Team Rampart (RED) Bare Bones Basics

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

And an actually finished short! Just a Little Moment, and it's one of the last ones in the timeline thusfar, but still!

Warning for suggestive content! Nothing explicit, but Freckles is... vocal. 16+, I'd say. Content warning and going under a cut, just in case.

Summary: With Soldier in the void for the day, Pyro and Freckles are enjoying some time together, much to everyone else's dismay.

——

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

“Ahhh! Fuck yes!”

A collective wince went through the Blues in the rec room at the lustful cry ringing through the barracks’ halls. Soldier was in the void today (along with Heavy, but it was Soldier’s absence that really mattered), and Pyro and Freckles had been making good use of their time, much to the chagrin and disgust of the remaining members of the team. Scout covered his ears with a groan, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Fuckin’- Again? Are they fuckin’ serious?” he said, glaring toward the hallway. Sniper pinched the bridge of his nose with a grimace as another ecstatic wail filled the room. He had to wonder how Pyro hadn’t gone deaf, if Freckles was getting enough volume to still be that loud all the way down here.

“They sound pretty bloody serious, mate,” he said, looking over at Engie. He was hunched over yet another of his innumerable blueprints, the only one in the room not disturbed by the unsolicited erotic soundtrack to their afternoon thanks to a pair of heavy-duty noise-cancelling headphones. Sniper started to lean a little toward him, trying to stay out of the Texan’s goggle-impaired peripheral vision. Engie still swatted his hand away as soon as he started reaching, though.

“Nope,” Engie said, not looking up. “Gitcher own, Stretch.”

Sniper grunted, and a far too long moan from down the hall made him round his shoulders, resisting the urge to cover his ears like Scout. Demo had long since drunk himself into a slightly horrified stupor, slumped down in his seat and staring glassily into the far distance, and Medic had disappeared after the third time the pornographic noises had restarted after a deceptively optimistic stretch of silence. Even Spy was starting to look more annoyed than amused, rubbing his forehead as he stared intently at his book. He hadn’t turned a page in about three minutes, and his latest smoke was steadily turning into nothing more than one long cylindrical ash.

“Ohhhh-ohh fuh-uh-uh-uh-uck!”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, how are they both not fuckin’ raw by now!” Scout threw up his hands. “Fuckin’ shit, it’s been-” He grabbed Sniper’s arm to look at his watch, ignoring the swat he received as a result. “-three and a half hours? What the fuck! Even Bonked up I wouldn’t be able to keep goin’ that long, ’specially not fuckin’ takin’ it! Jesus!”

“Please, voyou, for the sake of all of our sanity, shut the fuck up.”

“Bite me, Poutine.”

Sniper glanced toward the hall as the sound of hurried bootsteps managed to penetrate the continuing obscene racket. He was just in time to see Medic striding purposefully in the direction of the team bedrooms, a grim look on his face. Sniper raised an eyebrow, and got to his feet to follow him. He couldn’t have seen what he thought he’d seen in Doc’s hand…

Medic stopped, of course, outside Pyro’s door, and rapped on it sharply with his free hand. The sounds from inside the room petered out for a moment, but hadn’t faded completely before they started up again. Sniper heard Medic growl before pounding on the door again, hard enough to rattle it in its frame. This time, the sounds mercifully stopped. Sniper could hear quick, muffled footsteps, and then the door jerked open a few inches. Pyro peeked out, irate face shining with sweat and red under his tan.

“The fuck do you want, Doc? We’re kind of fucking bus-”

Pyro flinched back from the hand Medic thrust at him, then stared. A ball-gag dangled by one of its straps from the doctor’s gloved fist. Medic’s glare should have peeled off Pyro’s hide.

“Shut him up,” he growled, “or I am going in zhere to do it myself.”

Sniper wouldn’t have thought Pyro’s face could get any redder. His eyes flicked from the gag to Medic’s face, then to Sniper standing a little ways down the hall with his arms crossed and a meaningful eyebrow raised. A few seconds passed in frozen, awkward silence.

Pyro carefully took the gag, and shut the door with a soft snap.

Tales of Well Timeline/Masterpost

[Updated April 26, 2025]

Putting everything in one place for easy access and reference :) Timeline includes all of the one-shots (and other fics in the "Tales" timeline) that I have planned/started.

Bolded titles are complete (at least tentatively), italicized titles aren't significantly started yet (either just ideas or under 250 words), and everything else is a WIP (most are sitting at 1.5k+ words so far). Also, the ones titled with "Little Moments" are more drabbles than full shorts, usually more light-hearted and goofy, and the ones with "Inner Workings" switch to first-person for little internal monologues. There are also likely to be more shorts added as inspiration strikes me (still got some time to fill between the main body of shorts and the longfics that follow [see bottom of timeline]).

Also now on AO3! ToW on AO3!

INFO POSTS

Tales of Well Basics Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics Team Rampart (RED) Bare Bones Basics Main Character Bios & Info Post-ToW Longfics Basic Info Tales of Sawmill Main Character Basics

Timeline under the cut :)

——

Prologue

Tales of Sawmill [1983-1988; will (eventually) become its own series] Tales of Teufort [1988-1993; may become its own series as well]

Tales of Well (Start Date: March 6, 1993)

Moving Day

First Day

Privacy

A Special Cigarette

Art Therapy

Untitled (RED Speeding Bullet [smut; *RED Speeding Bullet begins])

Gentle Hands

For the Birds

In Vino Veritas [smut; *BLU Spy/Scout begins]

Untitled (BLU Scout/Spy [smut])

Scout Vs Scout [tent title]

Respawn Errors

Little Moments: Arson Face

Deathmatch

Going Public

Little Moments: Supply Day

Southern Comfort [smut? maybe? still on the fence; *RED Speeding Bullet ends, RED Texas Two-Step begins]

Bloody Suit [tent title]

Untitled (first Trio [Scout/Pyro/Scout] hangout)

Toys [PWP]

Desert Rain

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 2

Proving Oneself

Sick Scout

Heart-to-Heart

Life, Death, and Respawn [tent title]

Little Moments: Long Jump

Check-Up [Six-month mark]

A Bad Idea [smut; *(occasional) Scoutcest begins]

“The Gayest Fuckin’ Conversation of My Life” [*RED Texas Two-Step ends]

Pillow Talk

Munchies Run

Little Moments: Laundry Day

Spawn Camping

Little Moments: BONK!

Line in the Sand

Heat [smut? maybe? *cross-faction Flash Fire begins]

Shave and a Haircut [tent title]

Check-Up 2

Inner Workings: RED Scout - Who Am I?

Little Moments: Story Time

Town Fair

Parle Salement A Moi [PWP]

Little Moments: Spy’s Secret

Anniversary

Strange Feeling

Good Morning [PWP]

Breakfast

A Breach of Trust

Spell-Check  [One year mark]

Inner Workings: BLU Spy - Expressions

Grocery Run

Camping [smut; *Flash Fire/Scoutcest-combo begins]

Inner Workings: BLU Scout - I’m Not A Fag

Little Moments: Twinkie

Sick Scout 2

Little Moments: Respawn Errors?

Cockblocked

Dance Lessons

Happy Birthday

I See You

Untitled (RED Sniper tortures Scout)

The Other Side of the Fence

Untitled (Pyro/Spy trapped)

Accessorizing [PWP]

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation

Float Like a Butterfly

Sting Like a Bee

“Charge Me Doktor!” [PWP]

Lover’s Quarrel

Inner Workings: BLU Pyro - Mine

Night Terrors

Little Moments: Respawn Errors 3

Little Moments: Feliz Cumpleaños

Campfire Songs

Old Dogs

Scout Hunt

Brotherly Love

Those Words

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

Kindred Spirit

Reaper at Your Back

Little Moments: Fishsticks

Little Moments: Brownies [...]

Fast Car

Ink

Our Third [PWP] [...]

(End Date: June 10, 1995)

Into the Future

Tales of Well: On the Run [longfic] Great White North [longfic]

The Other Side of the Fence Teaser/WIP

This ones gets a little angsty, though not too much is there yet. Takes place soon after the previous short (untitled as yet, but Scout is tortured by the RED Sniper; it's not nice), and Scout needs to take some time to process... everything.

Summary: Scout finds himself thinking too much while out for a run, and decides to go a little further afield, out past the fence.

——

The Other Side of the Fence

[...]

[...] He was used to putting up with a pretty ungodly amount of bullshit out here: between the fights themselves, the respawn errors, and the nutjobs and queers on both sides of the field, he was surprised he hadn’t gone completely batshit already.

It had just been… a lot, lately. A lot. He’d had two bad respawn errors in the past week, the worse of which had put him through phantom pains of every injury he’d received since arriving at Well. He wasn’t sure if it was feeling like his chest had exploded or like a shovel was splitting his skull that had made him realize what it was, aside from random, mind-numbing agony. After a while, he hadn’t really given a fuck. He’d just wanted it to stop.

And Spy had been there, at least for part of it. That just made everything a million times worse. Usually, it was common practice to politely ignore anyone caught in the throes of a bad error, unless there was an actual injury involved. It was humiliating, being seen heaving your guts out, or stumbling around like a moron, or screaming your lungs fucking raw from pain and writhing around like you were fucking possessed. When the last of the seemingly endless torment of the error had faded, though, and Scout’s brain had started working again, there Spy had been, rubbing his back and muttering that everything was alright like he was some kind of sick kid. Never mind that it had felt really nice, after going through that monumental crock of shit. It was still embarrassing as Hell, knowing Spy had been there watching him scream and flail and cry. Having anyone there would have sucked, but the fact that it had been Spy just made it so much fucking worse.

Then there was trying to work out that whole what-the-fuck of a situation… He wasn’t gay—he knew, deep down, he knew that he wasn’t, no matter how Red and Pyro kept getting on his ass about it—but everything with Spy felt so… relationship-y. Him moving into Spy’s room like they were fucking boyfriends or something, the little pet names, the whole notebook thing and making-up after. It wasn’t really any different from how he’d felt with—and about—the girls he’d actually considered girlfriends, rather than just quick fucks.

And Spy had finally told him his name. It still sent a little thrill through him, just knowing that he knew, but it felt intimate in a way he wasn’t sure about. He was curious about everyone else’s names too—it was hard not to be out here—and, yeah, he’d told Spy his name ages ago, but something about knowing Spy’s, with everything between them, and Spy’s general “Spy-ness”…

Spy hadn’t stopped with his name, either. Scout had learned more about the masked man in the past few weeks than he had in the entire preceding year. He was forty-two years old (fuck Red for being  right, but forty-two still wasn’t that old), allergic to bees, had a younger sister, hadn’t lost his virginity until he was nineteen, had been engaged twice, and had “had relations” with five other members of RED and BLU over the past eleven years, not including Scout himself. The current RED Sniper, “the convict”, was one of them.

The RED Sniper… Scout huffed as he vaulted a boulder, rather than run around, and tried to ignore the sick chills creeping down his spine, and the almost-there feeling of coarse rope around his wrists. Fuck the RED Sniper. He knew that that was what was really messing with him, even if he hated to give the fucker credit for getting to him so much. The guy was fucking insane, though. He hadn’t tried for anything below the belt when he’d grabbed Scout a few days ago, thank fucking Christ, but Scout knew the creep had been getting off on hurting him and seeing how freaked out being tied up made him. It was sick, and terrifying.

[...]

He leaned forward as far as he comfortably could. Christ, it really was a long way down from up here, wasn’t it? Heights had never really been a thing with him, even before he’d been able to double-jump, but he could see why they got to people. It was freaky, looking down and knowing that if he fell, he probably wouldn’t ever get up again. He nudged a pebble over the edge with his toe, watching its tumbling and surprisingly lengthy descent. Yeah, scratch that “probably”. He’d definitely be buzzard food if he fell from here. No respawn to snatch his corpse back and revive him, out here past the fence.

He shuffled forward slightly. A few more pebbles joined the one he’d dropped, a clattering rush that seemed far too loud in the otherwise silent desert. He closed his eyes when seeing them bouncing off the side and edges of the rock formation on their way to earth made his stomach clench in an odd way. He took in a long, deep breath and, slowly, he lifted his arms out to his sides. He didn’t open his eyes, but he could feel the edge in front of him. He carefully eased himself up on tiptoe, the light breeze pushing gently on him.

“Aiden. Please don’t.”

His heels thumped back down to the rock. He lowered his arms and let out his breath. “I wasn’t going to.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Honest, Baz. I wouldn’t.”

Spy—Sebastien—stepped up to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his mask. “While I trust your ’onesty, voyou, I would greatly appreciate a few more steps between you and the open air, if you don’t mind?”

[...]

Main Character Bios & Info

Bios for the main focus characters (BLU Scout, Pyro, Sniper, and Spy, and RED Scout, Engineer, and Sniper), with some extra random info for each! This is all info from the beginning of the series (unless otherwise noted), so some things are likely to change over the course of the shorts, but this is a little look at who the guys are when we first meet them :) Looong infodump under the cut! Enjoy!

