The Other Side Of The Fence Teaser/WIP

Little Moments: Spy's Secret Teaser/WIP

Not cut for this one again, since it's short :)

Summary: Scout finally learns one of Spy's most jealously guarded secrets.

——

Little Moments: Spy’s Secret

[...]

“What does’at mean, anyway? ‘Tabarnak’?” Scout said, frowning. “I tried lookin’ it up in that French-English dictionary ya got me, but the closest thing I could find means ‘tabernacle’, and I dunno what the fuck that means, but it ain’t a fuckin’ swear word.”

Sniper barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, and he shoved a knuckle in his mouth as his cheeks flushed bright crimson with suppressed mirth. Spy glared at him, hissing, but Scout cocked his head to the side, curiosity instantly piqued.

“What? What’s so funny? I don’t get it,” he said. His inquisitive frown became a pout when neither of the older men said anything, though Sniper was failing to suppress a wave of giggles. “What is it? Spy? Tell me! What’s so fuckin’ funny? What? What? Whatwhatwhatwhatwhaaaat?”

Sniper lowered his hand and opened his mouth, but Spy growled, “Ta yeule, bushman! If you say a single word, I swear to God-”

“What is it? What what what what what!”

“He won’t shut up ’til we tell him, and y’know he’d’ve found out on his own eventually,” Sniper said in reasonable tones. He then choked on more laughter as Scout started poking Spy quickly and repeatedly in the shoulder, still demanding to be let in on the joke. It might be slightly maddening, but there was no denying the entertainment levels around the base went up exponentially when Scout had a fresh supply of Bonk. Spy snarled at Sniper; his glare demanded blood.

“I will flay you living, connard,” he promised darkly, snatching Scout’s poking hand and bending his wrist back until he yelped. Sniper only grinned.

“Lookin’ forward to it, mate. Scout,” he said, drawing Scout’s attention from massaging his over-extended wrist, “y’know how they speak French in a whole buncha countries, yeah? Not just in France?”

“Yeah?” Scout beamed, leaning eagerly over the back of the couch. Spy was growling curses—in English, French, and a couple other languages—steadily at the edge of hearing, but Sniper went on.

“Some a’them have their own ways a’sayin’ things, usin’ normal words, or religious words, as swears and such. D’ya know any a’those other countries?” he said. “Like, say, the one not all that far from yer own?”

Scout blinked, his smile fading into a thoughtful grimace as he tried to remember what countries were near the United States, and Spy clenched his hands into fists. He mouthed threats of various horrendous forms of retribution at Sniper, who just kept smiling as he watched Scout’s mind work. The young American’s eyes slowly went wide, and his grin returned, larger than before.

“Canada… Canada! Spy’s from fuckin’ Canada!”

“I am a dual-citizen-” Spy began sharply, but the words were lost behind Scout’s howling laughter.

“Canada! Holy shit!” He yelped as he inadvertently flipped forward over the back of the couch in his attempt to curl around his stomach, but he was still laughing as he landed half on the cushions and half on the coffee table. “Oh my God, didja grow up in a fuckin’ igloo? Didja have a pet moose? Or a beaver? Where can I buy the best maple syrup? Can ya play hockey? Ohmygod, ohmygod, can ya introduce me t’Bob and Doug McKenzie, ya hoser?”

Spy closed his eyes and got to his feet as Scout clutched his gut and screeched with laughter. Sniper was covering his mouth, but he could neither hide nor contain his own deep-throated chuckles, nor the deep crimson stain in his cheeks; he looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. Spy took a deep breath, and strode stiffly around the couch. He paused behind Sniper, gripping his shoulder and leaning down beside his ear.

“You ’ad best ’ope there’s a fight in the morning, bon ami,” he growled, giving Sniper’s shoulder a squeeze before stalking out, just barely clinging to the shreds of his dignity as Scout’s guffawed cry of “Poutine!” followed him into the hall.

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.”

Heart-to-Heart Teaser/WIP

Just some Scout comfort chats :) Not as long as the other WIPs, but still sticking it under a cut.

Summary: The RED Scout experiences his first permanent respawn error, and calls Blue out to talk and hopefully give him a little insight into just what he's gotten himself into.

——

Heart-to-Heart

[...]

“So… how bad was it?”

Red didn’t look up, but he lifted his left arm before him, pushing the sleeve of his sweater up past his elbow and spreading his fingers wide. Blue choked on his beer.

Around Red’s elbow and wrist, and halfway down his forearm, were thin rings of tight new scar tissue. It was as if his arm had been cut into precise sections and then glued back together. And more than half of his ring finger was gone. Just gone. Between his middle finger and pinky was a nauseatingly obvious gap.

Blue wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck…”

“Yeah.”

Red pushed his sleeve back down. He stared at his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers with a grimace. His thumb kept prodding at and swiping over the end of the newly shortened digit. Blue couldn’t help but stare at it. Respawn errors were nothing new to him, even more extreme ones (especially after that… weird day, a little while back), but Red was new. Like, brand new. He hadn’t even hit six months yet. Blue hadn’t had his first really bad, permanent respawn error until he’d been with BLU for more than eight, and, though he’d never admit it aloud, he’d died a lot in those first few months back at Teufort.

Red sighed, scrubbing his maimed hand through his hair and grabbing the beer Blue had opened for him. He took a deep swig and shuddered.

“Doc said I’m lucky it wasn’t worse, that I didn’t lose my whole hand,” he grunted, taking another, smaller sip. “If this is fuckin’ lucky… And it’s only my first one. How bad does this shit get?”

Blue made a soft sound, lowering his own beer slowly. He didn’t want to freak Red out, but he felt like he should let the kid know at least some of what he could expect. He had a feeling that the warnings he’d received from his own teammates had helped blunt the shock of his first bad error—kept it from pushing him into either suicide or psychosis—and, if Wrenches hadn’t done it yet, it seemed unlikely anyone else in that pack of psycopaths with RED was going to offer up that information to the younger Scout. Taking in a slow breath, Blue set his beer aside and lifted up the left side of his track jacket and t-shirt. It was Red’s turn to choke.

Seated over Blue’s lowest ribs was a jagged scar, almost as wide as his hand, reaching nearly as far inward as his navel and spine. Even after months, it refused to fade in the slightest, remaining as a bunched ridge of dark, angry red while his other scars had become less prominent with fairly little age, and it was still sensitive to too hard a touch. Where Red’s new scars were surgically precise, it looked as if someone had tried ripping Blue in half and stopped halfway through. He’d grown used to the grisly sight, but Red’s horrified stare reminded him just how bad it really looked.

He smoothed his shirt back down and lightly prodded at his two lowermost ribs. “These two ribs are fake, had t’be replaced,” he said, “and Doc said he was surprised he didn’t hafta regrow half a’my lung and a few other organs.” He sipped his beer. “Yer Pyro got me good with his fuckin’ axe—almost cut me the fuck in half—and when I respawned I still had the gapin’ fuckin’ axe wound. And of fuckin’ course it was right at the end a’the fight, too, so if I woulda croaked again I’d’ve been stuck in the void for days. It was almost a whole fuckin’ week before the next fight, and if I woulda been in there that long, it prob’ly woulda killed me for good.”

“Is that how the last RED Scout died?” Red asked softly. Blue winced and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ehh, pretty much, but he was…” He shook his head and sighed. “Red—old Red—was pretty fucked in the head. Ya know he was a total fuckin’ slut, right?” Red snorted, the briefest flicker of a smile tugging his lips. “Well, I’m pretty sure he had a fuckin’ death wish, too. He was worse than both fuckin’ Soldiers, always runnin’ head-first into shit, no matter how many times it got him killed. He spent more time in the void, and had more respawn errors, than everyone else on both teams combined.” He shrugged. “One fight, he just didn’t respawn. He’d been in the void a few days and when the fight started he just… wasn’t there. Didn’t even last a full year.” He grimaced. “Better than what happened to my old Pyro, though.”

Red’s voice was small and hesitant when, after a few too-long seconds, he asked, “What happened t’him?”

Blue rubbed his neck again, hesitating, before he said, “I don’t really know, for sure. One fight, I respawned, and Pyro ’n’ Doc was already there. Py was just on the ground screamin’ and thrashin’ around and shit, completely covered in blood. It-” He swallowed thickly, the memory making his gorge rise. “It was comin’ out from under his suit and mask, and out through his mask, y’know, like through them filter things. Took him a few minutes t’actually die, and his body didn’t fade out like it usually would. Was just layin’ there in a pool a’blood on the respawn room floor. Took weeks for the blood-smell t’go away, even after, like, five bottles a’bleach.”

Red shuddered again and lowered his forehead to his knees. He was silent another long moment, until he said, almost too softly to hear, “What the fuck am I doin’ here, man…?”

His voice cracked and he hugged his legs tighter. Blue could see him shaking, and his hand was stroking up and down Red’s back before he even had the conscious thought to move it.

It was… heart-wrenching, seeing Red like this. He was a little shit when they were fighting, yeah, but Blue had grown to kind of like the brat. He’d grown up with nothing but older brothers, but, along with Pyro, Red made him feel like he had two younger ones. It was kind of weird, but he found himself wanting to look after them, especially Red. Red was just so young, and clueless in so many ways, like a lost puppy or something. It felt… wrong, seeing him so upset.

He could feel that Red’s shivering had stopped, though he hadn’t lifted his head.

[...]

