TOM FRANCIS
REGRETS THIS ALREADY
Hello! I'm Tom. I'm a game designer, writer, and programmer on Gunpoint, Heat Signature, and Tactical Breach Wizards. Here's some more info on all the games I've worked on, here are the videos I make on YouTube, and here are two short stories I wrote for the Machine of Death collections.
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By me. Uses Adaptive Images by Matt Wilcox.
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My Script For A Team Fortress 2 Short About The Spy
To commemorate my 100th hour playing as him, and since he’s clearly next in Valve’s update schedule, it seemed appropriate to take a swing at a Meet The Spy script.
It’s a moronic undertaking, of course, because the real one will be humiliatingly superior. He’s an easy target, because he’s basically made of dramatic irony – but that also leaves a minefield of awful clichés to step around. Anything that involves someone we believe not to be a Spy turning out to be a Spy is automatically dross.
I love the bit in Meet The Sniper when our man wonders aloud whether he’s been spotted – and is then copiously shot at. Acknowledging the concerns that go through your head playing as him felt truer and funnier than these scenes where the starring class automatically wins against all-comers.
So this script is mostly focused around the characteristic moments of playing a Spy. I reject the perception that he is unwaveringly aloof: aloof, sure, but he’s all about the wavering. No other class experiences more moment-to-moment panic or humiliation.
A warning, though: it’s long.
1. INT — BRIEFING ROOM — DAY — PRESENT
The title card vanishes to reveal the edge of a table. With a sudden bang, a blue briefcase is slammed down onto it, then clicked open by two gloved hands.
SPY Intelligence, gentlemen. There are those who have it, the conoscenti (gesturing to himself faux-modestly, head bowed) – and those who do not. The – ahem – imbeciles.
Zoom out to reveal a Red Team SPY as he slouches down into a chair, Blue Team corpses of various classes strewn around the briefing room. He takes a wad of papers from the briefcase, licks a gloved fingertip for purchase, and leafs through them uninterestedly. As usual, his accent takes a drunken tour of Western Europe as he speaks.
SPY In my profession, one is lamentably dependent on the latter.
He rips the topsheet from a dossier, draws his cigarette case, opens a small compartment containing tobacco and, in a deft yet impossible to animate movement, rolls it into a smokeable.
SPY When a leopard preys on impala in sub-Saharan Africa, he does not attempt to slaughter the entire herd.
He reaches down and lifts the nozzle of a dead Pyro’s Backburner and lights his intelligence roll-up on the pilot light. He takes a few puffs, then points it at us.
SPY No! He isolates the slowest of the pack, and eliminates the beast alone. (Shrugging:) It is the same in my line of work, but it is those lacking in mental agility on whom I prey.
With a black loafer, he gently kicks the cranium of a dead Heavy at his feet. A lump of part-chewed Sandvich drops from his slack craw and his tongue lolls out.
SPY Of course, some are slow in both senses of the word.
2. EXT — DUSTBOWL, TUNNEL — DAY — PAST
Our red Spy, running along a tunnel, cloaks. We can still see him as a red silhouette.
Blues pour in: a HEAVY, SCOUT, PYRO, DEMOMAN. The Spy has to flatten himself utterly against the wall to avoid brushing the Heavy, dash to the other side to avoid the Scout, dive clean over the Pyro just as he blasts a gout of spychecking flame, land into a forwards roll, and stand up face to face with the obviously intoxicated Demoman, who chooses that moment to stop dead and take a swig of his bottle.
The silhouette tries to go round him to the left, but the Demoman staggers in that direction as he drinks. He tries the right, with the same result. He gives up and stands impatiently as the Demoman glugs, and glugs, and glugs. The silhouette looks at its watch, taps its foot. At last the Demoman advances, veering drunkenly into one wall then the other, and the silhouette tiptoes carefully around him.
And slams into an identical blue silhouette, shimmering in and out of visibility.
SPY (VO) A hunter, of course, must be cognisant of other predators.