——

BLU Scout (“Blue”)

Name: Aiden Marcus Knight Age: 23 Nationality: American (Massachusetts [Boston]) Time w/ BLU: 13 months

Height: 5’11 Hair: Light brown, crew cut Eye Colour: Hazel Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian Build: Slim, broad-shouldered, defined legs Scars: Respawn error: axe wound (left side, abdomen, and back; inward to navel/spine [lowest two ribs are artificial]), bonesaw wound (right pectoral), kukri wound (left collarbone), gunshot wound (center sternum), gunshot wound (back, right shoulder), appendectomy, childhood injury (left calf) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Ball-Kicking Boots, Track Terrorizer (After Eight), Backwards Ballcap (Air of Debonair) Typical Weapon Loadout: Scattergun, Bonk! (when available) or Pistol, Sandman

Likes: Sketching, painting (esp. graffiti/tagging), running, brawling, baseball (Red Sox fan), comic books (primarily Marvel, esp. Spider-Man), cartoons (esp. Looney Tunes and TMNT) Dislikes: Doctors, being ignored, being called stupid, being called gay Fears: Merinthophobia (fear of being bound/tied up, esp. his limbs [severe enough to induce debilitating panic attacks]), mild claustrophobia Habits: Fidgets, chews nails Disorders/Medical Conditions: Dyslexia, potential (very-probable) ADHD

Extra Facts:

Has eight older brothers, and he’s used to having to be the loudest—and most obnoxiously tactless and offensive—person in the room in order to make himself heard. It’s a habit he still hasn’t shed after over a year working as a mercenary, much to his teammates’ chagrin.

Generally, the only time he’ll willingly sit still for any stretch is when he’s drawing, whether it’s in a sketchbook or when he’s making a graffiti stencil. If forced to sit still and there’s any paper in reach, he’ll doodle to keep himself entertained (he always has at least a stubby pencil in his pocket) until the paper runs out. Then he starts getting annoying.

Surprisingly naïve for his age, and willfully ignorant of any topic that doesn’t catch his interest; if something doesn’t immediately hook him, he’s not going to engage. This, combined with his general lack of “book-smarts” (he dropped out of high school at sixteen instead of having to repeat grade ten; Ma was not happy), tends to lead to him being a colossal dumbass sometimes most of the time [he wasn’t supposed to be as stupid as he is, honest…].

Brawler. Prefers close combat to gunplay nine times out of ten; his Sandman is his favourite weapon, though if he gets really carried away, he’ll just start going at it with his fists. He loves the adrenaline rush of getting in a good punch to the face, or getting clocked himself.

Has an ungodly amount of energy, and puts most of it to work pestering and pissing off his teammates. Anything he can say or do to push someone’s buttons, he’ll say or do without hesitation. Aside from his general motor-mouthed offensiveness, he’s a big fan of pranking the team to the point that even Engie will have steam coming from his ears, and when he gets his monthly supply of Bonk, it gets easily a million times worse.

Really does care about (most of) his teammates, even if he is a complete jackass more often than not, and the affection is (mostly) returned, though he may not believe it so much. In the Team Garrison “family”, he’s definitely the annoying little brother, or unruly child, to the rest of the men.

Surprisingly friendly with Spy, to absolutely everyone’s shock; Spy is actually likely his closest friend on the team. Even though Spy spends a lot of his time “sitting around being boring”, Blue likes talking with him and tends to actively harass him less than the others.

Heavily repressed bisexual. Everyone else knows he’s at least a little into guys (he’s not nearly as subtle as he thinks he is), but he will loudly and vehemently—and sometimes violently—deny it if confronted.

——

BLU Pyro

Name: Guillermo “Billy” José Soto Age: 20 Nationality: Mexican (Santa Ana) Time w/ BLU: 12 months

Height: 5’9 Hair: Black, chin length, long bangs Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Pale tan Build: Underweight, defined arms Scars: Third-degree burn (left arm, elbow to shoulder; left side, mid-ribs to armpit; back, left side, mid-back to upper shoulder; neck, left side; left cheek from jaw to cheekbone [primarily hypertrophic scarring, some contracture on left shoulder]) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Pin-on button (“Born to Fry Spies”), Scorched Earth Stompers, Pyromancer’s Hood [received “Little Moments: Supply Day”], Firebrand [received around “Breakfast”] Typical Weapon Loadout: Flame Thrower, Flare Gun, Fire Axe

Likes: Fire, rock music (esp. Pink Floyd, Queen, and Santana), playing guitar, animals (esp. birds and reptiles), privacy, being alone Dislikes: His scar, his voice, Spies, being cold, the f-slur (and the various derivatives Blue comes up with) Fears: Suffocation, drowning Habits: Playing with lighters/lighting matches Disorders/Medical Conditions: Mild pyromania

Extra Facts:

Received his scar when he was fifteen, when he was trapped (along with his cousin and some friends) in a garage that was set on fire by some gangsters his cousin owed money to. A burning piece of the roof fell on his back and shoulder, and the scarring there is deeper; he has next to no sensation there and he’s lost some of his shoulder flexibility due to the tightness of the scarring. When he was nineteen, he set the house of one of the gangsters on fire, with the gangster and his family inside. They all managed to get out, but Billy was arrested for arson and attempted murder, and picked up by BLU while on trial.

Due to damage to his throat when he was burned, his voice sounds like he’s been smoking a pack a day since he was five: it is very deep, and gravelly. He hates how it sounds, and, along with his scar, it’s a major reason he keeps his mask on so much.

Major introvert. Spends most of his free time in his room, or out in the backyard burning things. He does make fairly regular visits to Engie in his workshop, but he rarely spends time with anyone else on the team. Even on the rare occasions that he hangs out in the rec room instead of his bedroom, he’ll usually rebuff attempts at conversation unless it’s about something important (or especially interesting).

Fluent in English, but can have trouble with vocabulary sometimes, especially if it’s not a word he comes across often. Part of the reason he enjoys spending so much time with Engie is that Engie can understand Spanish, as well as speak it a little, so he’s able to talk to someone in his mother tongue.

Has a massive collection of records, cassette tapes, and CDs; he’s almost always listening to something when he’s in his room. He also has a big box of mix-tapes that he’s created over the past year; he’s made a few for Engie and Medic, too.

Openly gay, though not everyone’s realized, so far. It’s not a topic that tends to come up a lot on the rare occasions anyone can corner him for a chat. Engie is aware—and doesn’t care, so long as it’s not being shoved in his face—as are Medic and Heavy. Spy also knows, though not because Pyro told him; Spy just sussed it out on his own.

——

BLU Sniper

Name: Peter Michael Allen Age: 38 Nationality: Australian (Northern Territory [primarily Outback]) Time w/ BLU: 11 years, 3 months [Sawmill vet; longest-serving merc]

Height: 6’5 Hair: Dark brown, short, messy, long sideburns Eye Colour: Dark blue Skin Tone: Well-tanned Caucasian Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Scars: Respawn error: knife wound (“Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril), kukri wound (upper right abdomen), knife wound (back of neck, spine), dingo bite (right calf) Other Distinguishing Features: Perpetual five-o’clock shadow

Uniform Cosmetics: Itsy Bitsy Spyer (blue doll), Triggerman’s Tacticals Typical Weapon Loadout: Sniper Rifle, Razorback, Machete

Likes: The outdoors, wildlife (esp. lizards and birds of prey), spiders, barbecuing, old movies (Golden Age), “oldies” music (esp. ’40s-’50s) Dislikes: Weak coffee, being cold, the dark, short doorways and low ceilings Fears: Blindness, canines (dogs, wolves, coyotes, etc) Habits: Smoker Disorders/Medical Conditions: N/A

Extra Facts:

Has been at this “war” a long time, almost since the initial reformation of TF Industries. Still tries to take things as seriously and to remain as professional as he can, but it’s been getting harder and harder to do. He’s not even really sure why he’s doing it any more, aside from maybe affection for his teammates, and not having any idea of what else he would want to do with his life.

Team Garrison’s unofficial leader, mostly due to seniority but also due to the other members of the team respecting him a great deal. He’s not exactly the “leader” type, in his mind, so he’s not likely to be giving orders or trying to tell the others what to do, but everyone listens to him when he speaks and he’s the one that they’ll come to with most issues they can’t handle themselves.

Spy’s “work husband”. The two of them have worked together since Spy was recruited at Sawmill, and have been friends for nearly as long. They know each other’s real names [*though it’s not required by their contracts, the mercs are strongly encouraged to keep their names to themselves], and are as close as two people can platonically be (there was an attempt to initiate a… deeper relationship on Spy’s part, years ago, but Sniper is asexual, so they remain heterosexual life partners). He received his Itsy Bitsy Spyer from Spy back at Sawmill, after they first told each other their names, and he gave Spy a Spycrab in return (Spy keeps it on his night table).

Not the typical loner hired by RED and BLU for his class. While he does enjoy his alone time, he’s more than happy to hang out with the rest of the team, spends most of his free time around the base rather than off on his own, and actually sleeps in his provided room in the barracks most nights, rather than in his camper. He’s also usually the first up and about in the morning; he lets Engie or Medic make breakfast (he can’t cook for shit), but he always makes the coffee.

Frequently “makes friends” with the wildlife and spiders around base. He fed and looked after a succession of squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, crows, snakes, and one great horned owl at Sawmill, and a gila monster, a red-tailed hawk, and several generations of wolf spiders at Teufort. He lets them stay wild and doesn’t try to domesticate them, but he inevitably ends up with at least a few critters in the vicinity that know his camper van and common sniping perches are safe places to chill and get a snack.

——

BLU Spy

Name: [REDACTED] Age: 41 Nationality: (Assumed) French Time w/ BLU: 10 years, 1 month [Sawmill vet]

Height: 5’8 Hair: Light brown, short side part (right), widow’s peak Eye Colour: Light grey Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Scars: Gunshot wound (lower left abdomen), kukri wound (upper back, top of right shoulder blade to bottom of left shoulder blade) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Blood Banker Typical Weapon Loadout: L’Etranger, Balisong, Disguise Kit, Cloak and Dagger, Sapper

Likes: Scotch, spy novels, cleanliness and organization (in himself, others, and his environment), swing music, crooner music (esp. Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra), privacy Dislikes: Uncleanliness, disorganization, chaos, ignorance (himself and others), surprises (even good ones), [hates] the RED Sniper Fears: [REDACTED] Habits: Chain smoker Disorders/Medical Conditions: [REDACTED]

Extra Facts:

Like Sniper, he’s been at this long enough to not take it too seriously any more, and as a result is much more open and friendly with his teammates than the majority of Spies. He still tries to maintain some degree of distance and intrigue (he is a Spy, after all), but he knows there’s no real harm in opening up a little and being on friendly terms with his co-workers. Most of the time. He has become… overly attached to certain teammates over the years, and when he has, it has led to near universally tragic results.

Nosy and gossipy; he loves to know everything that’s going on with everyone, as much as he can. He’s gathered more “intel” on both his teammates and opponents over the years than BLU and RED likely have, and knows more about everyone else than they realize (or would probably be comfortable with him knowing).

Was involved in a brief sexual relationship with the RED Sniper at Sawmill, shortly after the RED Sniper was first recruited. It ended poorly, to put it extremely mildly, and they’ve hated each other with a passion ever since. They will gladly take any opportunity to harm (or kill) each other, even during ceasefire, which has led to multiple unfortunate incidents over the years, several of which have spilled over to involve other mercs (usually members of the BLU team, unfortunately; Spy tries to keep their animosity strictly between him and the RED Sniper, but the RED Sniper isn’t as restrained).

Hates getting himself dirty in the course of his work. Tries to make most of his kills as bloodless as possible, or to keep himself at a safe distance if he needs to get… messy. While not as vain as his RED counterpart, he does take great pride in maintaining his immaculate appearance, even in the heat of battle.

Recently renewed his contract, despite being almost entirely disillusioned with the “war” at this point. He’s harboured a growing disquiet over the RED/BLU conflict for years, and he’s not quite ready to lose the “inside insight” he has on it as a mercenary in BLU’s employ.