“So yer sendin’ most a’yer money home too?” Red said and Blue nodded, leaning back on an elbow.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I need it for much out here, and even if I did, I got enough t’never hafta worry regardless. Less’n two years into a five year contract and I already got almost two hundred grand banked, and that’s after sendin’ more’n half of it t’Ma,” he said. He finished off his beer and sent the bottle winging off down the train tracks. He waited to hear the distant tinkle of the glass shattering before continuing, “Ma did everythin’ for me ’n’ my brothers growin’ up; it’s only right makin’ sure she’s taken care of.”

“You got brothers? How many?”

Blue smirked and held up eight fingers, and Red punched him in the shoulder. “Bull. Shit. You do not have eight fuckin’ brothers.”

“Oh, yeah I fuckin’ do. Older brothers, too,” Blue said, ticking them off on his extended fingers: “There’s Robby in th’Army; Joey workin’ on his cars; Tony’s at fuckin’ MIT, the smartass; Matt and the twins, Alex and Adam, are doin’ the whole wife-and-kids thing, white-collar city jobs; Paul’s still in jail for a few more years; Johnny was flippin’ burgers, last I heard; and then there’s me.”

“Yer the youngest?” Red said, and Blue nodded.

“Yeah. M’dad died when I was three and Ma never got married again,” Blue said. “There was guys around every once in a while, but none of ’em really lasted too long.” He glanced over at Red, eyebrow raised. “How ’boutchu? Brothers? Folks?”

“Four older brothers,” Red said. “Well, two half-brothers, two full brothers. Ethan and Mike had a different dad from me, Ty, and Jonah. My pops fucked off when I was five, though. Y’know, ‘gone out for smokes and never came back’ shit.”

“Ah, fuck, that sucks.” Blue frowned. “Sorry dude.”

Red shrugged and finished his beer, sending his bottle flying after Blue’s. “Eh, he was a dick. Ma’d been sick of him for a long time, since before I was born, even. Was always gone for days, doin’ who fuckin’ knows what. I barely even saw him for the whole five years before he fucked off for good. Jonah loved him, but me ’n’ Ty fuckin’ hated him.”

[...]

Shave and a Haircut Teaser/WIP

Some Trio (Scout/Pyro/Scout) hangouts, not long after Pyro and Red get together. Also, notes denoting the beginnings and endings of each of the ships in the shorts' timeline have now been added to the timeline/masterpost, so at least the important info is up even if (too damn many of) the WIPs aren't postable yet :P.

Summary: Soldier's in the void, so Red is able to come over for a visit with Scout and Pyro.

——

Shave and a Haircut [will be renamed]

[...]

“Honestly, it ain’t him bein’ old as balls, or bein’ a prissy French prick, that’s so bad,” Red said, bending backward until his palms were flat on the floor. With a grunt, he kicked his feet up into the air, and, after taking a second to balance himself, continued speaking as he made a slow circuit of the room walking on his hands. “It’s the smoking. It fuckin’ stinks, and kissin’ him’s gotta taste like lickin’ a fuckin’ ashtray.”

“’Kay, first off, like I already said a bazillion fuckin’ times, Spy ain’t that fuckin’ old,” Blue said, scowling. “Second, the smokin’ shit ain’t that bad. Y’get used to the smell, and I never noticed any kinda nasty taste when we’re kissin’.”

“You wouldn’t notice if it tasted like fuckin’ gasoline,” Red said, prodding Blue’s shoulder with his toe as he made his way by. “I had to smoke ’em back on fucky-respawn day, remember. They’re fuckin’ gross, and he’s always smokin’ ’em.”

“I used to smoke, years ago. Pretty much everyone does, back home,” Pyro said, shrugging when Red gave him a startled look. “You do get used to it. I started when I was a kid, but never really picked it back up after I got burned.” He chuckled, scratching his scarred cheek and said, almost to himself, “Eso fue una de las cosas buenas de estar en coma, supongo… Got to quit smoking without having to deal with the cravings or any of that shit.”

“Whoa, wait, gettin’ burned putcha in a fuckin’ coma?” Blue said, goggling. Red honestly thought it was kind of a miracle that he’d managed to pick that up, his grasp of Spanish being as non-existent as it was. “Like, the soap opera kinda coma, where you was, like, almost dead ’n’ shit? Fuck, dude! I mean, the scar’s pretty fuckin’ sick, but I had no idea it was that fuckin’ bad.”

[...]

“Ya look like a fuckin’ mopey teenager, dude,” Blue said. “I never thought I’d agree with Soldier on anything, but you need a fuckin’ haircut.”

Pyro glared at him, pushing his hair from his face. “Yeah, fuck no. I like it long, and plenty of famous dudes have long hair.”

“’Kay, here’s the deal, then,” Red said with a grin. “You get as famous as John Stamos or Patrick Swayze, or the guys from Zeppelin or Queen, then you can have long hair like they got.” He gathered Pyro’s hair behind his head in a loose tail and gave his face a considering look. “I think you’d look really good with yer hair short. Not, like, buzzed or nothin’, just trimmed back a bit. Maybe shave the sides and the back, leave ya a little bit in front and on top… get it outta yer eyes…”

Pyro blinked—he seemed uncertain, but pleased, as Red arranged and toyed with his hair—and he and Blue both jumped when Red popped suddenly to his feet.

“Alright, get a chair and some towels. I’ll be right back!”

And he was gone, in a blur of red and a pattering of footsteps. The two Blues exchanged a thoroughly confused look, Pyro appearing all the more so with his hair flopping freely back in front of his face. Blue held up his hands and shrugged when Pyro jerked a thumb at the door.

“Don’t look at me, dude,” he said, “he’s your fuckin’ boyfriend.”

Five minutes later, Pyro and Blue were facing each other in chairs borrowed from the kitchen, playing Bloody Knuckles as Red came jogging back into the room. Blue’s attention was immediately taken by the cardboard box Red had brought with him, allowing Pyro to crack him solidly with both hands, and he cursed, rubbing at his reddened knuckles. Red laughed as he set the box on Pyro’s bed.

“Bet I know who’s winnin’,” he said, and Blue glared at him.

“Blow me, assclown. Py’s got a wicked poker face, can never tell when he’s gonna fuckin’ move,” he said. Pyro dusted his knuckles off on his shirt with a smirk, and Blue flashed him the bird. “What’s in the fuckin’ box?”

“Haircut stuff,” Red said, drawing items from the box as he listed them: “Comb, scissors, Wrenches’ electric razor, a spray bottle.” He pointed the bottle at Pyro and blasted out a little puff of mist. “Yer gettin’ a haircut.”

Pyro’s smugness faded remarkably quickly. “¿Qué?”

“I’m gonna give ya a haircut, so I can see more a’yer pretty face.” Red grinned and held up the scissors. “And if ya try to fight me, I’ll shave ya bald.”

“Te asesinaría,” Pyro said, glowering and pushing his hair from his face; his bangs flopped back in front of his eyes the second his hand had passed.

“Then I’ll respawn, and you’ll still be fuckin’ bald,” Red said loftily. “Now sit still unless ya wanna be bald anyway by accident.”

He retrieved the towels Blue and Pyro had collected along with the chairs and settled them around Pyro’s shoulders, despite the attempts made to swat him away. Blue had turned his chair around to sit in it backwards, and he snorted as Pyro subsided into grumpily muttering acceptance of Red’s ministrations.

“He’s got ya there, dude. Ya’d looked pretty fucked as a cue ball,” he said. He gave Red a curious look. “Ya really know how to cut hair? Like, actual haircut style, not just shavin’ it off?”

“I used t’do it for my brothers sometimes, when cash was tight. They’d kick my ass if I made ’em look stupid,” Red said, drawing the comb through Pyro’s hair and spritzing with the spray bottle. “It’s not that hard, ’specially if yer just cuttin’ it short.”

“Not too short,” Pyro said, looking back over his shoulder. Red sighed and turned Pyro’s head back so he was facing straight on.

“Not too short, don’t worry,” he said. “Just enough that yer not gonna be fuckin’ dyin’ inside yer mask no more, and t’get it outta yer eyes. It’ll be good, I promise.”

Pyro hunched his shoulders, but stayed silent and still as Red started clipping with the scissors. Blue smirked, crossing his arms over the back of his chair.

“Man. Gymnastics, dancin’, and now fuckin’ haircuts? Ya’ve really just been a fuckin’ fag forever, huh?” he said, then yelped and jerked his chair sideways when Red threw the scissors at him. “Hey, no throwin’ sharp shit!”

“Quit bein’ an asshole and I won’t,” Red said, retrieving the scissors and waving them in Blue’s face on his way back to Pyro, who was chuckling softly. “Gymnastics and dancin’ have been fuckin’ awesome for me. Gymnastics means I got a leg up on yer clumsy ass out here, and dancin’ got me crazy laid back in school. And knowin’ how to cut hair is just plain useful.” He pointed at Pyro’s head. “Exhibit A.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s useful. It’s still gay as fuck,” Blue said, resettling his arms and resting his chin on them. “And there ain’t no way dancin’ got ya laid, not unless ya lived in that fuckin’ town from Footloose. Yer not a fuckin’ girl, despite all the evidence otherwise.”

Red wound up as if to throw the scissors again, but settled back to clipping when Blue flinched. Pyro snorted.

“You crazy, hombre? Dancing is sexy as fuck,” he said, brushing some hair off his shoulder. Red nodded, a grin sweeping back onto his face.