Both step back in apparent shock, draw their revolvers, then cautiously circle one another until they have switched. Then, without taking their eyes off each other, they walk backwards in their original direction, and eventually turn to run full-speed.
SPY (VO) They may not be your primary target…
The blue silhouette ducks round the corner and decloaks – a fully visible BLUE SPY, smirking. Simultaneously our man exits the tunnel…
3. EXT — DUSTBOWL, CAP 3 — DAY — PAST
…and slips away to the side, decloaks and straps on a paper mask with a Spy’s face on it.
SPY (VO) But it is idiocy to assume you are not theirs.
He waits until the Blue Spy also exits the tunnel in search of him, and gives chase just inches behind. As he does so, a blue MEDIC spots them and gives chase. The three run to:
4. EXT – DUSTBOWL, APPROACH TO CAP 4 — DAY — PAST
MEDIC Spy! Spy!
BLUE SPY (Glancing over his left shoulder, just as our man darts right:) Please, doktor, endeavour not to tell everyone.
MEDIC Nein! Spy is Spy!
BLUE SPY (Muttering:) That is self-evident.
Meanwhile our man is swishing and thrusting his knife just centimeters from the enemy’s back, and finally he cuts a corner that his target does not. The knife sinks in, our man’s mask drops to the floor, the real blue Spy’s eyes widen, and he drops to his knees.
BLUE SPY (Dribbling blood, twisting his head to look back:) You might… have been… more specific…
MEDIC Idiote!
Our man leaves his knife in his victim’s back, and instead pries the Blue Spy’s knife from his hand before he collapses.
SPY That will do nicely.
We dolly with the Medic as he arrives on the scene, just in time to see the Spy take a different corridor back to Cap 3. We lose sight of the Spy just before arriving back at:
5. EXT — DUSTBOWL, CAP 3 — DAY — PAST
We cut to a close-up of his narrowed eyes as they scan his team for suspicious activity, then pan across the team itself:
A SNIPER squats on the control point on the far right, peering down his scope. A SOLDIER trundles forth from the trench in the center. On the left, an ENGINEER and a Spy wearing an unconvincing Engineer mask stand either side of a level three SENTRY, facing away from it in opposite directions. The Medic’s gaze pauses on them, then pans slowly back to the Soldier, none the wiser.
Before the Engineer leaves the frame, he turns and notices the Spy standing next to him. He reacts and thumps his wrench menacingly into his open palm. The oblivious Spy, without looking round, reaches back and slaps an Electro-Sapper onto the Sentry. We pan away before we see the Engy’s reaction, as the Medic suspiciously watches the Soldier rocket-jump over his head, but we hear:
ENGY Boys, we got a Spy!
And the sounds of vigorous Sentry-wrenching and sapper-fritzing.
MEDIC Verdammen! It iz hopeless!
He turns and leaves for the front line.
6. INT — BRIEFING ROOM — DAY — PRESENT
The Spy is lounging in the same seat where we left him, makeshift cigarette halfburnt and forgotten in his right hand, twirling an Engineer’s hardhat on his left. He contemplates the hat.
SPY (Absently:) One breed of impala wear ridiculous yellow hats, and construct robotic impala to compensate for their shortcomings as male impala – all the hurtful things the female impala said to them in impala college.
The hardhat slips from his finger and clatters to the briefing-room floor behind him. The sound snaps him out of his reverie and he sits up straight.
SPY (Reflecting:) At this point, I confess, the analogy falters.
7. EXT — DUSTBOWL, CAP 3 — DAY — PAST
The Engy chases the disguised Spy around the Sentry, the Spy slapping Sappers on the device, the Engy knocking them off with his wrench. By now they’re wading noisily through a heap of thirty bashed-in sappers on the ground. The Engy suddenly reverses direction to catch the Spy, but the Spy doubles back just in time to stay out of range.
ENGY Darnit! Where in tarnation are you keepin’ these motherlovin’ things?
SPY Your tiny mind…
He jumps to slap a sapper on top of the Sentry.