——

RED Scout (“Red”/“Freckles”)

Name: Cooper Patrick O’Hare Age: 18 (almost 19) Nationality: American (New York [Brooklyn]) Time w/ RED: N/A [begins “First Day”]

Height: 5’4 Hair: Strawberry-blond, fade Eye Colour: Light brown Skin Tone: Lightly-tanned Caucasian Build: Thin, defined legs Scars: N/A Other Distinguishing Features: Buck teeth, freckles (literally everywhere: face [particularly over nose and cheekbones], neck, shoulders, back, legs, and arms)

Uniform Cosmetics: [*Acquired over the course of the shorts] Brooklyn Booties, Imp’s Imprint, Bonk Batter’s Backup Typical Weapon Loadout: Scattergun, Pistol, Bat

Likes: Dancing, cooking, baseball (Yankees fan), “classic” rock music (’60s-early ’80s), pop music, “kids’ movies” (Disney animated movies, G/PG-rated movies), animals Dislikes: Being short, his buck teeth, being treated like a kid, silence, being alone Fears: Deafness Habits: Chatters excessively Disorders/Medical Conditions: Asthma [mostly negated by injections provided before deployment]

Extra Facts:

A happy, bubbly extrovert. Will almost always seek out company rather than spend time alone, even if he usually just ends up chattering away at someone while he’s doing whatever he’s doing rather than chatting with them. He tends to not have much of a filter between his thoughts and his mouth, and he speaks without thinking a lot, but he’s easygoing enough that he’s not nearly as offensive to be around as his BLU counterpart. Overwhelmingly friendly, too; he’s willing, and will try, to make friends with anyone, unless they actively give him a reason not to.

Total babyface. Combined with his height, it makes him look like he’s fifteen years old at most, and it drives him crazy. He hates being underestimated and looked down on because of how he looks, and is quick to correct (with violence, if necessary) anyone who assumes his youthful appearance and general friendliness mean he’s easy to mess with. He is, however, objectively adorable, no matter how much it pisses him off.

Extremely flexible and acrobatic. Has been into dancing and gymnastics since he was a kid and, with the pre-deployment injections given to him by RED, he’s unbelievably nimble, even by Scout standards.

Quick learner, and not as unworldly as one might expect from someone his age. He’s still finding his feet in this odd situation he’s gotten himself involved in, but he chose mercenary work after taking a year off after high school, and it wasn’t just for the money.

He’s pretty sure he’s bi, but he’s never been in a same-sex relationship before. He’s definitely curious, though, and open to experimenting and figuring things out.

——

RED Engineer (“Wrenches”)

Name: Thomas William Harris Age: 34 Nationality: American (Georgia [Savannah]) Time w/ RED: 5 years, 3 months [Sawmill vet]

Height: 5’8 Hair: Dirty blond, buzz cut Eye Colour: Dark brown Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian Build: Stout, broad-shouldered and -chested Scars: Knife wound (back of neck, spine), electrical burn (left wrist) Other Distinguishing Features: Robotic right hand (self-upgraded Gunslinger model), perpetual five o’clock shadow

Uniform Cosmetics: Builder’s Blueprints, Trencher’s Tunic, Packable Provisions, Hazard Handler Typical Weapon Loadout: Shotgun, Wrangler, Gunslinger, Wrench

Likes: Robots/robotics, machines, science fiction (TV, movies, and books), space/astronomy, working, bourbon Dislikes: Country music, crowds, shoddy workmanship, cruelty Fears: (Permanent) death Habits: Fidgets with Gunslinger Disorders/Medical Conditions: Insomnia

Extra Facts:

Tends to be quite reserved and distant with his teammates, though he’s easygoing and friendly enough with anyone who makes the effort to get to know him. He’s an amazing listener, and is the perfect guy to vent to with no fear of judgement. He has a fairly limited social battery, though; he’s more comfortable spending time with his machines than with other people most of the time, and can only take so much human interaction before he gets uncomfortable. He is actually on fairly genial terms with more members of the BLU team than of his own.

Has always been fascinated by machines and robots, to a near unhealthy degree, and is constantly coming up with new designs for gadgets, improvements to his existing gear, and potential mechanical implants, usually to the detriment of his eating and sleeping schedules. He hasn’t regretted cutting off his hand for his Gunslinger for even a second, and he would not be at all opposed to being the world’s first cyborg, if the opportunity ever presented itself. He also has a great deal of interest in the mechanics behind respawn and Mann Co’s other “developments”; he’s been officially reprimanded by the Administration for both trying to reverse-engineer various pieces of equipment and weaponry, and trying to crack open the intel more than once. [*The intel briefcases are specially sealed so the mercs can’t open them, even with all the weaponry at their disposal. Actually managing to open the intel briefcases is one of the few offenses in the mercs’ contracts that will result in immediate termination (read: permanent death).]

Strongly dislikes the RED Sniper. He’s disgusted by Sniper’s particular brand of cruelty, and hates to see him manipulating other members of the team. He’ll go out of his way to put a stop to it if he catches Sniper in a lie or manipulation, which has led to no little amount of animosity between them.

Has a veritable library of science-fiction media, from books to movies to homemade VHS recordings of Star Trek (original series and TNG, of course). He has also successfully made his own (briefly) working lightsaber and phaser, and has Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics engraved in the side of his toolbox. He’s not very conspicuous in his sci-fi fandom, but it’s obvious to anyone who cares to take even a cursory look.

——

RED Sniper

Name: Hollis Jacob Colling Age: 31 Nationality: Australian Time w/ RED: 8 years, 6 months [Sawmill vet]

Height: 6’2 Hair: Brown, short, messy Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Well-tanned Caucasian Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Scars: Respawn error: knife wound (“Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril), knife wound (back, right shoulder), knife wound (torso, left pectoral to navel) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Villain’s Veil, Crocodile Smile, Brim-Full of Bullets Typical Weapon Loadout: Huntsman, SMG, Kukri

Likes: Hunting, archery, the outdoors, being alone, violence, killing Dislikes: People in general, cities, being told what to do, not getting what he wants, the BLU Spy Fears: [Unknown] Habits: Smoker, stares Disorders/Medical Conditions: N/A

Extra Facts:

Gives off very intense vibes. Can be very charismatic when he puts his mind to it, but spending any significant time with him can be overwhelming in a very unsettling way.

Not a nice guy [honestly the closest thing close to an antagonist character in the shorts]. Enjoys violence for violence’s sake and seeing others in pain gives him that warm, fuzzy feeling inside. He was a professional hitman for most of his adult life before being hired by RED, and more than a few innocents that crossed his path met… unfortunate ends for his amusement. He spent a little over a year in prison after being caught “enjoying” one such innocent, and was picked up by RED while on the lam after escaping.

Will do anything he deems necessary to get what he wants, regardless of who it hurts and how much. He will lie, cheat, steal, and kill without remorse if he feels like it’ll benefit him.

Sadistically cruel to the Blues on the battlefield (and during ceasefire, though he exercises it less often off the field). He will try to make each kill as painful and drawn-out as possible, and if he can inflict a little lasting trauma (either emotional or physical) in the process, even better. He likes getting up close and getting his hands dirty, too; most of the Blues have at least one scar from his kukri.

A loner. He’s rarely seen around the base during ceasefire and on days off, preferring to spend his time in his nest or going out hunting. It’s not uncommon for him to disappear for a few days at a time if he knows there are no fights coming up. He’s always come back, (so far) so RED hasn’t had a problem with it, or at least not enough of one to tell him to stop [*like with revealing names, while it’s not strictly disallowed by their contracts, RED and BLU strongly discourage overnight trips off-base].

Breakfast Teaser/WIP

The BLU team (except for Soldier) is pretty tolerant of Red/Freckles whenever he comes around to visit Pyro and Scout by this point. He's not nearly as much of a jackass as their own Scout, during ceasefire at least.

Summary: Freckles decides to thank the Blues for not shooting him on sight every time he drops by.

——

Breakfast (tent. title)

[...]

Freckles was not who [Sniper] expected to see, humming to himself as he shimmied and slid through the kitchen on bare feet, pulling dishes and utensils from various cabinets and drawers. The kid was wearing one of Pyro’s t-shirts (Sniper recognized it instantly as one of the ones Scout had defaced; that lurid shade of pink was certainly distinctive) and Sniper was fairly sure he was wearing a pair of Pyro’s sweatpants as well, the cuffs rolled up several times to keep from dragging on the floor. He’d assembled a fair collection of food on the counter: a mound of potatoes and two onions, already peeled; the brick of cheddar from the fridge; several peppers of various colours and sizes; two packs of breakfast sausages; and two cartons of eggs. Aside from the potatoes and cheese, Sniper knew that none of it had come from their actual supplies; they’d used up the last eggs a few days ago, and they hadn’t had any vegetables (aside from the potatoes, if they could even really be considered vegetables) shipped to them in longer than he liked to think about. Freckles must have made a grocery run on his own.

Sniper stayed just outside the doorway, far enough back for Freckles to not see him as he puttered around the kitchen, setting bowls and other dishes on the counter, and once checking the oven, opening the door a couple inches and nodding in satisfaction at whatever he found. Something seemed to be eluding him, though. After placing a spatula on the counter, he started searching more intently through cupboards and drawers, muttering to himself. Sniper had to stifle a laugh when, after a minute or so of hunting, he pulled a chair over to one of the counters and stood on it, so he could see onto the higher shelves. Freckles had such a big attitude, it was sometimes easy to forget just how short he really was. He saw what he wanted, apparently, because he cursed softly and started trying to get something from the top shelf that, even with the chair, he was hard-pressed to reach.

As Sniper watched, the chair started slowly skidding along the floor, scooting quarter-inch by quarter-inch further and further from the counter as Freckles tried desperately for whatever he was looking for on the top shelf. Freckles didn’t seem to notice: he was standing on tip-toe at the chair’s edge, his tongue poked between his teeth and eyes half-squinted shut as he tried to jam most of his arm into the cupboard. Sniper stepped forward just as the chair gave an almighty screech and shot back a few inches all at once.

“Wha- Huuk!”

Sniper caught Freckles by the collar of his shirt, keeping him from crashing full-on into the counter, and steadied him as he stumbled a step. Freckles’s eyes were wide when they locked onto him, and he froze with one hand rubbing at where his shirt had dug into his throat and the other gripping the counter. Sniper let go of the back of his shirt and looked down at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Somethin’ just outta your reach there, Freckles?” he said, not unkindly. For a second, Freckles only stared at him, wary as a rabbit under a coyote’s eye. Then, slowly, he straightened and gave a nervous little cough.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” he said, pointing to the shelf he’d been searching and dropping his eyes. “The cheese grater.”

Sniper walked over to the cabinet and looked in. He had to pop up onto the balls of his feet to catch sight of the grater, tucked toward the back of the top shelf, but he extracted it without stretching too much and held it out. Freckles took it with a mumbled word of thanks, but he didn’t look up. When Sniper didn’t move or say anything further, he backed up a slow step, then another and another, until his back bumped up against the countertop next to the stove.

“I’m, uh… I’m just makin’ breakfast,” he said, with a weak gesture at the food on the counter, “if that’s cool?”

Sniper smiled. As much as part of him wanted to tease, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Freckles really looked like the kid he was, standing there in too-big sweatpants, clutching the cheese grater and staring at his bare feet. Sniper had to admire his balls, too, for all his present nervousness. Spending the night at the enemy base and staying to make breakfast in the morning? Sniper wasn’t sure if he’d do the same, put in the kid’s shoes.

“No wukkas, mate. Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, pulling over the chair Freckles had been using as a step-stool and taking a seat at the table. He nodded at the heaps of food. “Feelin’ a bit peckish, eh?”

Freckles snorted and Sniper saw the beginnings of a relieved smile forming on his lips before he turned to the cutting board.

“It’s not all for me. I’m not that much of a pig ’less I’m totally baked off my ass. I, uh-” He shrugged and started grating the cheese into a large bowl. “I just figured I’d say thanks, y’know. For all you guys not murderin’ me whenever I come over. ’Cept Helmet-Dick, but he’s not here, so…” He stopped grating and looked over his shoulder. “There’s coffee, if ya want. The second pot’s got some a’Spy’s fancy hazelnut shit in it.”

“Stealin’ Spy’s coffee? That’s a bold move, mate,” Sniper said with a smirk. He got up and poured himself a cup of regular coffee, taking it back to his seat. Freckles flashed him a buck-toothed grin.

“Ah, I already steal his weed and his booze,” he said, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth. “Well, Blue steals it for me, but same difference. ’Sides, he can still get some, s’long as he gets up b’fore I drink it all.”

Sniper snorted out a laugh and took a sip of his coffee. It was good and strong. He hummed and leaned back in his seat, watching as Freckles finished with the cheese—the bowl was filled with a heaping mound of cheddar almost as tall again as it was—and started chopping the potatoes into roughly square chunks. His motions had the ease and speed of long practice, and when Sniper continued to stay silent, he started humming to himself again, just on the edge of hearing. Sniper thought he recognized a Beatles tune. Taking another thoughtful sip, Sniper popped his feet up to rest on one of the other empty chairs around the table, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Gotta say, yer one a’the last ones I woulda expected t’see in here first thing in the mornin’,” he said, startling Freckles into stillness. “You bein’ RED aside, I’ve been at this nonsense a dozen years, and I can count on one hand the Scouts I’ve known who’d willin’ly be outta bed before noon on a day off. And I can’t think of any who’d’ve cooked breakfast for the whole team. The whole enemy team, at that.”