“Fuck yeah it is,” he said. “Two things are guaranteed t’drop any chick’s panties: a guy who can cook, and a guy who can dance. I-” He gestured to himself with both thumbs and a cocky smile. “-just so happen to be both.”

“And it works pretty well on guys, too,” Pyro said, tipping his head back with a smile of his own. Red gave a little giggle and kissed Pyro on the forehead before tipping his head forward. They both then gave Blue near-identical deadpan looks when he rolled his eyes and started making loud retching noises.

“Christ, you two are so fuckin’ adorable I wanna puke,” he said, giving them a disgusted look of his own. “Is this how it’s gonna be hangin’ out now? You two bein’ all lovey-dovey ’n’ gross? I mean, watchin’ Red be a pushy little man-wife is kinda fuckin’ hilarious, but- Fuck! I said no throwin’ shit!”

Red stuck his tongue out at him before continuing to trim away the hair around Pyro’s ear—he’d thrown the spray bottle, this time. He said, “If ya don’t like it, yer free to fuck off. You can hang with Py whenever ya want. I don’t live here, though, in case ya fuckin’ forgot. I’m makin’ the best a’my time over here without people tryin’ to murder me as I can.”

“Well, I still wanna hang out with you too,” Blue said, grudgingly, “even if yer like an annoyin’ little brother. Who’s gettin’ fucked by my best friend. Who’s kinda like an annoyin’, homicidal little brother.” He returned the middle fingers flashed at him by both Pyro and Red. “S’just weird havin’ you guys makin’ fuckin’ goo-goo eyes at each other all the time. Before it was just normal chillin’.”

“We only got together a week ago, pendejo,” Pyro said, crossing his eyes to watch as Red started trimming his bangs. “This is the first time all three of us have hung out together since.”

“But you guys’ve been all fuckin’ gay when we been fightin’ too,” Blue said, eyes rolling again. “Grab-assin’ ’n’ shit. I saw ya fuckin’ makin’ out in the back a’the intel room a few days ago. Hardhat was not happy, by the way.” He jabbed a finger at Pyro. “Fuckin’ RED Spy was on his ass all afternoon and no one had any idea where the fuck ya were. Yer lucky I didn’t say anythin’; Hardhat was ready t’fuckin’ beatcher ass, throwin’ shit and swearin’ and everythin’.”

Red and Pyro both winced; they all knew how much it took to get the usually placid Texan to start resorting to foul language to express himself. Pyro rubbed the back of his neck guiltily as Red got the razor from the box and fiddled with the head, looking sheepish.

“Okay, maybe we’ve been a little… enthusiastic…” Pyro said with an uneasy shrug.

“Can ya blame us? Y’know, young, horny, all that shit,” Red muttered, starting up the razor. Its soft buzzing provided accompaniment as he continued, “We should probably tone it down a bit, I guess. Durin’ fights, anyway.” He smirked at Blue as he started working on the left side of Pyro’s head. “We’re not fightin’ now, though, so yer just gonna hafta put up with us bein’ adorable, at least ’til the whole ‘new boyfriends’ thing wears off.”

Blue let out an annoyed grunt and Pyro chuckled. “Lo siento, hombre. The man-wife has spoken.”

“I can still shave ya bald, mi fuego.”

“No te atrevas, conejito.”

“Seriously, gonna fuckin’ hurl if you guys don’t knock it off,” Blue said, grimacing. “Don’t make me start spritzin’ ya; I’ll get the fuckin’ bottle.”

Red shook his head. “Christ, you don’t got a romantic bone in yer body, do ya? Why the fuck does Spy put up with yer ass?”

“Um, hello?” Blue leaned out to the side and gestured at himself. “You seein’ this? Aaaaalll a’this? You were definitely fuckin’ happy enough with it.”

Red rolled his eyes, and Pyro gave Blue a considering look. Then he shrugged. “Eh.”

Blue stared at Pyro for a few seconds, then exploded, “The fuck d’ya fuckin’ mean, ‘Eh’? You fuckin’ shittin’ me? You- Fuckin’- What?”

[...]

[...] “I mean, ya don’t act gay, most a’the time.”

“Y’obviously ain’t seen him checkin’ out yer ass,” Red said, filling a pot of water at the sink and putting it on the stove to boil. Blue sat down quickly, on the opposite side of the table from Pyro, and Pyro gave Red a sullen look.

“Thanks a lot, conejito,” he grumbled, and Red offered an apologetic shrug. To Blue, Pyro said, “What do you mean, I don’t ‘act gay’?”

“Y’know. Like, y’ain’t all flamin’ and shit,” Blue said, gesturing vaguely. Pyro raised an eyebrow at him; he’d taken a cheap plastic lighter from his pocket when he’d sat down and had been flicking it idly on and off since. Blue grunted. “Okay, bad choice a’words, but y’ain’t all, like, worried about yer clothes and how ya look, except for yer fuckin’ hair. And yer not all touchy-feely and sensitive and emotional ’n’ shit. If it weren’t for you and Bucky bein’ all couple-y, y’wouldn’t even know you was queer.”

“Yeah, ’cause I’m gay, not a fucking girl,” Pyro said, burning away a loose thread at the edge of one of his sleeves. “My dick didn’t drop off when I figured out I like dudes, pendejo.”

“Well, obviously,” Blue said, kicking his feet up on the table and tipping his chair back on its rear legs, “but still. Y’should act… different. It’s fuckin’ weird when ya act normal most a’the time, then get all gay whenever Red’s around.”

“I could start ‘being gay’ around you too, if it bugs you so much,” Pyro said, leaning forward across the table with a wicked, lewd grin, making Blue jerk with a look of panic on his face. Pyro and Red both laughed as Blue’s chair wobbled precariously and he frantically windmilled his arms to keep it from tipping any further back. Red shook his head and took a seat beside Pyro, while Blue got his chair settled back on all four legs and glared at his teammate.

“Y’seriously gotta chill, dude,” Red said; he’d brought over the cheese grater and the brick of cheese, and started grating as he spoke. “We wouldn’t fuck with ya so much if ya didn’t make it so fuckin’ easy.”

“Oh, yes you would,” Blue said, turning his glare on Red. “You guys like watchin’ me sweat. Just ’cause I got sicka jackin’ off and Spy was down to fuck, I can’t get you queers off my ass about it!”

“Only because you keep making such a big fucking deal out of it,” Pyro said, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his seat. “You fuck Spy, you suck his dick. So fucking what? I mean, you’ve got shitty taste, but that’s not news. Soldier’s the only one who’s an asshole about it, but do you really give a shit about him? Even Engie doesn’t mind so much, so long as you don’t shove it in his face.”

“Dude, I dunno how ya do shit back in fuckin’ Mexico-land-” Blue ignored it when Pyro kicked his chair. “-but where I come from, queers get their fuckin’ pussy asses beat, ya get me?” His eyes narrowed and his voice went grim. “I seen two dudes get jumped for gettin’ fuckin’ handsy with each other at the park once; shit got fuckin’ intense. Couldn’t even recognize ’em after people got done fuckin’ ’em up.”

“No one but Soldier’s like that here, though,” Pyro said, shaking his head. “I put up with so much shit back home after I got outed, but no one here cares.” He smiled. “It’s fucking awesome. No one getting on my ass about who I wanna fuck, it’s great.”

[...]

Scout vs Scout Teaser/WIP

Longer one (a little over 6k words), but ends pretty abruptly again. Still, I'm happy with most of it, so *ta-da*.

Some homophobic language and lots of cursing in this one. Scouts do be like that.

Summary: The Scouts at Well get to know each other a bit better, on and off the field.

——

Scout vs Scout [tent. title]

“I will never stop killing you!”

Those words rang in the RED Scout’s head as he respawned yet again, his BLU counterpart’s gloating face filling his eyes. That fucker. That absolute, shithead motherfucker! All day, he’d been on Scout’s ass: chasing him down every time they caught sight of each other, always yelling trash-talk and insults, unerringly blocking him every time he tried getting further across the field than the train station. He seemed to have made it his mission of the day to piss Scout off.

Scout had suspected his opposite had had a problem with him from his first day on the field, and the frequency—and annoyance level—of their clashes during today’s fight certainly lent credence to the idea. He had no sweet clue why, though. He was being singled out, and for what? What had he done to piss the BLU Scout off so bad?

It was infuriating! They had been sent out here to kill each other, yeah, but he still tried to be sportsmanlike, not going after any one member of the BLU team unless they kept getting in his way. As far as he could tell, no one else on the team had the same problem with their counterparts. What the fuck was that other Scout’s problem?

Growling, Scout pulled down the brim of his cap and tightened the wraps around his hands. If that asshole wanted to fuck with him so bad, so be it. He wasn’t going to make it nearly so easy for him this time.

——

BLU’s Scout gave Medic a thumbs up as he bounded down one of the train station ramps, on his way back toward the RED base. They’d pushed ahead pretty hard today, and Hardhat had a nice little sentry blockade set up just on their side of the central train tracks. None of the Reds had made it across since he’d finished setting up, and Pyro diligently bathed everyone who passed, and the empty air around the sentries, with flame to keep the RED Spy at bay.

The Reds were mostly holed up in their warehouse, poking their noses out the door and—most often their Soldier—making the occasional mad dash into the train station and across the central tracks, only to be blown away by three turrets’ worth of rockets and machine gun fire. Scout grinned when he heard Engie’s maniacal laugh behind him as the level three sentry once again reduced the RED Soldier to meaty rain; he was certainly enjoying himself.