SPY …couldn’t possibly…
He ducks to affix one underneath it.
SPY …comprehend.
As the Engy pauses to reach each one with his Wrench, the Spy catches up behind him and shivs him in the spine. At the precise moment of impact, his mask drops to the floor.
ENGY (Whispering, face-first in the dirt:) Now how in all heck is that any kinda fair?
His eyes close. The Spy begins to brush dust from his suit and opens his mouth to speak, then…
SENTRY BEEPBEEPBEEP!
…his eyes widen in alarm, and he dives into the nearby hut under a hail of fire.
We cut to a Sentry’s-eye view: a green nightvision-style view of the scene with an overlayed wireframe. A box around the entrance to the hut is labelled:
SENTRY (TEXT) LAST KNOWN LOCATION OF ELECTRO-SAPPER DELIVERY MEATBAG
After lingering on it for a moment, it pans abruptly to the corpse of the Engineer, draws a box around it, and adds the tag:
SENTRY (TEXT) FATHER. STATUS: DECEASED
…
NOOOOOO.
The view pans back to the hut, and our Spy is now standing exactly in the “MEATBAG” box wearing the Engineer mask again. The view zooms in on the mask and clarifies the resolution, then a box pops up labelled:
SENTRY (TEXT) SEARCHING FACIAL RECOGNITION DATABASE.
We see gurning mugshots of each of the nine classes flicker past, the Pyro in a party hat, the Demoman holding up an identity plate at a police station, the Scout in the Heavy’s headlock, until it settles on the Engineer, which is labelled “FATHER”. A new line prints below this:
SENTRY (TEXT) DOES NOT COMPUTE.
…
…
UNCLE?
As it writes, the Spy approaches and withdraws another Sapper. This is highlighted in a box labelled:
SENTRY (TEXT) BIRTHDAY GIFT?
…
REMEMBERED THIS YEAR?
…
CONTENTS: LUGNUTS?
…
OH BOY
The Spy slaps a sapper directly over our view, turning everything black except the text.
SENTRY (TEXT) !
…
SO COLD
…
SLEEP MODE
8. INT — BRIEFING ROOM — DAY — PRESENT
Our man has his feet up on the table, tapping ash into a Soldier’s upturned helmet on the desk.
SPY
Sometimes, to move among the impala, the leopard must become one. He must dress up in their skin, (gesturing:) become fat, oafish… (beat, then with a visible shudder:) Russian.
9. INT — DUSTBOWL, TUNNEL — DAY — PAST
Our Spy is trundling along in a theatrical imitation of the Heavy’s gun-burdened waddle, clutching his tiny revolver in both hands as if it is enormously heavy, wearing a Heavy mask and bellowing for a Medic in a pitch-perfect Heavy voice. Soon the Medic returns from the frontline and latches on to him.
MEDIC I am here, kamerad!
The Spy takes a moment to strap on a new Heavy mask that bears a broad grin.
SPY AS HEAVY THANK YOU DOCTOR!
Soon they reach the four attackers the Spy passed on his way in. As our Spy approaches, we see a close-up of his grinning Heavy mask, and we move into slow-mo as he pointlessly slaps a baleful one on top of it.
His balisong rises gradually in his hand until it is poised to strike, then the three Heavy masks fall from his face in rapid succession: angry, happy, grim, then his real expression: a contorted rictus of fury and dark anticipatory delight. His knife curves slowly downwards, but before it hits we cut to:
10. INT — BRIEFING ROOM — DAY — PRESENT
The Spy swings his legs down off the table and leans towards us, eyes narrowed, intense.
SPY There are occasions, of course, which do not call for such restraint. When a leopard’s characteristic savoir faire is simply inappropriate. Situations that need no subtlety, subterfuge or deception.
He draws his balisong from his blazer pocket and raises it for emphasis.