He saw Freckles blink. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Well, Ma always told me to be a good houseguest.” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I just never expected t’get- I guess it hasn’t really been a warm welcome, but, all things considered, the fact that none a’you guys have tried blowin’ me away just for bein’ here deserves some kinda ‘thank you’, right?”

“If it means a free, home-cooked meal, I’m not gonna disagree,” Sniper said with a smile, lifting his coffee cup to the boy in salute. Freckles shot him another brief grin before focusing back on the potatoes. “So, y’do this often?” Sniper said, nodding again to the food when Freckles looked back over his shoulder at him. “Cookin’. Most blokes out here can’t even cut a sandwich in half without cuttin’ themselves, or use any appliance but the microwave without settin’ the whole bloody place ablaze.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, I like cookin’,” Freckles said, drawing an onion over to the cutting board and shoving the chopped potatoes into two large casserole dishes (Sniper hadn’t even known they had a single casserole dish, let alone two). “Ma worked a lotta nights, and it gets pretty borin’ just eatin’ McDonald’s and TV dinners, ya know? Chicks love it, too. I told Blue—yer Scout, I mean—but he don’t believe me: if you can dance ’n’ you can cook, you can drop any chick’s panties halfway to China without even tryin’.”

“Really?” Sniper said, surprised. “No offense, mate, but given yer track record since ya’ve been here…”

Freckles stopped chopping for a moment, and Sniper could see the back of his neck and tips of his ears flushing red. He cleared his throat and returned to the onion after giving himself a shake, his shoulders a little more hunched than before. The silence stretched, leaving Sniper’s prompt unanswered, and Sniper smiled a little.

“Look, no judgment, kid. I’ve been around Heavy and Medic for ages, and I saw more shit back at Sawmill than I ever wanna think about sober. Or drunk, for that matter. It’s just a surprise, that’s all,” he said. “Given how happy y’seemed with Wrenches and seem with Pyro, and how quick y’got to business once y’got here, I figured the sheilas just didn’t really get ya goin’.”

“Nah, nah, they totally do!” Freckles said quickly. “Chicks are awesome, man! I love boobs! S’just, uh…” He shuffled uncomfortably. “S’just… y’know…”

“Actually, I don’t,” Sniper said, a smile coming back to his lips. “Not even a little bit.”

“What, seriously?” Freckles stared at him. “Y’said it yerself, ya been doin’ this shit for-fuckin’-ever.” He scowled slightly and added, “And everyone loves to keep tellin’ me that the last RED Scout was the fuckin’ Teufort bicycle, throwin’ himself at everyone he could, fuckin’ twenty-four seven…”

“Never did learn t’ride a bike,” Sniper said musingly, recrossing his ankles more comfortably. “Wasn’t much use on walkabout; th’Outback’s too rough, ’less you’re willin’ to put in an ungodly amount a’work and carry an ungodly amount a’shit. Easier t’just run with a van.” He shook his head and huffed. “Last RED Scout was a loony little root rat. Ask anyone. Even if I was inclined t’ward blokes, I wouldn’ta stuck my business anywhere near that mess.”

“And Spy never tried for nothin’?” Freckles said, onion chopping entirely forgotten. “I find that kinda fuckin’ hard t’believe. Y’been on the same team with him for years, right? And he ain’t exactly… the straightest ruler in the drawer.”

Sniper snorted and said, “Oh, you better believe the damn frog bloody well tried. His first few months at Sawmill, he tried cozyin’ up to me and th’other Sniper on the team near every other day. Persistent git.” He shook his head and shrugged, taking another mouthful of coffee. “He gave it a rest after the piss jars, though.”

“Piss jars?”

“Yup,” Sniper said. “When y’find the perfect perch, y’don’t wanna miss the shot just ’cause ya gotta answer the call a’nature. By the time Shades and I got sick a’Spy’s pesterin’ ’n’ innuendos, between the two of us we musta had, eh, three or four dozen jars.” He chuckled, remembering the look on Spy’s face when the nest’s trapdoor had swung open, and he’d seen what came of pushing Snipers too far. “Never knew the frog could scream that high.”

Freckles stared at him for a few seconds more in stunned silence, but he was soon clutching his gut, guffawing loud enough to wake the entire base. Sniper sipped his coffee, watching as Freckles’s face grew more and more red and he had to grip the counter to keep himself upright. Tears followed soon after, and before long he was gasping between desperate, snorting “hee hee!”s. By the time he wound down, wiping his cheeks and still letting out the occasional breathless giggle, Sniper had finished off his coffee, poured himself a new cup, and returned to his chair with his feet kicked up again.

“Hoo. Hoooo. Holy shit, my sides hurt. Ah, fuck me, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so fuckin’ hard. Jesus.” Freckles turned back to the cutting board and resumed dicing the onions, his shoulders still quaking with mirth. “Fuckin’ piss jars… Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” He snickered again.

Then he froze. Sniper frowned as, stock still, Freckles sniffed at the air, like a dog. To Sniper’s shock, he turned sharply to his left, growling and hefting the knife in his hand as if he meant to use it on someone, rather than just the vegetables.

“Spy, I swear to God, if you get even a single fuckin’ flake of ash on the food, I’m shovin’ this knife straight up yer fuckin’ ass.”

Sniper blinked as Spy shimmered into view at the corner of the counter, one arm crossed over his chest and the other hand holding a cigarette to his lips. Sniper shook his head, impressed. There was another point to Freckles’s card. Sniper had been at this long enough that he could usually tell when Spy was coming and going, even cloaked, but the kid had caught him while Sniper hadn’t even had a clue.

Spy was giving Freckles a thoroughly unimpressed look, not at all swayed by the rather large chopping implement in his hand, despite the threat. He blew out a puff of smoke and deliberately ashed his cigarette into the sink.

“I am shaking in my wingtips,” he said drily, pushing the knife away with the tip of a finger. “You ’ave quite the nose, lapin.”

“And those things fuckin’ stink,” Freckles shot back, jabbing the knife at the cigarette before turning back to the cutting board with a huff. “It’s a miracle y’can sneak up on anyone at all. Ya really gotta smoke that shit in here while I’m cookin’?”

“I am a Spy; I always smoke,” Spy said, pouring himself some coffee—and giving Freckles a dark look when he smelled the hazelnut—before mixing in some cream and sugar and taking a seat across the table from Sniper. Freckles rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, but ya don’t hafta smoke here,” he said. “Y’could just fuck off and not be a total fuckin’ prick. Shockin’, I know, but it is an option.”

Sniper coughed out a brief laugh and Spy cut him a look before he said, in a too-sweet voice, “It is, but why bother when being a ‘total prick’ is so much more entertaining? Besides, I can’t ’elp but be a little suspicious of the RED Scout ’elping ’imself to our kitchen. You could be trying to poison us, for all I know.”

“For all you know. Right. Sneaky, back-stabbin’ fuck,” Freckles muttered, finishing chopping the onions and putting them into the casserole dishes with the potatoes. He jiggled the dishes a little so everything sat evenly, drizzled them with oil, salt, and pepper, and slid them into the oven. “Just stay outta the way, assface. And I meant it about the fuckin’ ash, too.”

He tossed an ashtray onto the table, and Spy glowered at him, very pointedly tapping ash into it. Sniper hid his growing smile behind another sip of coffee. As much as he considered Spy to be his best mate, it was still pretty damn funny, watching him being stood up to by the diminutive Red.

Spy took another drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke toward Freckles as he exhaled, and said, “Well, well. Someone ’as certainly grown a backbone lately. I can remember, not so long ago, that even being in the same room as one of us in our own base would ’ave ’ad you running like the little rabbit you are.”

“Yeah, but that was before I really got to know the guy y’let fuck ya,” Freckles said flippantly. He had leaned back against the counter and was cracking eggs with one hand into another large bowl held in the crook of his other arm. He gave Spy a mocking grin. “I mean, if ya let Blue up yer ass, how scary can ya be? I could kick his ass with my eyes closed and my hands tied.” He shrugged as he cracked another egg. “Besides, if ya fuck with me too much, I know Py’ll barbeque ya for me. He’s good like that.”

Another small chuckle escaped Sniper and he could only shrug as well when Spy leveled a glare at him. “Sorry, mate, but he’s got a point. Pyro’d slow-roast any of our asses if we mess around too far with his beau off the field, and you know it.”

Spy let out a huff and took a sip of coffee. “It would be just my luck that it is the pyromaniac ’oo despises me that decides to fraternize with the most easily ’arassed member of the enemy team…”

“I dunno ’bout easily harassed,” Sniper said, sharing a smile with Freckles. “Y’saw what he did to his own team when they kept pushin’ him.”

“Damn right,” Freckles said. He was viciously churning the eggs in the bowl with a fork, turning them a goopy golden yellow. “Just ’cause I’m short and freckly-”

“And buck-toothed,” Spy put in maliciously, “and young enough to be most of ours’ son.”

“-don’t mean I’m easy to push around,” Freckles finished, flicking a stray piece of onion at Spy. He set the bowl down on the counter and prepared a cup of coffee for himself—Spy’s coffee, with enough cream and sugar in it to disgust any true coffee drinker—as Sniper laughed and Spy wiped at the spot the onion had impacted his balaclava with a grimace of distaste. Freckles hopped up to sit on the counter beside the cooking supplies, swinging his legs slightly so his heels bumped out a light beat on the cabinets, and smiled at the two Blues. He swallowed a mouthful of his coffee and gestured with his mug.

“Even with Py outta the picture, I could still kick yer ass,” he said. “Bein’ nervous before was just ’cause I wasn’t sure how shit worked yet. I thought it was just ‘rahr rahr, kill the other team’ all the fuckin’ time, ceasefire or no. I mean, yer Soldier’s kind of a dick that way, but the rest a’ya ain’t so bad. Not bad enough for me t’be jumpin’ outta my skin every five seconds, anyway.”

“Ahh, we’re all old hands at this point,” Sniper said. “Except for Pyro and Scout, of course, and Soldier’s a… special case. The rest of us, though?” He flapped a hand. “For me, plain and simple, it’s not worth the effort if I’m not gettin’ paid for it, and you’re not doin’ anythin’ I’d wanna kill ya for. Most of the time, anyway.”

“It does feel like a waste of effort. Not that it takes very much, but still,” Spy grunted, returning Freckles’s stuck out tongue with a sneer of his own, ignoring Sniper’s returning amusement. “I ’ave better things to spend my time doing.”

“Yeah, ’cause smokin’ and drinkin’ and sneakin’ around watchin’ people are sooo important. Who would constantly invade our privacy and give us all fuckin’ cancer if we didn’t have you?” Freckles said, rolling his eyes and sipping more coffee. “Ya do gotta get Blue off, I guess. I mean, he’s already a total fuckin’ shithead. I don’t wanna know what he’s like when he’s pent up. That’s kinda important.”

“Rosso is right. You are a truly monumental pest,” Spy grumbled, giving Sniper’s chair a kick when he couldn’t keep his snickers contained. “What are you giggling at, bushman? Where is your espirit de corps? You should be defending my honour against this miserable RED interloper.”

“I make it a policy not t’piss off anyone makin’ me food, and this is good fun,” Sniper said, then paused. “Nah, hold on. Watchin’ ya bein’ taken down a peg is ‘good fun’; watchin’ Freckles do it to ya is bloody hilarious.”

“Ha!”

[...]

Scout Hunt Teaser/WIP

The last WIP that I'm happy with (for now)! Will probably be posting little blurbs and random info posts from now on, at least until I'm happy enough with more of the WIPs to post them, or I actually (gasp!) manage to finish some more shorts.

A new match-type is added to the rotation: Class Hunt. First up: the Scouts. The Scouts just have to survive for six hours against all the other mercs. No respawn for them (and only five respawns apiece for each of the others), but they get perma-crits, and passive healing (with overheal) when standing still. It's a loooong day.

This is more toward the end of the short. I have more before it but it's not quite as coherent yet.

Summary: The Administration throws in a new match type: Class Hunt, and the Scouts are up first.

——

SCOUT HUNT

[...]

The cheery triple beep of a level three sentry echoed up from the second floor of the warehouse, along with Tex’s not-so-apologetic, “Sorry boys!”

“Bite me, Hardhat,” Blue called through the hole in the floor, leaning back against the wall with a groan. He’d lost his hat at some point in the last hour or so, and he looked as spent as Red was starting to feel. Red had never really considered how much energy it took to run for his life for almost six hours straight. Dying sucked, but at least respawn was rejuvenating in its own way. This “passive healing” shit just wasn’t cutting it.

[...]