Scout cleared the RED moat in an easy hop and leapt onto one of the train cars perpetually lingering on the RED base’s tracks. He popped a few rounds off at the enemy Pyro, who’d peeked out just a little too far past the warehouse door frame, but he was on high alert for the RED Scout.

The look on that little shit’s face the last time he’d killed him, oooh, it had been priceless! He looked forward to trying to bring it back. Maybe a little too much, but that fucker had been a pain in his ass since he got here. Something about the kid got under his skin, and it wasn’t just that he kept popping up whenever Scout least-

“Rrraaaaagh!”

Scout turned quickly, trying to find the source of the enraged, and strangely high-pitched, battle cry. What he found was a hundred and ten pounds of furious New Yorker, lunging straight into him and sending them both flying off the end of the train car. Scout landed hard on his back with a whoof, the air whooshing from his lungs as he skidded a few feet along the concrete before coming to a stop. He was dimly aware of his tackler’s weight atop him for half a second before he saw the RED Scout bounce and tumble away.

He rolled over and struggled to get an arm under himself, gasping to fill his aching lungs. That little shit. Scout was gonna kill him, once he could breathe again. He shuffled unsteadily to his feet, bent double as he tried to get his wind back, and a bat cracked him solidly across the shoulders. His chin collided with the concrete when he pitched forward, and he tasted blood as the tip of his tongue got caught between his teeth.

Okay, breath or no, he was gonna fucking murder this brat.

He spat and pushed himself to his feet, quickly stepping back to be out of Red’s range. He whipped out his own bat to square up against his foe, panting hard. Red was glaring at him, feet wide apart with his bat in a high two-handed grip, ready to swing. He was fresh out of respawn, the only dirt smutching his shirt and pants being what he had picked up when he’d tackled Scout off the train car. It was funny, the cleanliness and batter’s stance combined with the rage twisting his freckled, child-like face. Scout sneered.

“Wanna die again that fuckin’ bad, huh?” he said, twirling his bat in his hand. “Come on, cockfag, whaddaya got?”

Red let out a roar and launched himself forward in lieu of a proper response. Scout knocked away his first two vicious swings before slamming him solidly in the arm. Red hissed, but instead of cowering away as Scout expected from previous experience, he took a hard swing in return, hitting Scout’s shoulder with a meaty thud. Scout took a couple steps back, switching his bat to his other hand with a curse, but Red kept on him, swinging again and again. Scout was able to turn the blows, mostly, but one jarring, clanging strike of bat on bat sent his weapon spinning out of his numbed hand.

He dove without even a thought for his guns, a more primal drive taking over; he didn’t need his guns to destroy this little fucker. He tackled Red just above the knees, sending them both back to the ground. Scout crawled up until he could grip Red’s bat-wielding hand and slam it against the ground. Red let go of his weapon, but only because he seemed to prefer his knees and fists in such close quarters. Brilliant white spots bloomed across Scout’s vision as a fist crashed into the side of his head, and a dull ache spread from where a knee was planted firmly in his ribs. He jammed his own knee into Red’s stomach and was rewarded by a choked yelp, only to find himself shoved roughly away by a sneaker-clad foot and a hand in his face.

There was an odd near-silence over the battlefield, now. Both sides had stopped shooting, sixteen men watching in amusement, disbelief, frustration, or concern as the two Scouts struggled with each other like boys in the schoolyard. Hissing and growling, yelping and cursing, the  two young men rolled across the concrete, punching, kicking, elbowing, kneeing, and head-butting each other with murderous intent. They seemed to be evenly matched, Scout’s greater height and weight offset by Red’s squirrelly quickness. For every swung fist, there was a retaliatory elbow or knee, and by the time Scout managed to pin Red beneath him—a knee digging into the small of Red’s back as he wrenched an arm behind him—they both bore blackened eyes, split lips, and noses streaming blood.

“Ready to call ‘uncle’ yet, fucknuts?” Scout growled, pressing Red’s arm down into his back at a painfully awkward angle. Red cursed and squirmed as much as he could, wriggling in an attempt to rip his arm free.

“Fuck you,” he spat over his shoulder. His writhing managed to overbalance Scout, and Red promptly straddled his stomach, aiming quick, hard punches at Scout’s face and chest. “What the fuck… is your problem?”

“My problem?” Scout yelped past his arms, thrown up to defend his face as best as he could. “Aside from you bein’ a fuckin’ little shit?”

“I never fuckin’ did anything!” Red yelled, throwing a relatively weak, but well-aimed, punch at Scout’s throat that had him choking and squawking. “You always come after me! The fuck did I ever do to y-Aaah!”

Still coughing, Scout rolled, pinning Red again and wrapping a hand around his throat, pressing in until he could feel the raging heartbeat under his palm. Red grunted and wheezed, his hands tugging at Scout’s but really only catching the bandaging wrapped around it.

“Fuckin’ shithead,” Scout said, using his free hand to pummel Red’s ribs. Red groaned, and Scout could hear the heels of his sneakers pounding out a frantic beat on the pavement. “Ya come in here, show me up yer first fuckin’ day, and every day after that yer always in my fuckin’ face! I can’t fuckin’ turn around without seein’ you runnin’ off. Yer always… fuckin’… there!”

Each of his final words was punctuated by another hard body blow. Red’s eyelids were starting to flutter and Scout slammed his head down against the concrete, drawing out a choked whine. The movement also allowed Red to draw a quick breath. It was small and shallow, but clarity bloomed in his eyes. When his head was pulled up again, his fist rabbitted out to strike Scout, surprisingly hard, in the crotch.

Scout gasped, eyes bulging, and he fell to the side, curling into a ball and cradling his injured manhood. Red gasped as well, more deeply, then choked, rolling onto his side as hard coughs wracked his thin frame. For a long moment, both of them were too focused on their own pain to even remember the other’s presence.

“You… fuckin’… cheated…” Scout eventually moaned, trying to curl in tighter around his damaged goods. Red glared at him, rubbing his throat and spitting a thick gob of bloody saliva to the side.

“Cheated? We’re tryin’-” He coughed harshly but his voice still rasped. “We’re tryin’ to fuckin’ kill each other, shit for brains.”

“You punched me… in the dick! You fuckin’…!” Scout trailed off with another groan. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“You-” Cough, cough. “-were fuckin’ stranglin’ me!”

“We’re tryin’ to kill each other!”

“That’s what I said!”

“Ya don’t hit another guy in the fuckin’ dick, man! It’s rule number one!”

“Anything goes when yer gonna die!”

“Oh yeah?”

Scout’s foot lashed out, and he caught Red with a much more forceful shot between the legs than the younger man had bestowed on him, and with his cleats. Red let out a strange warbling gurgle as his hands flew down, clutching at himself as Scout laughed and rolled onto his back.

“Yeah, take that, fucknu- Guh!”

That was Red’s shoe, hammering into his groin. Cursing, Scout found himself back on his side in the fetal position, glaring at his counterpart through watering eyes as he fought not to puke. The kid glared back, panting, and for another long moment they stayed that way, the ability to enact their murderous fury stymied by pain no good man should have to feel.

“You two dumbasses done yet?”

The shout came from the RED Engineer. Scout sat up slowly with a wince, noticing for the first time the two lines of men who’d been watching his battle with Red: the Blues had come to the edge of the moat, and the Reds were gathered behind their train tracks. He looked back at Red, who was also taking the time to notice the assembly. The kid was in rough shape. So was he. He still wanted to beat him to bloody pulp, but the adrenaline of the fight was fading, and his balls hurt. Maybe it could wait, at least until his next respawn. When Red looked back at him, he shrugged.

“We done?”

Red glowered, but then sighed, flopping back. He still hadn’t released his crotch, and he looked as tired as Scout was starting to feel. “Fuck, man, I guess.”

“Good.” Scout drew his pistol and fired a single shot into Red’s skull. The body jerked once and then was still. Scout holstered the weapon as it started to fade, and he waved at his team. “Yeah, guys, it’s all good! We’re do-”

His head exploded into a cloud of skull fragments and fine red mist.

The clatter of the RED Sniper’s empty shell casing hitting the ground seemed very loud in the sudden silence. The two teams stared at each other across the moat and train tracks. Weapons were hefted uneasily on both sides.

“Anyone up fer a thirty-second truce?” the BLU Engineer suggested. A gently lobbed, red-banded grenade was all the answer anyone needed to that.

——

The metallic tink as Scout hit another baseball over the train station toward the BLU base relaxed him in a way nothing else could. It was a sound from childhood, from long summer afternoons with his brothers, where they would take turns with their one dented old aluminum bat, trying to hit the ball harder and further than everyone else. It hadn’t been until he was fifteen, and two of his four brothers had moved out, that he’d been able to reliably outshine his siblings. He smiled, tossing a new ball in his hand. He’d managed to hit a ball almost two blocks once, but he’d done it while he was alone at the old lot; no one had believed him, even though he’d broken the windshield of old Mister Mulhaney’s car. He was fairly sure his brothers still didn’t think he’d actually done it.

Scout lobbed up the ball in his hand, smoothly raising his bat as he watched it ascend. Despite the tensing of his muscles in preparation, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so calm. He kept his eyes on the ball as it started to tumble toward earth, then swung, explosively uncurling his arms and feeling the satisfying crack of bat meeting ball. Another light tink filled the night air, and his smile widened as the ball soared up over the train station, clearing its roof by a good twenty feet, and disappeared onto the BLU side of the field.

