him a loosely grit smile.

“...you don’t want me to-?”

“Just get the fuck outta my workshop,” he stresses, rubbing his temples with his middle finger and thumb.

Message received loud and clear. You back out, passing the threshold, and the door immediately meets the tip of your nose. For a communications ‘expert’, you are making a horrible first impression: what kind of curse was set on you to place you here in Teufort? You know why, and yet you feel the punishment is ill-fit for your crime…

Stupefied, your body turns slowly like a haunted carousel, directing towards Soldier who stands innocently at your side; it takes will-power not to leap at him, mouth agape - near foaming - as you try to kindly word ‘what the fuck his damage is’ without inciting a physical attack. Naturally, you’re stopped before you start.

“That was a pathetic display,” Soldier says and the civil approach you’d planned to use gets thrown to the curb.

“...WHAT DO YOU MEAN-”

“I MEAN! You should GROW. SOME. BALLS, SNOWFLAKE!”

A guillotine, his arm sharply lifts like the blade, slamming onto your shoulder with a pronounced thud you jump violently at. His grip is strong, thumb dug under your collar bone, and you flinch with the thought he’ll punch you.

“If you want pure blooded RED to run through your VEINS, you have to start MANNING UP! You GRN Men are all WEAK: cowering at the sight of conflict…”

He snags you by the scruff of your neck and begins towards the last standing building. At this point, you allow yourself to get dragged along, the fight that had sparked diminished by a tidal wave.

“You will TRAIN. SIX AM. We don’t need WIMPS in this BASE! WE’RE AT WAR!!”

It’s endless! And your will is slowly getting chipped at. He insults your profession, and simultaneously his own - did the man think wars were won without the help of admin? - but then, you’re only ever reminded of war from those who stand on the field.

He takes you to the front of the last building: gnarly and plain with curtained panes watching you like eyes. Squished, the roof is flat, a single story drags on to make up for the lack of height. It’s walls are fashioned plainly, rugged and worn like a charity case. Gun holes scatter down twin doors, displaying the hollowed out wood and meeting with torch marks rising from the bottom. It’s sets you up for a weakened expectation and thin walls: if you expect privacy, you also expect very little of it.

You can understand why YLW use cheaper material now, if only for the frequency the base clearly gets abused. Soldier enters without thought and you catch the door behind him, letting it gently fall shut as you enter after.

It’s a long hallway with a large, arching door at the end of it: the entrance to the cafeteria. Soldier actually points this out - the only useful thing he’s done this entire tour - only to mention something about bread? You care very little, haven learnt not to trust his word. The place has more rooms than people working there. You’re surprised to find everyone HAS rooms rather than being lumped in one shared hall. You spot a communal restroom at the furthest end by the doors to the cafeteria, and next to that you believe are the communal showers.

You move further down, observing the doors as you pass them with keen attention. There’s different logos on each door and you notice a total of nine variations, bar the one Soldier drops you off at - your door - marked with GRN’s logo (a radio antenna).

Entering your room, the first thing you notice is the mirror across to your door. You see your state, all soaked in sweat and grime, knees dirtied by filth and clothing slightly ary: you smooth a hand down your face only to feel how caked in oil it had become. With a click, your door shuts behind you, and you observe your life for the next nine months.

It’s noticeably bare. That was… to be expected and yet the sight sinks in how far from home you are. Your new mattress adorns a thin bedding, draped over itself at the pillow and tucked in at the edges: it’s hoisted up by a thin, fragile frame that creaks in threat when you drop your bag upon it. You briefly consider the survival rate of deserting this job. You don’t think about it too long.

You’re given a work desk - folder flung there, your poor arms ache - a lamp, a ceiling light that flickers and sparks when you test it out, and a single unit for dressing, alongside that mirror that mocks you at the door. The bed aligns itself with the window, a thin fabric hooked across it that barely serves its function, room bright even with the curtains drawn. The first thing you consider is replacing them. On the opposite wall, your dresser and desk sit, aligning with your bedroom door. To the left of the dresser, another door rests. You open it to find a bathroom.

It’s small, cheap and shitty - nothing spectacular and just barely a privilege - with a single standing shower. It comes with a small bottle of MannCo branded ‘5-in-one shampoo, conditioner, body wash, aftershave, and melee weapon!’ you refuse to touch in fear it’ll peel your skin straight off. A bowl shaped sink sits under a dull mirror, fake as though you lived in a dollhouse, the material used probably nothing more than a reflective coating. It’s clear enough to voice your misery and you quickly recede to your room once more.

You have two boxes that were delivered before your entry. The first, you find, are basic necessities. Your favourite mug, a small radio, a few books both for reading and writing: nothing too interesting so you set it by your desk. The next - and you chuckle, guilty at the sight - are your sheets and, in tow, your small collection of plushies. You grab the box and flip it, fabrics falling onto the bed softly and your plushies smacking into the hard mattress. One of the smaller toys (a round toy bomb with a beanbag in it) rolls from the bed and onto the floor with a soft thump. You pick it up and throw it in your hand. You’d won it one summer in an arcade with friends: friends you won’t be seeing any time soon. The other soft toys are equally symbolic, mostly kept as a reach for your childhood, and you almost feel bad for bringing them to this place.

You finally take a seat at the desk - your desk - thumbing through the pages of the file Miss Pauling had given you. You are the Programmer, the identity supplied to you by RED, and you work for GRN.

Global Radio Networking: the company desired control and monetisation. You’re here to paint a picture to both the world and the Administrator: you’re here to lower their guards.

You’re being tasked with the work of five men, you find, with your description outlining report writing, resource allocation, the programming of your station and how it’ll be structured. Half of it is what you were already used to: the other half are foreign demands from team RED. In the back of your mind, however, you have clear instructions from GRN. Gain information.

You’re expendable and they’ve put you here as a bit of a trust fall. You were valuable enough to keep, yet not enough to not question. Your mistakes have marked your name: you have to prove your worth.

Your deadline is nine months. And in nine months, you’ll have either secured your job at GRN, or died trying. You’re being tossed between Death’s hands and it’s only fate that can sway you one way.

You lean back on your chair and sigh. You might as well unpack.

[dallas-2lip]

hi tumblr, i’m tulip! (she/her)

i wear these big ass round glasses!

this is pip! short for pip pip

and this is myra!

you may know me as tomboygirltwink on twitter. well i no longer want to use twitter. i’m interested in games, plants, coffee, and art. specifically, i play a lot of runescape and tf2. i’m also a programmer and i have plans for this blog. so things are under construction, but feel free to follow!

[t-a-c]

It sounds like we have more staff running this site than the one programmer, the janitor, and the potted plant Valve allocated to keep TF2 running and that game is somehow alive against all odds so

Guys they are not transferring the staff that actually manage this website. It's the marketing people. The product developers. The people making the dumbass badges no one likes and stuff like that. We're fine

[bugger2]

Hey all, welcome to the shitshow

-- Old account explanation --

First of all, for context for anybody who knew my old blog (@spicymilehigh), I was feeling very Ted Kaczynski-esque (minus the bombs) and got rid of almost all forms of online interaction I had. Since then I'm feeling a bit less disconnected from modern society and now wish I hadn't full blown deactivated my old account

-- Stuff --

I am a programmer fascinated with systems development

Robotics nerd who would love to talk endlessly about such a topic

Non binary (they/them preferably, but fine with any)

Emacs ftw

Occasional enjoyer of video games. Just the usual stuff like Undertale, Minecraft, TF2, rest of the tumblr games

Formerly avid reader trying to get back into it

-- Links --

github: https://github.com/bugger2