“No, shut up and fuckin’ listen t’me,” Blue growled, jabbing Red sharply in the chest. “They’re gonna start tryin’ to smoke us outta here if we don’t move soon; they have to or they lose without even tryin’. Yer smaller than me, and y’got yer Bonk. Y’just gotta fuckin’ book it soon as I start gettin’ blasted, and find somewhere to fuckin’ hide. They’ll have a harder time findin’ you than they would me, and y’just gotta keep away from ’em for ten more minutes. Long as ya don’t get yerself fuckin’ killed, I’ll respawn back in and we fuckin’ win. Easy shit.”

[...]

“You better not fuckin’ die, chucklenuts,” Blue said, stepping up to the edge of the hole leading to the lower floors. He took a deep breath, grimacing, and shut his eyes. “Ahhh, this is gonna fuckin’ suck.”

Red cracked and chugged his Bonk so he wouldn’t have to watch Blue take the step over the edge, but he could hear the all-too-triumphant beeps of the sentry below before the air was filled with nothing but machine-gun fire and explosions. He didn’t hesitate. The Bonk wouldn’t have let him even if he’d wanted to: the now-familiar, exhilarating rush made him feel like he’d explode if he stood still.

[...]

Everyone turned at the soft groan behind them, and there was Scout, falling forward to his knees but looking otherwise perfectly fine. Spy was at his side in a second, alternating between bitter and soothing mutters as he checked him over, and Sniper quickly joined him, giving Scout a clap on the back. For once, Scout offered no complaints about the fussing; with his head hanging, eyes closed, and shoulders slumped, he looked completely exhausted.

“S’still today?” he mumbled, finally brushing away Spy’s hands when he started to pull away his cap. Sniper smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Still today. Siren just went,” he said. “Freckles zipped right on back to his side as soon as ya dropped down. Guess no one over there was able t’nip ’im.”

Scout nodded, a small smile touching his lips. “Knew the li’l fucker could do it…” He laid a hand against his forehead and let out a long breath. “Fuck, m’tired…”

[...]

“Yo, Hardhat.” Engie turned to catch the grim smile Scout gave him. “Yer daughters? Second they turn eighteen, I am all over that shit. Fuckin’ count on it.”

“Wha- Hey- Hell no, boy! Disproportionate response!” Engie yelped and sputtered as Spy helped Scout deeper into the base, starting to take a step after them. He stopped when Sniper chuckled and patted him on the shoulder, though.

“Ah, let him have it, Truckie. Poor kid’s had a rough day.”

In Vino Veritas Teaser/WIP

Decided I'm gonna start posting more completed chunks of some of the WIP shorts that I'm happy with. Fuck it, right?

This is the first smut short (this teaser will be cut off before the actual smut starts, though), and the first Spy/Scout-centric one.

Reminder that these are OCs! Not the canon Spy and Scout! They are not related! Yes, the age gap is there and big, but they are not family! I always loved how the Scout and Spy personality archetypes played off each other in a pairing back before canon introduced the squick factor, and now that I'm writing an entirely OC cast, I'm gonna let my boys have fun :)

For the WIP, only warnings are for Scout's language, as always. The complete version will get to the good shit ;) Starts a little after some intro that I'm not happy enough with to post yet.

Summary: Scout is drunk, and lonely, and horny. Maybe Spy's down to... talk?

——

In Vino Veritas

[...]

Imbibe. That was a good word. Where had he even pulled that from? He’d probably heard it from Spy. Spy was always using all those stupid fancy words, and saying way too many of them for someone to make sense of it. All those stupid frog words, too. Why couldn’t he just speak English like a normal fucking person?

Even if he did make French sound good. Real good. Like, sexy without him even being a chick, good. Scout shifted, adjusting his pants slightly at the familiar throb deep in his gut. Fuck, was Spy sexy? Maybe, kinda, if he thought about it. Spies were kind of sexy just by being spies in the first place, really—dangerous, mysterious, refined, and stylish by default—but Spy, his Spy, had an appeal entirely separate from his profession. The French and the accent was hot as fuck, and something about his eyes was just… enticing, drawing you in while still reading everything about you. And that little smirk he had, the one that made it feel like he knew something he shouldn’t, something about you, and he liked it…

Scout sat up quickly, his head swimming a little, as he felt another deep throb, this time in a much more interesting location. Okay. Okay, fuck. Fuck. He looked at his beer and finished off the last mouthful, trying to ignore the building tension between his legs and think for a Goddamn second. Okay, so Spy’s kind of sexy. He’s also kind of a fag. Scout’s horny and—fuck, he guessed he could at least admit it to himself—pretty fucking lonely. He’s not fucking gay, not by a long shot, but it had been a long-ass fucking time, and he was getting tired of feeling nothing but his own hands.

Fuck, was he really doing this?

Huffing out a breath, Scout pushed himself to his feet. He dropped the empty beer bottle onto the couch—he’d deal with it later—and straightened his hat and pants. He was a doer, not a thinker. He wasn’t just gonna sit around here chasing his thoughts in fucking circles all night. Fuck it. Let’s do this shit.

He almost stopped and turned back as soon as he was through the door. The hallway was thankfully empty, but it suddenly seemed like a really long way down to Spy’s room; it was all the way at the other end of the hall, after all. He shook himself with a soft growl, pulling his door shut, and started walking. Well, staggering. Maybe he was a little drunker than he’d thought. The tapping of his cleats sounded way too loud. He flinched a little as he passed each other door on his way down the hall, half-expecting to see heads poking out to ask about his late-night wandering, but none of the doors popped open, no one appeared to question him. In what somehow felt like both hours and no time at all, he was standing in front of the door marked with a blue knife.  For a few seconds, he just stood, swaying slightly, staring at the bland slab of wood and trying to force some order on his similarly swaying thoughts. Then he knocked.

The thunking of his fist against the door, again, seemed far too loud in the silent hallway. He fidgeted as he heard soft shuffling from inside the room. There were a few seconds, and the sound of footsteps drawing up to the door. He took a deep breath as the locks rattled and clacked, and then the door was swinging in, revealing a smoking, dressed down Spy. 

His suit jacket and tie had been abandoned, and his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The first couple buttons of his shirt had been undone, revealing the lower edge of his balaclava and an inch or two of pale skin. He still wore his mask, gloves, and waistcoat, but he wore them as comfortably as another man might an old pair of sweatpants. He wore them well, too. Scout’s gaze had fallen on Spy’s face when he’d first opened the door, but now it started to wander. Spy looked skinnier without his jacket, Scout thought, with more defined hips. Like a really flat-chested chick, but… sharper.

“Bonsoir, petit. It is later than I would ’ave expected a visit from you,” Spy said. Scout blinked and looked back at Spy’s face. There was a warm, if somewhat confused, smile there. The mouth hole of his mask was slightly askew. Scout blinked dumbly again, and Spy raised an eyebrow. “Is there… anything I can ’elp you with?”

Scout took a deep breath, ready to explain himself, but nothing came out of his mouth as his mind completely blanked. Shit. Shit. He’d come down here for a reason, right?

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, a’course. Wouldn’ta knocked otherwise.” He frowned. He’d wanted to talk? About… about… “Wanted t’talk ’bout somethin’.”

“Something?” Spy said, lifting his smoke to take a long puff. The corners of his eyes were crinkled. Scout nodded, closing his eyes when the world started to wobble a little. Something. Something about… Man, it was hard to think with the floor rocking back and forth.

“Why don’t you come inside, petit?” Spy said, his voice tight. Scout opened his eyes and saw Spy clearly fighting a smile. His eyes narrowed—was Spy laughing at him?—but he nodded and stepped into the room.

The Frenchman’s sense of style and class was well on display here, from the sleekly outfitted king-sized bed tucked into a darkened corner, to the elegant but comfortable sofa and wingback armchair arranged in cozy proximity to a pair of dark wood bookcases near the door. A record player sat on one of the end-tables beside the couch, and the table at the sofa’s other arm bore a finely detailed crystal ashtray, and a decanter full of deep amber liquid with a pair of similarly patterned crystal glasses arranged beside it. Even the walls had been draped in large sheets of deep blue fabric, hiding the grimy concrete and subduing some of the light from the overhead fixture.

Scout weaved his way across an expensive-looking rug to the couch, and he flopped bonelessly at the end nearest the record player as Spy closed the door and latched his numerous locks (he was up to four, now). The world had stopped rocking for the moment, and Scout’s thoughts were forming a little easier, but he still felt pleasantly muzzy. This was a good level of drunk, now that he’d staggered his way through his brief case of the spins. Thank fuck for his stupid-fast metabolism.

He watched Spy move to his desk in another corner of the room, gathering up papers and placing them carefully in a drawer that was unlocked and then locked again with a small key drawn from seemingly nowhere. It always amazed Scout how Spy could do that, the little tricks of sleight of hand that came so naturally he didn’t even seem to recognize them. No matter how closely Scout watched those slim, gloved fingers, he could never trace their movements well enough to see exactly what Spy did. Case and point: though Scout’s eyes had never left him, he had missed the entire replacement of Spy’s nearly spent cigarette with a new one, only noticing that Spy had a fresh smoke when he took a seat at the other end of the couch.

“So, mon petit voyou,” the masked man said, resting an arm over the back of the sofa in a strangely casual gesture, “what ’as driven you to seek the pleasure of my company this evening? I believe that you said you wanted to speak to me about-” He smirked and took a drag from his cigarette. “-‘something’.”

Something. Oh… yeah. Scout felt heat starting to rise in his neck. The fog that had laid over his brain when he’d stood at the door had dissipated, and he remembered with unpleasant clarity just what that “something” was. He took a deep breath and straightened a little from his limp sprawl. He licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe comfortably drunk wasn’t quite drunk enough for this. Fuck his fast metabolism.

Spy seemed to understand. As Scout’s silence held, moving from thoughtful to awkward, he turned to the end table and poured out two fingers of the decanter’s contents into each crystal glass. He held one out to Scout, who took it and looked over it, giving it a sniff. It was definitely some kind of hard liquor, but it wasn’t very much. He said so to Spy with an eyebrow raised, and was surprised when Spy barked out a laugh.

“It is scotch, petit,” he said, holding his glass lightly on his fingertips. “It is not like your mediocre American whiskeys, to be guzzled with more concern for ’asty intoxication than any true form of quality. This is oak-cask aged ambrosia, meant to be sipped and savoured, enjoyed for the subtle complexity of its flavours, rather than something so pedestrian as mere alcohol content.”

Scout listened to Spy’s wordy explanation with a frown, and he gave his drink another narrow-eyed inspection. “Sounds stupid. And faggy. I betcha drink fuckin’ wine, too.”

“Naturellement,” Spy said, sipping his scotch. Scout sniffed his again and wrinkled his nose. “There is little in life better than a glass of fine Cabernet Sauvignon and a lovely rare steak. Though, good scotch and a cigarette comes close.”

“’Specially if it’s one of yer ‘special cigarettes’?” Scout asked, not without a touch of bitterness. Being stoned hadn’t really been that bad—he’d actually enjoyed it a fair bit, that first time, once he’d eventually realized what Spy had given him to smoke—but a little warning would have been appreciated. He took a hesitant sip of the scotch, grimacing a little at the burning it left on his tongue and in his throat. He had to admit, it didn’t taste that bad, and the fumes it sent curling up his nose felt sufficiently alcoholic.

“That was just funny,” Spy said, and Scout glared at him. It only made Spy laugh. “Seeing you and Pyro ’igh as kites was honestly the best entertainment any of us ’as ’ad in far too long. And tell me you didn’t enjoy it. Go on. If you can make me believe you, I will take over your share of the laundry for the next month.”

As tempting as the prize was, Scout had never been a good liar and he knew it. He flipped Spy the bird and took a larger swig of scotch as he grumbled, “Fine, it wasn’t that bad. Was still a sneaky fuckin’ trick.”

“I am a Spy, mon voyou,” Spy said. “I believe ‘sneaky’ is to be expected.”

He took a longer drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment. Scout could only stare in fascination as Spy let the smoke drift out in a thick, slow-curling cloud, and inhaled it back through his nose before exhaling it normally. Scout had seen that kind of shit in movies and on TV, but it looked even cooler in real life. Spy noticed his stare and smirked.

“As well as suave, mysterious, and dashingly ’andsome, non?” he said, and he mimed pushing hair back from his forehead, giving Scout a smouldering look. Scout snorted and, to hopefully hide the sudden flush rising again in his neck, quickly finished off his scotch; Spy’s glass was still mostly untouched.

“Bein’ suave ’n’ mysterious ain’t likely t’getcha much out here,” he said. “Just means ya got a fuckin’ nosy, pain in th’ass Scout pesterin’ ya for weed and booze and gossip.”