He had to laugh. He’d found an entire crate of baseballs in his room when he’d moved in—apparently RED had continued sending the “ammunition” in the brief time that the team had been without a Scout—and he’d filled two buckets before heading out to take his current place by the moat. One bucket was already empty; he’d been out here for over half an hour. He could just imagine the Blues’ faces when they emerged from their base in the morning to a couple dozen baseballs underfoot. Just a little payback for today.

He bent to reach for another ball when he heard the unmistakable thump of a baseball hitting the ground off to his left. He straightened, frowning, and glanced over to see a red-stitched white orb rolling slowly away from the moat. He started toward it, but stopped when there was another thump behind him. Then another, and one more back toward the first. Then a gurgly plonk as yet another ball was swallowed by the moat.

“Think these’re yours, chucklefuck.”

Scout rounded his shoulders and refused to look toward the train station, and the owner of that infuriating, snarky voice. He plucked another ball out of the bucket and tossed it up with a growl. “Can you not seriously leave me the fuck alone?”

He swung again and this time the ball was lower. Instead of popping it up over the train station, he sent it shooting straight across the moat. He was rewarded by a thud and a yelp. He smirked. Not bad for not having aimed.

“The fuck was- That fuckin’ hurt, ya little psycho!”

Scout rolled his eyes and swung his bat up onto his shoulder, turning to face his complaining counterpart across the moat. The BLU Scout was rubbing at his ribs and scowling glumly, his other arm working to contain a shifting pile of baseballs. Some were scattered at his feet and, as Scout watched, one teetered precariously at the edge of the moat before falling in with a bloop. He raised an eyebrow, slinging his other arm up to cage his bat against the back of his neck. He expected to feel absolute fury at the sight of the Blue after the misery they’d put each other through on the field that day, but though there was anger simmering deep in his gut, mostly what he felt was cold frustration.

“It was supposed to hurt, numbnuts,” he said. “Fuck off. I’m sick a’yer dumbass face after all that bullshit today.”

“Fuckin’ Christ, I was just bringin’ yer fuckin’ balls back!” Blue threw one across the moat and, tink, Scout sent it flying back over the train station with a quick swing. Blue blinked, eyes following the ball’s arcing path, and he sounded impressed when he said, “Hey, you ain’t half bad.”

“No shit,” Scout said, taking up another ball from his bucket and sending it soaring after the other with ease. He was almost able to forget Blue was there in the toss and swing motions, and the simple satisfaction that came with that echoing tink. But then the ball was lost to sight and his eyes drifted back to the annoyance across the moat. He sighed. “Seriously, can ya fuck off? I just wanted to hit a few balls and relax, okay, not deal with the biggest shithead on the planet.”

“Fuckin’ Christ, yer a brat!” Blue threw up his arms in a cascade of baseballs, one of which flew up and came back down solidly atop his head. He cursed and rubbed at the sore spot, glaring when Scout laughed. “Fuckin’- I’m not here t’be a dick, dumbfuck. I saw the balls when I came out for a run, figured I’d come see what y’were doin’.”

Scout narrowed his eyes, lowering his bat so he could lean on it. “Why wouldja wanna do that?”

Blue shrugged, and Scout tensed a little when he stepped up closer to the moat, but he just took a seat on the concrete by the water’s edge. “Dunno. M’curious. Me ’n’ old Red used t’be- well, we wasn’t really friends, I guess, but we didn’t fuckin’ hate each other’r nothin’. I guess I wanna try to, y’know, get a read on th’enemy or whatever. Maybe figure out why ya piss me off so fuckin’ much.”

“That’s easy: I’m better than you,” Scout scoffed, taking a seat across the moat from Blue and setting his bat across his knees. Blue snorted and picked up one of the balls nearby, juggling it idly from hand to hand.

“Yeah, sure y’are. Not like I didn’t kick yer ass today, even after ya fuckin’ dick-punched me,” he said. He paused for a moment, then lobbed the ball across the moat. Scout caught it. “Yer numbers ain’t any better than mine, neither.”

Scout tossed the ball back lazily, scoffing again. “Yeah, but they ain’t worse. And you’ve been here way longer than me.”

“Not way longer,” Blue said, arcing the ball high on his next throw. “Our team only got here when you did, and I only been with BLU… a year ’n’ a half, I think? Maybe a li’l less? ’Cause I joined up just before Pyro.”

“Just proves my point. You been doin’ this more’n a year, and I’m already makin’ yer numbers.” Scout bounced the ball up in his hand before pitching it across the moat. It made an audible slap as it hit Blue’s palm, and Scout chuckled when he shook out his fingers. “Figure I’ll be runnin’ circles around ya in a few more months.”

“Pff, yeah right,” Blue said, rolling his eyes and flexing his hand. “Yer forgettin’ that yer stuck with RED. Bein’ around those psychos’ll make ya just as fuckin’ stupid ’n’ useless as they are in no time.”

Scout frowned, catching the ball distractedly when it sailed back. He rolled it back and forth between his hands. “They’re not all that bad…”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Those guys are fuckin’ nuts!” Blue hooted; he didn’t seem to notice—or care about—the furrow building in Scout’s brow. “I’m pretty sure yer Medic’s an actual, honest-to-fuck Nazi; yer Heavy’s a Red—like an old-school Commie Red, not just a RED Red—and I’m not sure yer Pyro’s even fuckin’ human. Yer Demo’s an even worse drunk than mine, and yer Soldier is lit-er-al-ly fuckin’ insane; ya seen him talkin’ to his shovel yet? Oh, and yer Spy’s a fuckin’ fag, always tryin’ t’crawl up Hardhat’s ass—my Hardhat, not yours.” He shrugged. “I mean, I guess yer Engie’s not so nuts, even if he did cut off his fuckin’ hand for that robot one he’s got.”

“What!”

“Oh yeah, man, you ain’t seen it yet?” Blue grinned, taking hold of his right wrist and shaking his hand limply. “Fuck, man, it’s wicked nasty. Wicked cool, though, too. It can do all kindsa crazy shit, like, it’s got pliers and a little blowtorch in the fingers ’n’ shit. Kinda makes me want one.” He wiggled his fingers, gazing at them critically, and shrugged again. “But yeah, you guys got the blueprints ’n’ shit for a fuckin’ robot hand one supply run, and yer crazy-ass Engie didn’t even fuckin’ hesitate. Just shng! Off with his hand. My Hardhat just about puked when he heard.”

“Fuck, I had no idea,” Scout said, goggling. “I guess I’ve never seen him with both gloves off before. Fuck…” He shook his head, and his frown returned. “And, uh, what about Sniper? My Sniper. I mean, RED’s Sniper.”

The tips of his ears were getting hot, and Blue’s smug smirk only made them burn hotter. “What, ya worried yer fuck-buddy’s nuts- Whoa, hey, watch it! What is it with all you fags gettin’ pissed at me lately?”

Scout growled, reaching for another baseball. “You watch it! And whaddaya mean ‘you fags’? I seen you ’n’ yer Spy, bein’ all lovey-dovey over on yer barracks roof.”

Blue froze, and it was his turn to start goggling. The baseball he’d picked up for a retaliatory strike on Scout rolled from his lax fingers and joined its more adventurous brothers for a swim.

“You seen me ’n’ Spy?”

“Yeah,” Scout said, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. “Not like I fuckin’ peep on ya or nothin’! I’m not a fuckin’ perv. S’just I go with Snipes up to his nest sometimes, and it’s high enough t’see yer base’s roof.”

Blue sat slightly stunned, still not having moved, hands hanging loosely in his lap. “Shit… Spy’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

“I swear to God, I only ever saw you two, like, once!” Scout said. Blue shook his head and sighed, finally shifting to rub his eyes.

“No, fuck, I don’t give a fuck about you,” he said. Scout made an indignant noise, but Blue went on, “Spy hates yer fuckin’ Sniper. Haaaates him. I dunno the history—s’from before my time—but I know it’s nothin’ good. If Spy finds out he can see us, probably has seen us… And, fuck, I mean, I don’t like it much neither. He’s the fuckin’ RED Sniper, and he might not be as crazy as the others, but he’s fuckin’ creepy. Knowin’ he can see me off the field makes my fuckin’ skin crawl. How high up is his fuckin’ nest, anyway? The moon?”

Scout snorted, but said nothing. So Blue thought something was off about Sniper too, huh? Scout didn’t like admitting it, even to himself, but Sniper was… yeah, “creepy” really was the best word. Not in a spiderwebs in a dark hallway kind of way, but in a reclusive neighbour with a record kind of way. Scout never really knew what he intended until it was already happening, and his glances were always too intense, too… laden. Laden with what, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t something bad. Wrenches had warned him about Sniper, too, in a roundabout way; Scout didn’t think Wrenches liked Sniper much more than the BLU Spy did.

“He’s… real intense. Like, scary intense sometimes,” Scout said. He picked up a baseball and started lightly tossing it up and down, giving his hands something to do as he spoke, and his eyes somewhere to rest besides Blue’s discomfited face. “It’s real hard sayin’ no to him. But he’s not… he’s really not that bad. Just kinda scary, ’specially if he’s mad. He almost put his kukri through my head one night when I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

Blue whistled through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s pretty fuckin’ intense alright. Makes Spy seem downright fuckin’ tame, not that he’s anywhere near the creep yer Sniper is. No offense.”

“Some taken,” Scout grumbled and Blue huffed out a laugh.