SPY Situations, gentlemen, that demand (stabbing the air with each word for emphasis:) swift! Decisive! Action! In which the only possible course of action is a furious (swish!) blitzkrieg (swish!) of steel (swish!) and viscous spurts of hot (he stabs the table) red (he stabs again) blood!
With the final word he brings his knife down a third time, but an instant before we would see it hit, we cut back to:
11. INT — DUSTBOWL, TUNNEL — DAY — PAST
Close up on the Medic’s face – a vision of dismay. There’s the characteristic critical-hit backstab boom! and:
SCOUT
My scapula!
We see flecks of blood splatter the Medic’s face, causing his horrified expression to flinch. Another critical-stab sound:
DEMOMAN
Me lumbar!
Another stab, another splash of blood, another flinch:
PYRO
Mh mhmphmuh!
Stab, splat, flinch:
HEAVY
My braiaaaahahaaaaghahahaaaa! -ain.
The Medic’s face is now glistening with blood. His eyes narrow, he grits his teeth, spits a gob of swallowed blood to the floor, and we pull back to see him draw his Ubersaw.
Dolly with the Medic as he pursues the fleeing Spy. As they exit the tunnel towards Cap 4, we cut to the chase from the side: the Doc is clearly gaining. But when the Spy reaches the large rock near the cap, he suddenly trots to a halt, spins around and calmly draws his cigarette case. The Medic is an inch from him when he comes into view of a level three red Sentry on his right, which-
Sentry Gun BEEPBEEPBEEP DAKADAKADAKADAKA!
-pummels him gracelessly into a rock.
The spy brushes at a speck of blood on his suit, and begins:
Spy You’ve got blood on my-
Sentry Gun DAKADAKADAKADAKA!
Hot spurts of blood geyser horrifically from the Medic’s gibbering corpse, splattering the Spy. The Spy irritably wipes his face with a gloved hand and starts again.
Spy I’ve made quite a-
Sentry Gun DAKADAKADAKADAKA!
The spy glares at it, soaked in blood.
Spy I-
Sentry Gun DAKADAKA!
Spy Do not make me silence your infernal machine, labourer!
Cut to:
12. TEAM FORTRESS 2 LINE-UP SPLASH
The usual suspects, the usual tune. Zoomed, of course, to our man.
Beat.
Sentry Gun (VO) … … DAKA!
Spy (VO) Very well.
13. INT — BRIEFING ROOM — DAY — PRESENT
The Spy is still stabbing the table in a frenzy, woodchips and spittle flinging in all directions, when finally he senses us and looks up, suddenly aware of what he’s doing. His stabbing hand slows until the knife-tip is just tapping gently on the table’s lacquered surface, then he composes himself, flips the knife’s blade back into its housing in a complicated twirl and tucks it back into his jacket pocket.
Spy Ah, yes, of course…
He tosses a dossier back into the briefcase, clicks it shut, takes it by the handle and stands up.
Spy Intelligence.
He tosses his lit cigarette over his shoulder as he leaves, igniting the Medic’s coat. He straightens his tie before approaching the camera. We zoom out to reveal:
14. INT — 2FORT, BLU INTELLIGENCE ROOM — DAY — PRESENT
The Spy steps through a perfectly Spy-shaped hole already cut in the glass wall between the briefing room and the intel chamber. A Spy-shaped piece of glass is propped against the desk outside. A Soldier, Demoman and Heavy guard the two corridors leading in, all facing away from the Spy, and he mimes an eenie-meanie-miny-moe game to decide who to stab first.
He’s interrupted by a sudden pop! as the now huge briefing room fire reaches the Heavy’s ammo belt. All three Blues freeze, and the Spy winces as a rapid series of small explosions causes everyone to spin round and glare at him. Finally, the Pyro’s propane tank blows the entire glass wall out.
The Spy stands frozen, mid-flinch, shoulders hunched, face screwed up, as the last fragments of glass tinkle to the floor and the three stare expectantly.
Spy Figlio di puttana.
15. END TITLES W/BOX ART
Team Fortress 2, available now, buy it I guess, yada yada.