“And my devilish ’andsomeness?” Spy’s smirk grew. Scout made a face at him. The implications of the statement hit uncomfortably close to his recently recalled reason for visiting. He toyed with the empty glass in his hands until Spy held up the unlidded decanter with a questioning shake. Scout held out his glass and let Spy refill it, a little more than he had the first time. Scout took a swallow and swiped at his lips with a thumb, not meeting Spy’s gaze again. He could feel it on him, though; there was something unmistakable about the way having a Spy’s eyes on you felt.

Once again, the silence stretched. It didn’t quite lose its companionable quality this time, even if Scout couldn’t bring himself to do more than glance at Spy out of the corner of his eye. From what he could tell, Spy was more than happy to sit smoking and sipping his scotch. He was so patient, and calm. Understanding, if someone could be understanding and still be a sarcastic bastard sometimes. Scout sipped his scotch and coughed into his hand.

“Spy, d’you, uh… D’you ever get lonely?” he said, still not raising his eyes. Christ, he felt like a fucking chick, saying that, but Spy’s oak-cask aged ambrosia was working well with his earlier imbibing (imbibing? Was that actually a word?) to loosen his tongue. He’d never been that good at keeping his mouth shut anyway, once he got something in his head. The lack of immediate response made him round his shoulders, and he opened his mouth to take back the stupid, girly question.

It snapped shut again when Spy said, “Of course.” His tone was no longer playful and teasing. “Even in such a small space, with so many disparate personalities it is not easy to find… reliable companionship.”

“Companionship. Yeah.” Scout rubbed the back of his neck. Fuck it. He downed the rest of his scotch with a shudder, feeling it burn pleasantly all the way down his throat. He coughed again. “Y’ever… uh, get lonely in- in other ways? Like… the missin’ chicks kinda ways?”

Spy’s silence lasted long enough to draw Scout’s eyes up. He looked surprised by the question, but not displeased or, as Scout had feared, disgusted. He’d known Spy was kind of a fag—that was part of why he’d drunkenly stumbled down to his room in the first place—but that niggling little part of him, the South Boston boy who’d pummel anyone that said anything that could be even remotely perceived as gay, still expected to see some degree of distaste.

“You are asking if I ever weary of… lending myself a ’and, as it were?” Spy said, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette-bearing hand and sending swirls of smoke bobbing up toward the ceiling. Scout swallowed thickly and nodded. Spy surprised him again with a lazy shrug, as if it were the most normal line of questioning in the world.

“Bien sûr,” he said. “I may be a man of more varied tastes than the majority of the team, more willing to engage in—what do you like to call it? ‘All that faggotry’?” Another brief smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But finding not only reciprocation of my tastes, but the proper level of compatibility, is difficult, again largely due to working amongst those with such volatile dispositions.”

Scout blinked; those were a lot of long words. “Uh, what?”

Spy let out a sound that, if anyone else had made it, Scout would call a snort. “I am willing to sleep with men, but none of the men ’ere are willing to sleep with me, or I with them.”

“Oh.” Scout looked back down; he’d started fiddling with his cup again without realizing. His stomach was… fluttering. “Ain’t no one worth your time, huh?”

There was a light clink as Spy set his still barely touched glass on the end table. “I am a Spy,” he said again, slowly, “and a Spy must ’ave standards. There are a few I believe would be acceptable, ’owever, if they ever felt so inclined as to approach me.”

Scout stopped fiddling with his glass. “A few?”

Spy nodded and stubbed out his cigarette, blowing out a last plume of smoke through his teeth. “Engineer would be interesting, but ’e ’as made it abundantly clear that attempting to approach ’im about indulging such desires would be… unwise. ’E is a married man, after all. Sniper, obviously, ’as a certain rugged charm. ’E is surprisingly sophisticated for a man ’oo prefers to live out of a camper van, and we’ve known each other for over a decade now, besides. Medic is also intriguing.”

“Doc?” Scout made a face. “He’s so fuckin’ old, though. Even if he is, y’know, like, an actual fag.”

“More advanced age need not be seen as an impediment, petit,” Spy said. “An experienced partner can make encounters far more ex’ilarating.” Spy locked Scout’s eyes with his own. Scout’s fluttering stomach gave a nervous lurch. “As can an inexperienced one.”

There it was. That look and those words. Even Scout’s alcohol-addled brain (though it was less addled than he had expected. Or hoped. Fuck his metabolism!) could sort out the blatant implication behind them. He fully expected to feel disgust—to be walking across the room and out the door without even having to think about it, despite the fact that he’d been the one to come here in the first place—but it wasn’t there. There was just the army of eager butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach, and a thundering in his ears that he thought was his heart.

Privacy

Second finished "Tales of Well" short (third chronologically). Still shorter than I'd like, but I'm happier with this one than "First Day", even if not much really happens.

Again, warning for unnecessary amounts of profanity, courtesy of Scout.

Summary: Scout was told to go get Pyro for dinner.

——

Privacy

“Yo firebug! S’dinner time! Getcha ass out here!”

Scout’s fist hammered out a staccato beat on Pyro’s door, and he leant against it waiting for an answer. His foot tapped impatiently, and he waited all of three seconds before he gave the door a few hard whacks with his palm.

“Pyro! C’mon, man, I ain’t standin’ here all fuckin’ night!” he yelled, more than loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wood panel. “It’s steak night, man, come the fuck on!”

He didn’t hear even the slightest rustle of movement coming from the other side of the door. He sighed and drummed his fingers.

He was torn. Dinner had started a couple minutes ago, long enough for Scout to get in one bite of mashed potatoes before Sniper had told him to go fetch Pyro. He’d argued, naturally—it wasn’t his fault if Pyro couldn’t get off his ass for steak night—but Sniper had given him that Look. The “do what I fuckin’ say or you will regret it” Look. Scout hated that Look. It was what had separated him from the delicious slab of beef that was now growing cold on his plate, if Demo or Soldier hadn’t pilfered it already.

However, in opposition to Sniper’s Look, Pyro had a very strict “stay the fuck out of my room or I will fry you like an ant under a magnifying glass” policy. The firestarter was serious about his privacy. As far as Scout knew, no one else had entered that room for even a second since Pyro had taken up residence, not even Spy. Scout was definitely curious—he’d spent more than a fair space of time since the move standing outside this door, trying to work up the nerve to go inside—but he wasn’t stupid, no matter what Medic all-too-frequently implied (or said outright). Satisfying his curiosity wasn’t worth getting barbequed.

But tonight, his steak was waiting for him. Pyro still hadn’t answered the door and the one bite of mashed potatoes he’d managed to scoop taunted Scout like a fading dream. Engie made the best steak and potatoes he’d ever tasted, and having only sampled one bite of one part of his meal, he was more than anxious to return to the table to finish stuffing his face. But he couldn’t go back without Pyro, or Sniper would be pissed. But Pyro wasn’t opening the door, and if he tried to go in to get him, he’d probably end up fried. He groaned in frustration and pounded his fist against the door.

“PYRO! Fuck man! I wanna go eat my fuckin’ steak!” He kicked the door and huffed. Fuck it, he thought. He took a deep breath, and gripped the doorknob. “I’m givin’ ya three seconds, then I’m comin’ to drag yer skinny ass out! One! Two! Threeee-eee… Whoa…”

Scout turned the knob and pushed. The door wasn’t locked—only Spy’s room had a lock, and that was because he’d bought and had it installed it himself—so it swung open easily. And revealed a brilliant sanctuary.

Plastic model planes hung from near-invisible strings pinned to the ceiling, which had been painted to look like a clear midday sky with a few wispy, scudding clouds. A globe-like fixture had been set over the overhead bulb, making it look like the Sun poking out to light the room. Large stretches of the walls were vibrantly painted with desert scenery—sand and broad red plateaus, hoodoos and prickly-looking cacti—and Scout saw a painted jackrabbit poking its head out from behind a tall wooden dresser pushed up against the wall.

Tall racks and shelves also scattered along the wall held a massive collection of sleeved records, cassette tapes, and CDs. A few smaller shelves held several well-worn paperback novels, some of which bore titles in what Scout thought was Spanish on their battered spines, and a huge number of magazines. A stereo cabinet sat next to a small cot in the corner, the former littered with discarded cassettes, pencils, scraps of paper, and a few near-empty water glasses that had yet to make their way back to the kitchen, while the latter was heaped with fluffy pillows and thick blankets. And Pyro.

It still shocked Scout to see Pyro out of his protective suit, even months after he’d first… encouraged the younger man to peel back the mask. He said he was only a few years younger than Scout, but he still looked too young for mercenary work. Without his suit, he was more scrawny than simply thin, and pale despite his Latino heritage. He needed a haircut—his shaggy black hair was almost to his shoulders, and his bangs flopped freely in front of his eyes—and his narrow frame made him seem far more adolescent than he claimed to be. The only thing that spoiled the effect somewhat was the livid burn scar covering his left cheek almost as far as his eye, and disappearing down under his t-shirt collar, reappearing from under his left sleeve to cover the back of his arm past the elbow; Scout didn’t want to imagine what had happened to cause a scar like that.

Pyro seemed content for the time being, though he hadn’t yet noticed Scout’s intrusion. He was stretched out on the cot, eyes closed and arms folded behind his head, a thick black cord connecting the massive headphones he was wearing to the stereo beside him. He was nodding his head and wiggling his feet in time to whatever he was listening to, and Scout heard the occasional hummed note float across the room. He also noticed that Pyro’s gear was piled in a heap at the end of the cot—flamethrower, axe, and fire-proof suit—occasionally being tapped by his bobbing feet.

Some part of Scout’s mind (a part that sounded suspiciously like Spy) told him to get out while he was still unscorched, but his curiosity won out over caution, as it so often did. He wandered over to a painted stretch of wall, admiring the detail in the desert scenery masking the grotty concrete. While he didn’t consider himself an “artist” by any means, Scout liked to draw and occasionally paint, and he could appreciate the subtle shading on the sand and cacti, and the curiously bright eyes of the rabbit that, he now saw, crouched behind a small patch of painted scrub hidden by the dresser.

Hasty shuffling from the corner drew Scout’s attention, and he straightened when he saw Pyro scrambling from the cot, fumbling the headphones off and staring with an expression not far from outright horror. Pyro didn’t speak—Scout had often wondered about Pyro’s silence on the rare occasions when he wasn’t wearing his mask—but he flapped his hands frantically at Scout, trying to shoo him toward the door. Emboldened by the lack of immediate violence, however, Scout ignored him and sauntered over to one of the racks of vinyl, flipping idly through. He recognized many of the bands and artists, but there were several others he didn’t know, many of which seemed to be in Spanish, like the books. He was impressed by what he was familiar with, though.

“Fuck, Py, this is amazing. Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Skynard, Floyd, Sabbath, Styx, Queen… Shit, is that fuckin’ Boston? I had no idea anyone else liked- Whoa!”

Scout whirled at a sudden flash of intense heat against his back, hands leaping away from the records as he spun. He found the gaping maw of a flamethrower only inches from his face, the pilot light flickering uncomfortably close to his chin. He staggered a few steps, tripping over a pile of what certainly smelled like dirty laundry even if had amalgamated into some sort of amorphous cotton blob, and he held his hands out defensively as he backed in what he hoped was the direction of the door.

Before him stood Pyro, lips pulled back to reveal his teeth in a feral snarl. He hissed, a purely animalistic sound. It might have been funny, the oversized weapon being supported by Pyro’s scrawny—if whipcord-muscled—arms, and him hissing and bristling like an irate cat. The small plumes of flame that fwoofed into and out of existence at the flamethrower’s muzzle killed any sense of hilarity, though.

“Whoa, Py, c’mon,” Scout said, bumping up against the wall and sliding toward the door with his hands raised in surrender. The flamethrower still followed him, way too close. “I-I just had t’come getcha for dinner. Y’weren’t answerin’ when I knocked so I just opened the door and- Aaah!”

A longer tongue of flame jetted out of the flamethrower, and Scout felt his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms singeing. He bolted for the door with a yelp, hearing Pyro growl. He made it into the hallway and the door slammed shut behind him, but he didn’t stop running until he barrelled into the kitchen. Incredulous and disapproving stares fixed on him from around the table, but he ignored them as he hastily slid back into his seat. Without a word, he started in on his steak.

He could feel Sniper’s Look, even if he didn’t look up to catch it. “Scout, we said t’go get Pyro.”

Scout shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and glowered at Sniper as he chewed. After the light roasting he’d just received, the Look wasn’t quite so intimidating. At least not compared to the current alternative to the punishment it promised.

“Fuck that,” he said. “I knocked and knocked and he wouldn’t answer, so I went in t’get him ’n’ he tried to fuckin’ toast me. Nuh uh, if he wants to eat, he can come out whenev’r the fuck he wants.”

Shocked silence held around the table. Aside from Scout, everyone had stopped eating, some with utensils still hovering over their plates. Heavy had frozen mid-chew, his cheeks comically puffed as he turned to stare at Scout. Engineer looked horrified, and also somewhat amazed.