“Fuck you. At least Spy ain’t tried stabbin’ me. He’s just a sneaky fucker, always poppin’ up when I don’t expect him to,” he said, and he grinned. “Kinda like you, fucknuts.” He laughed when Scout threw his baseball at him, turning it with his shoulder rather than catching it. “Hey, y’should take it as a compliment! Showin’ up outta nowhere like ya do, without one a’them cloakin’ devices, is a fuckin’ talent, man, as much as it pisses me off.”

“I am pretty fast.” Scout couldn’t help the prideful grin that crossed his face. “I was fast before I signed up for this shit, and whatever RED did to me before they shipped me out pumped me into overdrive. It almost makes all the killin’ and dyin’ worth it, even without the boss paycheque.”

“Aw man, just wait ’til ya get yer first new gear! They send us such cool shit, man, y’gotta- Wait. Wait here.”

Scout blinked when Blue hopped to his feet and sprinted back toward his base without another word or backward glance, nearly tripping over one of the scattered baseballs in his haste. Scout realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. Honestly, leaving didn’t even cross his mind. His annoyance with the other Scout had faded, leaving behind intense curiosity. Beyond contemplating Blue’s apparent (though less likely seeming, now) hatred of him, Scout had wondered about him more than once. Despite a few obvious differences, they were remarkably similar. Young, foul-mouthed, cocky, full of boundless energy, and an intolerable pain in the ass to all but a few of their teammates. It was kind of spooky, but kind of cool.

A sudden resounding crack split the air and Scout jumped to his feet with a yowl, gripping his upper arm below the shoulder where a white blur had just collided. He glared as Blue stepped out from behind a train car on his side of the moat, twirling a hardwood baseball bat in his hands. Blue wore a cocky smile, and when he saw Scout watching, he switched to the same batter’s stance Scout had used in their scuffle earlier in the day.

“Revenge for the one ya hit at me, chucklefuck,” he said, giving the bat a few swings. “Come check this shit, though, man. Fuckin’ beautiful. Could send a ball straight over the Green Monster with this baby, no sweat.”

Still rubbing his arm, Scout stepped to the edge of the moat to get a better look, then shrugged to himself and hopped over; if Blue had been planning on killing him, he could’ve sent that last ball at his head instead of his arm. His new agility still amazed him somewhat—he’d cleared the ten or so feet of moat like skipping over a puddle—and he shook his head as he closed the distance with Blue.

Blue didn’t seem surprised or concerned by his approach. He held out the bat for Scout’s inspection proudly, a swaggering grin on his lips. He even let the Red take the bat and give it a few experimental swings.

“They sent me that just ’cause I’m so fuckin’ awesome,” he said. “Had a note in the crate and everythin’, sayin’, ‘Yo, yer such a badass, here’s this wicked sweet bat to beat skulls in even better with.’ It’s pretty kickass, huh?”

Scout thought this must be the kind of bat angels played baseball with. The weight was just right, and the tape-wrapped grip settled perfectly against his bandage-wrapped palms. He gave it a few more swings, whistling through his teeth and giving it a more thorough examination. Though a long strip of electrical tape wrapped around the head seemed to be keeping a crack in the wood from widening, it looked otherwise pristine, the grain of the wood gleaming under the train station’s floodlights. The Sandman was emblazoned in bold black letters just below the taped head.

“It’s a pretty bitchin’ bat, alright,” he said, handing it back with a small pang of regret. It made his own dented metal bat seem downright dinky in comparison. Blue nodded, swinging off his shoulder bag and unzipping it.

“Fuck yeah. And that’s just the tip a’the iceberg. Here.”

He tossed a can at Scout. Catching it, Scout was immediately stricken by the blazingly purple label, and the symbol that, he was pretty sure, meant radiation. That the symbol had replaced the “O” in “BONK Crit-A-Cola” made him slightly wary, and the ingredients list wasn’t very reassuring.

“‘Water, radiation, sugar,’” he read, raising an eyebrow. “Yer shittin’ me, right?”

“Trust me man, that shit is like… fuck, I don’t even know what it’s like, it’s just awesome,” Blue said. “Try it! They’ll prob’ly be sendin’ some for you too, eventually; old Red was gettin’ it.”

Scout frowned, but popped the tab on the can. It hissed and fizzed a little before settling. He sniffed it cautiously before taking a sip. It didn’t smell bad and the taste was like cola, but… electric. Something about it made his tongue tingle and his stomach flutter with the most intense case of the butterflies he’d ever had in his life. He didn’t realize he’d drained the can until he gasped to fill his desperately deflated lungs. Electricity jittered up his spine and along his arms. He felt like he could shoot lightning from his fingertips if he tried.

“Hoooooly shit! What is that stuff?” he said, staring at the empty can. Blue laughed, and Scout looked up. He was just in time to see Blue standing twenty feet away, preparing a pitch.

He saw the ball leave Blue’s hand, and felt the grip of his bat filling his own. He didn’t remember drawing it, or dropping the soda can, but he distantly heard the hollow aluminum clatter tinnily to the ground. He wound the bat up over his shoulder. His muscles bunched in that familiar, comforting way, and his eyes latched onto the approaching ball. He was a coiled spring, and when the ball was close enough, he released.

There was the cheery tink he had grown accustomed to, but higher, sharper. A high whistle filled the air, followed by a deep, startling bwang as the ball left a deep indent in one of the nearby train cars. Blue whooped with delight and jogged over to examine the impact.

“Hoo fuck! There’s a fuckin’ hole, man! Ya dented it deep enough to make a fuckin’ hole!” He pumped his fist in the air. “Let’s see fuckin’ Soldier pull that shit off! Even Heavy probably couldn’t do it, not with a fuckin’ baseball!”

Scout stared, and then grabbed one of the baseballs still scattered about from Blue’s earlier gathering. He threw it up and laughed ecstatically after his swing sent it into the side of the train station with a crack. Even from where he stood, he could see a tiny new crater in the concrete, amidst the many pre-existing deep cracks and bullet holes. Blue hooted again, throwing up both hands this time as he bellowed with triumphant glee.

There was nothing quite like a little wanton property damage to bring two young men together.

Scout reached for another baseball, but stumbled as the unnatural energy from the soft drink faded all at once. He let out a hard breath and leaned on his bat, steadying himself as the world gave one lurching tilt before settling. He still had to sit down roughly when a flurry of white spots flashed across his vision.

“Yeah, the crash hits kinda hard,” Blue said, and Scout looked up to see him settling on the ground a couple feet away. “Totally fuckin’ worth it, though, right? Can crack right through Soldier’s helmet on that shit. Still not as good as regular Bonk, though.”

“That’s not the regular shit?” Scout asked, grabbing the empty can and inspecting it again. Blue’s grin reached from ear to ear.

“Fuck no, man. Regular Bonk is different, and a million times more awesome,” he said. “Bonk’s like… It’s… I kinda imagine it’s like mixin’ the strongest fuckin’ coffee y’can get with a assload of cocaine. Yer literally fuckin’ untouchable. Like, if yer faster now than y’were back home, Bonk makes ya a gazillion times faster than that.

“Medic says I should stop drinkin’ it or it’ll kill me for good, but it’s too fuckin’ awesome, and tastes too fuckin’ good. It’s the only reason I’d wanna join RED; you get cherry flavour.” He sighed. “They only send two crates a supply run, though. I always go through it in, like, a week. I mean, the Crit-A-Cola’s pretty good, but it ain’t the same.”

“How often do they send stuff?” Scout asked. “I mean, I know we get food ’n’ supplies ’n’ shit once a month, but do they send new weapons and stuff then too?”

“Not every month,” Blue said, shrugging. “I been with BLU almost a year ’n’ a half, like I said, and I got my Sandman, Bonk, and the Crit-A-Cola; they only started sendin’ me the Bonk every month after I’d been at Teufort, like, six months or somethin’ like that. And they sent me some fuckin’ hats and clothes and shit, too.” He made a face. “S’fuckin’ weird, man. They send us all this super cool shit, invented stuff like the medigun and th’Übercharge, and double-jumpin’, and fuckin’ respawn, but then next thing ya know, they send us fuckin’ dorky-ass clothes like we’re a buncha fuckin’ girls…”

Scout frowned and cocked his head to the side. “Whaddya mean, ‘double-jumpin’’? I saw Doc Über Heavy once, but I ain’t seen… the fuck d’ya mean?”

Blue fixed Scout with a deeply incredulous stare. “Oh, fuck right off. I see ya flippin’ around and doin’ fuckin’ gymnastics ’n’ shit like a fuckin’ spaz all the time. Ya musta double-jumped at least once.”

Scout glared at Blue and flipped him off. “Fuck you. I wouldn’ta asked what it was if I’d done it. The fuck is double-jumpin’?”

Blue stared at him in total disbelief for a few more silent seconds, then popped to his feet so fast that Scout jumped up himself and took a couple wary steps back. There was no hostility in Blue’s face or movements, though. If anything, he looked offended.

“What, did they not fuckin’ tell ya before shippin’ ya out?” he said, and he spluttered when Scout shrugged, pushing his cap back as he shoved a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ shit, man! Double-jumpin’ is what makes ya a fuckin’ Scout! Jesus! Look!”

And he leapt straight up into the air, a solid seven feet. Just as he reached the apex of the jump, he kicked at the air, and Scout’s mouth fell open. Instead of starting to descend, Blue shot further upward, maybe another three or four feet, and arced through the air to land atop the train car Scout had dented. He held out his arms in a ‘Ta-da’ gesture.

“See! Double-jumpin’! It’s what Scouts do!” He crouched at the edge of the train car, grinning down at Scout. “Y’seriously had no clue?”

“Wh- Fuck, no! What the fuck, how do I-?”

Scout jumped, but he didn’t feel anything special or different as he reached the peak. He still got up just as high as Blue had in his initial jump, but then he thumped back down to earth with a curse. What had Blue done? Just kind of… kicked the air? Scout huffed and glared up at Blue when he laughed.

“C’mon, man! Just do it! Yer a Scout! We run fast, we hit hard, and we fuckin’ double-jump!” He straightened and hopped down from the train car. Another little mid-air hop just before he hit the ground popped him up just enough that his cleats barely made a sound as he landed. “Don’t think about it, just do it. Just jump, then jump again before ya hit the ground. Easy.”

“Oh yeah, fuck the laws of physics, right? Like, gravity? Who cares?” Scout said, giving Blue a flat look.

[...]

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]

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].

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation Teaser/WIP

Another Little Moment that's mostly done, this one even more so than the others. Why are a few opening sentences so hard? D:

Summary: Pyro and Blue make a very important discovery about Freckles.

——

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation

[...]

“Ozzie! Oz, save me! Oz!”

Sniper stopped in his tracks at the desperate, pleading cry behind him, and looked back into the rec room. He blinked slowly. Freckles, face bright pink and horrified, seemed to be trying to climb over one of the arms of the couch, his chest pulled up onto it and hands desperately clutching for anything he could use to pull himself further. Pyro and Scout were rather effectively preventing his escape attempt, though. Pyro was seated squarely on the small of Freckles’s back, one of the younger man’s legs bent in his hold so he could trap it under his arm, and Scout had the other leg by the ankle while sitting on the back of his knee. Freckles’s boots and socks had been haphazardly tossed in the vague direction of the rec room door; Sniper nudged the nearer of the discarded shoes with a toe.

He raised an eyebrow at his two teammates, who’d frozen guiltily in place at his appearance. 

“Interrogatin’ the enemy, then, are we?”

The shift in the three young men’s faces was priceless. Pyro and Scout shared a truly evil grin, and poor Freckles, who’d started to look hopeful when Sniper stopped in the doorway, now wore the expression of a man seeing salvation snatched away from right in front of his nose. His eyes went huge and he renewed his frantic escape attempts, panting curses when the two Blues atop him remained unmoved. Pyro, his grin almost feral in its intensity, drew a finger down the arch of the foot he had trapped, resulting in a panicked yelp. Scout firmed his hold on Freckles’s other ankle and turned his grin on Sniper.

“Exactly,” he said. “Interrogatin’ the enemy. Gotta torture him, figure out what he knows.”

“No no no no no-!”

Sniper shook his head, giving Freckles an apologetic smile, and pointed a warning finger at Scout.

“He pisses ’imself, you two are cleanin’ it up.”

And he continued on his way toward the kitchen, not fully able to contain his chuckles at the frantic shouts rising behind him.

“Nononono nooooo! Ozzie, come back, come baaack! Save meEEEEeeheeheehee! Fuck shit! AHHHhahahahahahaha!”

First Day

The first finished short, though not the first chronologically. There's one more that comes before this one, but this was the first one I actually completed to some degree of satisfaction, and it's only the second one, so I figure it's not too far into the plot- and character-development to be posted. I might even end up expanding it, since it's pretty short, but, eh. I'll throw it up for now.

If anyone actually ends up reading through it, any critique is greatly appreciated; it's completely unbeta'd and I haven't posted any of my writing anywhere in years, so feedback is very, very good.

Also, warning for profanity and brief homophobic language. It's a short primarily about the Scouts, so there's no way the script's gonna be clean.

Summary: It's the new RED Scout's first day.

——

First Day

“Anyone get a good look at RED’s new Scout over the last few days?” Engineer asked, slipping the last shell into his shotgun and tucking the weapon into its loop on his belt. The BLU respawn room was quiet, and had been near silent before the question; they were always a fairly subdued bunch in the minutes before the buzzer. Sniper shrugged, digging a near miniscule crumb of dirt from under one of the tiny screws of his rifle’s scope.

“Younger’n ours, hard as that might be to believe,” he said, drawing a flipped bird from the young man in question and chuckles from the others. “Green as spring grass and jumpy as a toad on a hot rock. The Reds’ll probably break him before the fighting gets a chance.”

“Is it really all that surprisin’ if they do? Those guys are fuckin’ nuts,” Scout said as he finished wrapping his hands in their customary bandages and drew his heavy wooden baseball bat. “Lookin’ forward to bashin’ in some a’those psychos’ knees and heads today. Especially that fuckin’ Soldier,” he added in a low growl, swinging his bat in a whistling arc before him; Scout’s encounters with the particularly psychotic Red during the last fight had not gone well. Spy patted him on the shoulder and lit a cigarette.

“I’m sure you’ll get the chance, petit. When ’ave you ever known that ’elmeted madman to remain quietly on the rear lines?” he said. Sniper nodded, lighting a cigarette of his own and settling his rifle in his hands.

“Here’s hopin’, but don’t push too hard.” He looked around the room, catching each man’s eyes for a second as he pushed his aviators up the bridge of his nose. “Everyone keep your heads down today. We dunno what their new Scout’s capable of, and, small as he is, we don’t want him scoopin’ our case because we underestimate him. And their Engie seems to’ve taken a likin’ to the west alcove of their warehouse, second floor.” He looked meaningfully to Scout and Soldier, the latter of whom saluted sharply. “Don’t let it throw you. I wanna see low respawn numbers at the end of the day.”

Nods rippled around the room, and there was a chorus of rattling metal as weapons were hefted. The timer above the door ticked down, a high electronic beep marking each passing second. 16… 15… 14…

——

3… 2... 1…

The starting buzzer blared and the metal shutter rolled up, releasing a raging torrent of Reds. Scout jumped as a jet of flame washed harmlessly over him before Pyro charged past, howling behind his gas mask. Despite his very short training and the briefing on the train in, Scout still expected to feel his shirt burning off his back, but all he felt was the rough shove as Heavy pushed past him.

“Move, little boy-man!” he roared, and Scout jumped again, bolting out the open door and into chaos. He winced as one of Demo’s bombs exploded a few feet from him and one of Soldier’s rockets detonated not much further away. The Blues weren’t even in sight yet, but already Scout’s ears were filled with gunshots and explosions and battlecries. His teammates were bloodthirsty. He was beginning to realize that he was not prepared for this, not at all, but it was too fucking late to back out now.

He caught up to and passed Pyro as they exited the intel room, and saw flames gust out around him again—without feeling them—as he left the other man’s range. He heard muffled, guttural laughter behind him as he weaved his way through the warehouse, and clearer bursts of chuckling receded with the footsteps clattering up the ramps to the second floor. Pyro was messing with him, and the others were thoroughly enjoying it. Scout shook his head. He’d expected some hazing—he was the short, freckly, buck-toothed new kid; he’d have been surprised if people hadn’t fucked with him to some degree—but the apparent glee most of his teammates had taken in harassing him since his arrival unnerved him. He was honestly starting to look forward to encountering the enemy team.

The whizz of a bullet passing far too close to his head made him reconsider that thought as he sped out the wide warehouse doors. With a yelp, he dove behind a shipping container next to the train tracks, clutching his scattergun to his chest as his heart thundered.

Rockets started flying out the RED warehouse doors toward the train station in the centre of the field, and they were answered by a rocket barrage in return. Chipped concrete from their detonations pecked Scout’s cheek before he covered his head with an arm. He could feel warmth starting to trickle down from one of the more painful impact spots, and wiped his cheek, staring at the blood that came away on his fingers. The first blood he’d shed on the battlefield. He swallowed hard and peeked around the edge of the container.

Another whizz, followed by the pinging p-tew of a ricochet. Scout cursed and, questioning his sanity, he ran toward the moat instead of retreating back into cover. He wasn’t gonna just sit back and be a pussy for his whole first battle. He’d recognized from his training, short and disorganized as it had been, that the shots coming at him were sniper fire. He needed to get too close for the BLU Sniper to get a clear shot. To do that, he had to get over the moat.

There was a bridge a few yards away, but he didn’t want to be out in the open that long. It had to be straight over. No big: just ten or so feet of freezing, probably septic water. Right. Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath and flung himself across the wide watery trench separating the RED base from the train station.

He grunted, his sneakers skidding on concrete, as he cleared the moat by at least six feet. He stumbled as he came to a stop and stared back at the distance he’d covered. Damn! Whatever RED had given him during his pre-deployment physical really did the fucking trick!

He hadn’t recovered enough to gather his bearings before something solid slammed into his gut, hard enough to double him up over it. He choked, eyes bulging at the sudden pain and breathlessness. He staggered back and stopped himself from going to his knees, if barely. He tried to raise his scattergun for a shot at his attacker, lifting his wide eyes to aim. This time he saw the heavy hardwood baseball bat coming at him. Straight toward his head.

He ducked with a hoarse yell, overbalancing and landing flat on his ass. He finally managed to lift both his gun and gaze to catch a glimpse of the enemy Scout’s blue-clad back whirling away from him with the momentum of his swing. For half a second, he could only stare at his enemy counterpart—the other man easily could have passed for one of his older brothers, in bad light—and that half-second was enough for the Blue to turn back, bat raised for another swing. Just in time for a load of scattershot to take him squarely in the chest.