“Y’went into Pyro’s room?” he said, setting his fork down carefully and lifting his goggles to scrutinize Scout without the impediment of their tinted lenses. Scout looked back, finally taking note of the unusual stillness and everyone’s attention on him. He shrank down in his chair somewhat.

“I had to,” he mumbled, “t’get Pyro to come out.” When no one said anything, he threw up his hands. “What should I have done? Ya told me t’go get him!”

The silence persisted. Scout scowled around the table before returning to his food. Everyone else’s eyes were either fixed on him or the kitchen doorway, waiting for the inevitable.

It came fairly soon after Scout had started eating again. Engie, Spy, Sniper, and Demo all watched as Pyro strode into the room, fully geared up, and stepped up behind Scout. The other watching eyes drifted up to him. Scout remained oblivious, shoveling in more gravy-smothered potatoes, until he was grabbed by the back of the neck by a rubber-gloved hand. He yelped and started to flail, but froze when a well-honed axe blade pressed against his throat. Pyro pushed him down until his face was nearly in his potatoes, never letting up on the axe head’s pressure, keeping it pressed in just hard enough to make sure that Scout felt nervous about swallowing.

Pyro leaned down slowly, tightening his grip and growling softly beside Scout’s ear. Scout whimpered, but cut off with a choke when Pyro pressed the axe blade in just a little bit harder.

Then it was pulled away, and Pyro released Scout with a light shove that sent his face straight into his meal. Scout sat up, sputtering and wiping away globs of potatoes and gravy, as Pyro wandered over to the dishes on the stove, loading up a plate for himself. He slung his axe over his shoulder and started back out of the kitchen.

He paused by Scout’s chair. Scout looked up at him, cowering, potato still clinging to his nose and bill of his cap. Pyro watched Scout cower for a moment, breaths hissing ominously through his mask’s filters, and delivered a swift, sharp smack to the back of the Bostonian’s head. It nearly sent him pitching into his plate again. Nodding to himself, Pyro left the kitchen without a backward glance, humming softly.

There was total silence for another few seconds after he’d gone before Medic also gave Scout a sharp swat. “Zhat is vhat you get for being a nosy little schwein. And you should count yourself lucky it vasn’t vorse.”

“Okay, again, what exactly was I s’posed t’fuckin’ do!”

“Just about anythin’s smarter than bustin’ in on someone who explicitly toldja t’stay the Hell out,” Engineer said, replacing his goggles with a sigh and picking up his fork again.

“Aye, we all knoo the wee firebug disnae like us in his space.”

“Da. Little Pyro enjoys privacy.”

“Would it’ve killed ya to try a little patience, mate, wait an extra minute for him to come to the door?”

Scout huffed and pushed his chair back, snatching up his plate. “Fuck you guys, I’m gonna go eat in my room.”

“As long as you leave Pyro alone, Scout.”

Scout didn’t pause, though he did throw back a light, “Fuck you Doc!” over his shoulder as he headed off down the hall.

Medic rolled his eyes and returned to his food, scowling, though a smile broke through his disgruntlement when Heavy gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Demo engaged Soldier and Engie in a spirited, but friendly, debate about the strengths of Scottish whisky versus American whiskey once the speedster was out of sight, with Sniper throwing in his two cents if the conversation seemed to be devolving into an all-out argument. Order was always quick to reassert itself when the most rambunctious member of the team left the room.

Spy chuckled to himself and also pushed back from the table, gathering up his dishes and taking them to the sink. He’d finished eating quickly, as he did with every meal; he’d been in too many situations where food was scarce to shed the instinct easily in a non-civilian setting.

“Engineer, merci beaucoup. The meal was spectacular, as always,” he said, offering a small bow when Engie tipped his hardhat. “I believe I shall go ensure that Scout does not go out of ’is way to become char-broiled. Bonsoir, gentlemen.”

“Do not try too hard. Zhe boy could benefit from a sharply applied lesson or two,” Medic said, and Spy smirked as he lit a cigarette.

“Do not worry, Doctor, I truly only mean to stop ’im if ’e goes out of ’is way. ’Is usual reckless curiosity should offer the chance for lessons galore.”

Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics

What it says on the can! Some details about my BLU boys. Eventually might put up proper bios for everyone, but for now, just some very basics about who they are. Scout, Pyro, Sniper, and Spy are the primary focus on the BLU team, so they've got a little more info. I'll throw up the RED one soon, once I've actually got it done (it won't be as long, though).

BLU - Team Garrison

Scout

Age: 23 Nationality: American (Massachusetts [Boston]) Time w/ BLU: 13 months Height: 5’11 Hair: Light brown, crew cut Eye Colour: Hazel Build: Slim, broad-shouldered, well-defined legs Distinguishing Features: N/A

[Technically the main character? At least in the beginning.]

The prototypical Scout. An arrogant, loud-mouthed, hard-brawling boy from Boston, with a single ma, eight older brothers, and enough energy (even without his monthly supply of Bonk) to drive even the most patient of his teammates up the wall.

The biggest pain in everyone’s ass. General levels of tolerance for him and his antics range from Engie and Sniper’s resigned acceptance to Soldier and Medic’s near-homicidal antipathy.

Unapologetically offensive (though racism is generally off the table. Homophobia is fair game, though). Curses constantly, insults everyone he meets, and loves to push people’s buttons to see how much of a rise he can get out of them.

Pyro

Age: 20 Nationality: Mexican (Santa Ana) Time w/ BLU: 12 months Height: 5’9 Hair: Black, chin length, long bangs Eye Colour: Brown Build: Underweight, defined arms Distinguishing Features: Third-degree burn scar: left arm, elbow to shoulder; left side, mid-ribs to armpit; back, left side, mid-back to upper shoulder; neck, left side; left cheek from jaw to cheekbone (primarily hypertrophic scarring, some contracture on left shoulder)

Almost never seen out of his suit and mask, and rarely spends time with the rest of the team. He showers and eats on his own, and barely leaves his room during ceasefire, usually only emerging for the occasional visits with Engie in his workshop, or to burn things.

He was “convinced” to show his face by Scout several months ago at Teufort (during a very long weekend of Bonk-induced harassment), and hasn’t really forgiven him for it yet.

Is only really comfortable around Engie and Medic. He will only speak to the two of them willingly without his mask, and if he’s not in his room, Engie’s workshop is the next best place to look for him.

Sniper

Age: 38 Nationality: Australian (Northern Territory [primarily Outback]) Time w/ BLU: 11 years, 3 months [longest-serving merc] Height: 6’5 Hair: Dark brown, short, messy, long sideburns Eye Colour: Dark blue Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Distinguishing Features: “Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril, perpetual five o'clock shadow

Team Garrison’s unofficial leader.

He and Spy have been on the same team since Spy was recruited at Sawmill a decade ago. He considers Spy to be his best friend and they give off major “old married couple” energy, despite their relationship being entirely platonic. 100% heterosexual life partners.

More friendly than a lot of Snipers, and is seen around base more often during ceasefire. He has a camper van, but it’s more a means of transport than a home. He actually sleeps in his provided room in the barracks most nights, and is usually the first one up in the morning (he makes the coffee).

Spy

Age: 41 Nationality: (Assumed) French Time w/ BLU: 10 years, 1 month Height: 5’8 Hair: Wouldn't you like to know? Eye Colour: Light grey Build: Slender Distinguishing Features: N/A

Like Sniper, more friendly and less reserved than one might expect of a typical member of his class. He’s been at this “war” long enough to not take things too seriously any more, and he’s grown to have at least some degree of affection for the rest of the team over the years.

Incredibly nosy, and a shameless gossip. Knows more about the rest of the team than they would ever expect.

Surprising absolutely everyone (including himself), he’s found himself on unexpectedly friendly terms with Scout. He’s one of the few that Scout will actually sit down with long enough to have an actual conversation with.

The Rest

Soldier: Utterly devoted to the cause, and expects the best from the rest of the men, to an often infuriating degree.

Demoman: An alcoholic, one-eyed, Black Scotsman. Suspiciously similar to the Team Fortress Demoman, Tavish DeGroot. The “fun older brother” of the team; one of the few members of Team Garrison that tolerates, and even sometimes enjoys, Scout’s particular brand of obnoxious, hyperactive jackassery.

Heavy: Uncle Heavy. Laid-back and easy-going, more than willing to sit and chill with the guys, drinking a few beers and shooting the shit. Very protective of his team, especially Medic (his “husband”).

Engineer: The team dad. Quiet, friendly, and down-to-earth. Always willing to sit and listen to any of the guys’ problems and try to help them sort through them. The only married merc, and the only parent: he has two young daughters (nine and eleven years old) back home that he will gladly talk anyone’s ear off about.

Medic: The chronically exasperated mother-hen of Team Garrison. Austrian, despite Soldier’s unwavering belief that he must be German (due to German being his mother tongue). Oldest merc at 58 years old, a fact which Scout never lets him forget. Has a pet turtle dove named Rokitansky (after the Austrian physician and pathologist [not anything to do with rockets in spite of, again, Soldier’s certainty that this is the case]) who lives in the Infirmary. Has been in a loving relationship with Heavy since their days at Sawmill.

Respawn Errors Teaser/WIP

An actual coherent WIP, with (mostly) complete scenes and no randomly ending in the middle of a scene! Technically a WIP since there's going to be a lot more to this short; I guess this could be considered as part one of Respawn Errors? Even though I do want to post the whole short as one piece once it's done. I dunno, just wanted to throw this up.

Summary: Something's gone wrong with respawn...

——

Respawn Errors

You could always feel a respawn error. The fact that there was any feeling at all told you what it was. Respawn was painless, entirely sensationless even. You died, then opened your eyes again in the respawn room as good as new. It took ten, or fifteen, or however many seconds (depending on how often you’d died already), but it felt like no more than a blink. Just dead, then not.

Respawn errors, though… Whether it ended up just leaving you with a new scar, or rearranging your organs in all kinds of fun and painful ways, you felt it. Sometimes it was something as simple as pain or injury, but there was also full-body pins and needles, memory loss, nausea, panic attacks, dizziness: the whole list of shitty side effects.

This was different. BLU’s Scout had experienced more than his fair share of errors, enough to know what could be considered “normal”, under the circumstances. This time there was no pain, no nausea, none of the usual unpleasantness. Instead, there was a… giddiness. A flush of almost orgasmic ecstasy that raced from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He felt stretched, then compressed, and then the entire world—such as it was, in the void—pulsed.

He opened his eyes in the respawn room, gasping and stumbling as he hadn’t since his earliest days with BLU. Something was… not wrong. Different. His hands flew, feeling across his torso, arms, legs, crotch, head. Nothing felt out of place, and he didn’t seem to be growing anything new. He wasn’t spitting blood, and his memory was still intact; he remembered the RED Soldier’s shovel swinging in to split his skull all too well. There had to have been an error, though.

He looked around, and froze. He was… He was usually taller than the benches in the respawn room, right? Wait, of course he was taller than the fucking benches, what the fuck was was he thinking? Why did they seem so tall, then? And everything else, for that matter. The lockers were steel cliffs a good thirty feet away, and the handle of one of Hardhat’s toolboxes sat right at his eyeline.

“SCOUT?”

Scout yelped and covered his ears, looking up to see who’d screamed at him. Up, and up, and up… His eyes went wide, and his hands fell limply to his sides.

“Hardhat…? I- I think I need some help.”

——

There he was, the tricky wanker. Sniper rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. He’d been trying to get a clear shot on the damn RED Sniper for the last hour, but the bastard was always just too far around a corner, or just below a windowsill. Now he was sitting pretty, thinking he was so clever, ducked down behind a shipping container with his Huntsman and waiting to nip off any Blues who made it over the moat. Bloody drongo, Sniper thought, settling his rifle stock against his shoulder and laying his finger on the trigger. Gotta wait for just the right-

“Sniper!”

He jerked, scope jittering away from his target. God, he’d been sitting still too long if he was this twitchy. He cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth, and slowly turned from the balcony window he’d been sniping through.

“Truckie, you’d better have a damn good reason for interruptin’ my- What the bloody Hell!”

He leapt back from what Engineer thrust toward him. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. It looked to be a perfect, doll-sized replica of Scout. And it was cursing furiously in a tiny voice as it flailed and writhed in Engie’s hold.

“Lemme go, Hardhat! This ain’t fuckin’ funny! Put me the fuck down! This ain’t fuckin’ helpin’!”

Sniper bent down slightly, pushing up his aviators. “Strewth… Is that Scout?”

“Fuckin’ right it’s Scout, numbnuts!” The tiny figure in Engie’s hands pedalled his feet desperately before going limp with a defeated sigh.

Sniper couldn’t believe it. It was Scout, maybe a foot tall but otherwise still bearing perfect adult proportions. Engie held him with a hand under each armpit, though he was small and thin enough that one hand easily could have encircled his entire body. Sniper curiously tipped back the bill of Scout’s tiny cap; a baseball bat about as long and thick as a half-used pencil swatted his hand.

“Hey, fuck off!” Scout barked. His voice was high and almost tinny, but distinctively Scout’s for all that. “Will ya quit starin’ and fuckin’ help me? Hardhat’s just been runnin’ around lookin’ for ya, holdin’ me in this-” He looked over his shoulder at Engineer and bellowed schreechily, “-fuckin’ retarded way! I can fuckin’ walk, gears for brains!”

Engie frowned at Scout, but set him down on the crate that Sniper used as a coffee table during fights; Sniper’s tall coffee mug stood almost as high as Scout’s waist. Scout started to sit, but, realizing the mug would likely be taller than him if he did, remained standing with a scowl. He started pacing across the crate-top instead, his cleats making a soft tik-tik-tik against the wood.

Sniper did sit, and Engie as well—they were still beside the window in plain view, when all was said and done. Lighting a cigarette, Sniper watched Scout sulkily stalk from one side of the crate to the other, occasionally giving the coffee mug or that one exposed nailhead a kick.

“So… how in the Hell-?” he started, frowning when Scout winced and covered his ears.

“Christ, lower the volume, wombat,” he said. “Ev’rythin’s right loud.”

Sniper raised an eyebrow, but obligingly lowered his voice. “What happened?” He frowned at Engie. “Don’t tell me this is some kinda experiment ya roped him into?”

“Hell no!” Engie yelped, and Scout cursed.

“Seriously! Hardhat, we been over this!”

“Sorry, son, sorry,” Engie said, patting Scout on the head. Scout growled at him. “But this wasn’t me. I think somethin’s gone wrong with the respawn system. Real wrong.” He poked Scout in the side, which sent him stumbling halfway across the crate. “Tell him.”

Scout glared, rubbing his ribs, but he sighed and looked over at Sniper. “It felt like a respawn error, kinda. I mean, the fuckin’ RED Soldier bashed me, and I was actually feelin’ shit before I came back. It felt… nice, though. Kinda. I dunno!” He threw up his hands. “I just died and fuckin’ respawned like this! Hardhat was already there, and he brought me t’you so we could try to figure this shit out.”

“I think that when-” Engie made a soothing gesture when Scout flinched and opened his mouth to scold again. He said more softly, “I think that earlier, when the Demos went boom and took out halfa both teams, it was too many simultaneous respawns fer the system t’handle. Now it’s all… screwy. I gotta admit, I came out just a li’l before Scout and I felt the same kinda thing. Doesn’t seem t’be anythin’ wrong with me yet, though.”

“Bullshit,” Scout said. “Total bullshit. I get the fuckin’ Thumbelina treatment and Engie’s fuckin’ fine?”

“I said there ain’t nothin’ wrong yet, son,” Engie said. He looked uncharacteristically grim. “Who knows what mighta happened that just ain’t had the chance t’trigger yet?”

Sniper took a drag from his cigarette and scratched at the long scar running along his left cheekbone. “Has anyone else respawned since? D’ya know?”

“I saw the RED Scout bite it on our way over here, but I dunno if the Reds are havin’ the same problem,” Engie said, chuckling when Sniper blew a weak plume of smoke at Scout, who coughed and staggered, waving his hand frantically before his face. “I didn’t see any a’ours, but who knows what’s happened in the last couple minutes?”

Sniper grunted. The sounds of battle beyond the sniper deck hadn’t stopped during the course of their conversation. Scout was peeking out the window, having moved away from the smoke cloud and leaning carefully around the edge of the frame. He winced when blue Pyro-chunks went fountaining up in front of him.

“Pyro’s out,” he said, shrugging and stepping back from the window to lean against Sniper’s mug. “Maybe we should head back to the respawn room, meet up with him and see if anythin’s wrong.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea, Twinkle Toes,” Sniper said. He got to his feet, tucked into the corner, and plucked Scout up by the back of his shirt. Scout yelped and squirmed, but settled once Sniper lowered him onto his shoulder. He chortled—which was odd in itself; Scout didn’t chortle—and stood with his feet firmly planted against Sniper’s vest and a hand keeping him steady by gripping Sniper’s hat.

“Whoo! Hi-yo Silver! Awaaaaay!” he crowed, pointing in the direction of the respawn room. Engie snorted behind a hand, and Sniper rubbed his eyes with a weary groan on his way down the ramps.

“How is he even more annoyin’ when ya shave him down by five feet?”

“Less talkin’, more walkin’! Mush, wombat! Mush! To Pyro!”

——

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Breathing was hard, his limbs felt heavy, and his clothes were way too warm and tight. The RED Scout groaned, eyes squeezed shut, and laid a hand against his forehead, battling nausea and a throbbing pain in his temples as he respawned. What the fuck?

“Eugh, what the Hel- Mmph!”

Scout slapped a hand over his mouth. That was not his voice. That was not his voice. It was deep and a little raspy, and there wasn’t any of the usual (slight) whistly lisping that came from his not-really-that-big-fuck-you front teeth. The usual inflections were there, but it lacked the pitch and smoothness that he’d come to associate with his own golden pipes over the years.

He coughed and cleared his throat, and was about to speak again when he caught sight of the hand he’d coughed into. He stared, raising the hand, fingers spread, before his face. The fingers were long and slender, and clothed in black leather. Gloves. He never wore gloves, especially not gloves like these, which even to Scout’s eyes looked fancy and expensive.

“What the fuck!”

That voice! It wasn’t his voice! He looked down at himself, and wailed. There was no familiar red t-shirt and dark grey-brown pants, high white socks and worn red sneakers. Instead, there was finely crafted, almost brick-red Italian wool—suit jacket, waistcoat, and pants—and he could feel some kind of smooth, flowy fabric encasing his arms beneath the jacket. Even his underwear felt… soft. Kinda nice, actually…

“Ugh, Dio mio, what ith thith fresh Hell?”

Scout spun, and recoiled with a yell. That was him! He was standing there, a few feet away. It was like looking in a mirror, if the image in the mirror had suddenly stepped through and taken a life of its own. It spoke with his voice, muttering barely audible curses, and looked thoroughly disgruntled. Scout felt sick.

He cautiously shuffled forward and poked… himself in the shoulder, drawing a sharp flinch and a decidedly un-him-like sneer.

“Are… are you me?” he said weakly. The man that looked like him rolled his eyes and flicked him sharply in the forehead. The familiar gesture drew out an equally familiar response:

“Aw, fuck off Spy!” Scout blinked, and stared. “Spy?”

“Obviouthly, you mitherable petht.” Spy-in-Scout’s-body glowered, crossing his arms over his chest. Scout’s chest. Fuck, this was weird. “Ugh, why can’t I thpe- thpea- speak properly? Merda, thith ith- thisss isss-” He threw up his hands. “Nel nome di Dio! What ith wrong with you!”

“Wrong with me? I can barely fuckin’ breathe, my head’s fuckin’ killin’ me, I feel like I’m gonna puke, and I’m in your fuckin’ body, apparently! That’s what’s fuckin’ wrong with me!” Scout snapped back. “What the fuck is goin’ on!”

[...]

Spy was silent for a long moment, just looking at him, before he said, “Have you had a thig-” He closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and continued in a more deliberate and grating tone, “Have you had a cigarette since you respawned? Merda de Dio…”

Scout blinked again and opened up his—Spy’s—suit jacket, searching for the pocket where Spy kept his disguise kit. Spy rolled his eyes and Scout yelped when he slapped his hands away and dug through the jacket’s left inside pocket—and his pants pocket—to retrieve the disguise kit and an engraved Zippo lighter. Muttering to himself in Italian, Spy took out a cigarette, almost put it in his own mouth, then groaned and handed it to Scout. Scout reached for the lighter, but Spy flicked it to life himself and lit the cigarette for him before stuffing the lighter and disguise kit in his pocket. Scout’s pocket. Scout’s body’s pocket. Scout pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to shake off another wave of… he could only call it “existential confusion”. He’d put up with some pretty freaky shit in the time since he’d signed on with RED, but this definitely took the fucking cake.

He took a puff on the cigarette, grimacing at the taste and the burn in his throat and on his tongue. How could Spy smoke these things? Weed he could get behind, but cigarettes were just fucking gross. The throbbing in his temples almost immediately lessened, though, and the nausea receded. He even felt a little more relaxed. He took another puff, and crossed his arms over his chest as he slowly started feeling less like he’d been run through the tumble-dryer on high. He looked down at the still lispily muttering Spy (oh fuck, was he really that fucking short?) and let out a sigh.

“If ya buzz the esses like zees when ya talk, ya won’t lisp as much,” he said, “or keep yer tongue further back from yer teeth when ya say ’em.” He shrugged when Spy shot him a suspicious look. “I don’t want ya makin’ me sound like a fuckin’ lispin’ moron.”

“But that ith… is so far removed from the truth, I would not want to sound disingenuous,” Spy said, blinking and making a small sound of surprise; the lisp, and the slight whistling accompanying it, still clung, but it was definitely less pronounced. “It actually works. Huhn.”

Scout rolled his eyes. “After years a’speech therapy, I’d hope it fuckin’ works.” He took another puff and looked for a spot to ash, eventually settling on just ashing off to the side when no likely ashtray presented itself. “Now that y’can talk without givin’ yourself an aneurysm, will ya tell me what the fuck is happenin’? Is this…”

He had been going to say “normal”, but the word was so far from their current situation, he couldn’t get it out. Spy grimaced and looked down at himself, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.

“No, this is not something I have ever heard of, or experienced, before,” he said. He examined his hands closely, frowning at the calluses on his fingers. “Respawn errors are a fact of life out here, but this is decidedly abnormal.”

“‘Abnormal’? Understatement a’the fuckin’ century there, pal,” Scout grumbled. In his (admittedly limited) experience, respawn errors meant a headache, or feeling dizzy, or needing to puke. This was… “This is so fucked up. What the fuck are we supposed to do? Die again and see if it gets fixed?”

“Under more ordinary circumstances, suicide may be preferable to our current situation,” Spy said wryly, “but if respawn is malfunctioning badly enough to cause-” His mouth twisted. “-whatever this is, I would rather avoid risking it failing completely if I die again. So, no, dying again is something that we should do our best to avoid, I think, if at all possible.”

“It was just a suggestion, Jesus Christ,” Scout said. “I don’t hear you offerin’ anythin’ to get us outta this.”

“Because I have not had a chance to think, between shepherding you through how to satisfy nicotine cravings and trying to figure out how your malformed mouth works.” Spy ignored Scout’s indignant “Hey!”, and rubbed at his forehead, shutting his eyes. “Ingegnere is our best chance to fix this, clearly. Respawn is facilitated by a machine in some capacity, after all. More complex than his sentries, but he is still more likely to have at least some idea of what to do with it than anyone else. We should go find him, and see-”

A sharp electrical bzzzt filled the respawn room and Scout and Spy both covered their ears with cries of pain. For a few endless, agonizing seconds, Scout felt like his entire skull was being criss-crossed by live electrical wires; it was as though all of the bones in his head were vibrating. His vision faded into a void of white, and he heard nothing but a nerve-piercingly high, almost electronic whine. It was like chewing on foil or hearing nails on a chalkboard, but a million times worse.

Then, in a blink, it was gone. Completely. No fading or winding down; just gone, as if a switch had been flipped. Scout let out a hard breath and lowered his hands from the sides of his head. Oh, come the fuck on! What now? He didn’t need any more weird shit on top of everything else going on right now. He looked quickly around the room. Everything seemed the same. Spy stood before him (still in Scout’s body, unfortunately), though he was now cursing and rubbing his ears, and nothing about the respawn room itself had changed.

Wait. One of Wrenches’s toolboxes sat a little ways behind Spy. That hadn’t been there before. Frowning, Scout stepped past Spy and reached for the toolbox’s handle.

The toolbox unfolded with a smart snap before his fingers came within an inch of it, and Scout yelled and jumped back as a sentry started assembling itself before him. The clack and rattle of metal was the only sound after that brief cry as both he and Spy stared, watching the level one sentry build itself up before settling with a sharp, high beep. The turret head swiveled around the room, more quickly than Scout had ever seen a sentry move. It turned its barrel first on Scout, then on Spy. It beeped again, swiveled back to Scout, then to Spy, still moving too fast. Scout frowned when the sentry let out another beep, this one shriller, almost a sound of alarm. He glanced at Spy, who was scrutinizing the sentry with an air of blatant disbelief. There was no fucking way…

Swallowing hard, Scout crouched down to the sentry’s level. Its turret swung back to him, its barrel extending and retracting as it continued emitting periodic alarm beeps, and Scout hesitantly reached out to lay a hand on top of it.

“Wrenches? Issat you?”

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry when the sentry bobbed its turret up and down in an unmistakable nod.

——