He looked as shocked by the shot as Scout, finger still hovering over the trigger, felt. A hand rose to the gory mess of the BLU Scout’s front, absently fingering the bloody, pulverized meat and exposed edges of bone. Scout could only meet his opposite’s stunned stare with one of his own. Blood quickly stained the front of the Blue’s shirt, some dripping onto the concrete. He swayed, and blinked slowly, a glassy look coming into his eyes.

“You little fucker,” he mumbled, more incredulity than venom in his voice, and he toppled forward at Scout’s feet.

Scout’s eyes didn’t leave the corpse, and he didn’t move until, like a movie effect, the body started to fade. It grew steadily more transparent and then just disappeared, the blood fading with it, except for a few spatters on Scout’s shoes and pants. He scrambled to his feet, one arm folded over his aching gut, and frantically looked about him.

He saw Heavy emerge from the moat, his vest and shirt more than a little singed, and he saw the BLU Soldier explode into a shower of blood and meat chunks when one of Demo’s grenades hit him head on. His own team’s Soldier was coming his way, jogging along the edge of the moat, and Medic was taking swings at the BLU Demoman with his bonesaw and a maniacal, almost psychotic, grin on his face. Men were screaming, bullets and bombs were flying all around him… Scout swallowed hard. He had to keep moving, get into the BLU base, and grab their intel before he ended up getting blown away. He could take the time to process all of this once the battle was-

“Rule one of being a Scout, lapin.” He gasped as an arm wrapped around his neck from behind and something sharp jabbed lightly into his spine. “Do not stand still.”

The call of “Spy!” was still building in his throat when the knife slid home.

Then the cold white walls of the respawn room surrounded him and he stumbled, eyes goggling and hands shaking. Had he just… died? One of his hands flew around to his back, feeling for where the BLU Spy’s knife had entered, but there was no pain, no wound, not even a tear in his shirt. But he remembered feeling the cold steel splitting skin, the sharp dart of pain before he’d opened his eyes here.

He made it to the garbage can in the corner before he puked, but it was a very near thing. Yeah… he was definitely going to need some time to process this.

——

It had been a long day by the time the end-of-match siren blew. The Administrator loudly berated them all for failures, RED and BLU alike, but no one really paid her any mind. They were all too relieved to depart the field after hours of frenzy and pain for no reward. Still, despite the relief, the stalemate was painful. They had nothing really to gain from winning—a couple extra grand on their already exorbitant paycheques and a few congratulatory special supply vouchers—but losing was never a fun experience, and today they were all losers. Some were taking it harder than others.

“That little fucker!”

The BLU Scout growled, pitching his bat at the back wall of the respawn room as hard as he could. It rebounded a good four feet before bouncing a few more and slowly rolling to a stop at Spy’s feet. Spy picked up the weapon, and took a quick step back as Scout stomped across the patch of tile he’d just occupied.

They were the only ones left in the respawn room, the others having retreated deeper into the base to seek healing or relaxation as required. Spy had stayed behind when Scout did, wanting to make sure the younger man eventually did go to have his myriad bruises and cuts seen to once he’d worked through his anger. Knowing Scout, left alone, he’d fume and rant until he got tired or hungry, and leave the wounds festering until the next fight’s first respawn.

The young man’s headset had suffered the same fate as his bat in the course of his rage, though it had come to rest much closer to its original impact point against the wall, and he was in the process of wringing his hat in bruised-knuckled hands as if he blamed it for the embarrassments of the day. Spy had to pity him; there had been quite a few.

“That little shit! Six fuckin’ times! I died eighteen times today, and that…” Scout made inarticulate sounds of fury, strangling his hat more violently and then sending it flying into a bank of lockers. It hit with a resounding clang, echoed as Scout marched over to give the locker a hearty kick as well. “That fuckin’ shitbag cocksucker is gonna eat my fuckin’ bat tomorrow. Gonna shove it down his throat, out his ass, and fuckin’ floss him with it! Then I’ll shove my scattergun up his ass and blast away! Then shove my fuckin’ pistol up there and-”

“Scout, mon petit voyou, it was not that bad,” Spy said as he set the bat on one of the benches. He turned, meeting the younger man’s glare with a dry look of his own. “That look does not work on me. Stop it. You know I am right.” He lit a cigarette and took a seat next to the bat. “It was a long day, but we all ’ave days when our counterparts seem to single us out. Remember that week the ’Eavies were at each other’s throats?”

“This ain’t the same and you know it,” Scout said, shoving his hands into his pockets and giving the lockers another, more sullen kick. “It was his first fuckin’ fight, and I don’t even think he was tryin’ to run into me. I’d come ’round a corner and baby fucknuts is just standin’ there lookin’ clueless. Then he sees me and bam! I get one hit off, maybe two, then he blows me to shit!” He shoved his hands back through his hair, his anger returned in full force. “He blew my fuckin’ head off twice! That fuckin’… Rrrrgh! I’m gonna twist his head off that scrawny fuckin’ pencil neck!”

“Per’aps it was just beginner’s luck?” Spy suggested, shrugging and watching as Scout started to pace, shoulders hunched. “You are taking this too ’ard, petit. We all ’ave bad days, some worse than others. Today was bad for all of us, both sides. The new Scout threw everyone off.” He grunted and took a drag off his cigarette, puffing out as he grumbled, “’E certainly is speedier than expected, even for a Scout… and I don’t believe any of us anticipated that ’e’d adapt so quickly.”

Scout snorted and flopped down on the bench beside Spy, leaning forward with elbows on his knees; deep gouges packed with dirt and gravel were visible through a tear in the right knee of his pants. “Yeah, no kiddin’ there. Sniper was sayin’ how he almost didn’t make it up to the balcony in time to take his first shot at him. And you see how quick he got back across our moat after that one kill Demo got on him? I saw his bits fade out, and I was still pinned behind the train cars by their fuckin’ Soldier when he comes flyin’ back. He can move quick for havin’ such tiny legs.”

“’E is very small, isn’t ’e?” Spy said, chuckling, glad to see Scout calming down. “I wasn’t aware RED ’ad become so desperate as to start robbing the cradle to pad out their teams.”

“Really though!” Scout hooted, a grin splitting his face. “What is he, fuckin’ twelve? The Reds are gonna eat him alive.”

Spy smirked. “If their dégoûtant convict of a Sniper isn’t doing so already.”

“Augh, gross, Spy. I don’t wanna be thinkin’ a’that,” Scout said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Spy raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

“So prudish, petit! I never would ’ave expected it.”

“Hey, I just ain’t no fuckin’ cocksucker.”

“Tsk, typical American vulgarity. There is nothing wrong with exploring the pleasures that come from a more… masculine touch.”

“Sure, yeah, of course you’d say that, ya fancy candy-ass froggy fa- Ow! The fuck was’at for?”

“Oh, would you look at that! Your knee is bleeding again! We should get you to Medic before you say something else that you regret.”

“Aw, what, did I hurt yer feelin’s? Big scary Spy doesn’t like bein’ called a fag- Ow! Fuck, fuck, fine, I’m shuttin’ up! Christ, talk about sensit- OW! Dammit!”

——

The RED Scout still hadn’t left the showers. Somewhere in the bowels of the base was a monstrous water heater, which meant the water jetting from the showerhead was still steaming after over an hour, and Scout’s blazing skin could have served as a team banner. He’d stopped really feeling the heat a while ago, not long after he’d finished scrubbing himself almost raw with the near-caustic soap RED provided. It had taken longer than he’d expected to clean off all the gore and grime that had caked him at the end of the battle; there had been a surprising amount of it.

By the time the ceasefire siren had blown, he’d been on one of his longest “living streaks”, which meant he was one of those still cut, bruised, and shot up at the end of the day. Medic had been there, freshly respawned himself only a few minutes before the siren, when Scout had tottered back into the base behind Soldier, who had been bellowing at the top of his lungs and gesturing violently with his own severed arm. The doctor had proved more eager to examine their injuries, as thoroughly and at as great length as possible, than to provide healing, so Scout had added a not-insubstantial amount of his own blood to his outer layer of grime before being given a lick of healing from the medigun, just enough to heal the worst of his injuries, and told the rest was unlikely to kill him before his next respawn.

The partial healing of the wounds had not removed the evidence of them, though, so Scout had been left with smears of dried and drying blood caked onto his skin even under his clothes. That, on top of all the sweat and dust. There had been clods of disgustingly reddish mud in his hair and under his nails, and he’d almost puked again when he’d found a chunk of… something lodged behind his ear. He didn’t want to know where, or who, it had come from, or how it had ended up there. He’d just flicked it down the wide drain and scrubbed himself as if his life depended on it.

Actual cleaning had only taken up fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of his shower, though. Since he’d set the soap back on its shelf, he’d stood, and then sat, in the stream of hot water, watching the droplets trail across his reddened skin and the gleaming white shower tiles. Some of the others had come and gone in that time, but they had paid him no mind, save for Heavy’s malicious chuckles over “little boy-man’s sensitive stomach”. Scout had ignored them in return, staring blankly beyond the tile walls and into his frenzied memories of the day.

What horrified and sickened him the most about everything, he thought, was how little everything he’d seen and done did horrify and sicken him. He’d killed people, repeatedly in some cases, and seen others die in more horrific ways than he’d thought possible. The BLU Scout kept showing up wherever he went, it seemed, and he couldn’t deny the intense triumph he’d felt each time he’d killed the other man, after that first stunned kill. And the burst of savage satisfaction after he’d crushed that stupid BLU Pyro’s mask right into his face, seeing blood squirt out around his bat, through the crumpled filters and shattered lenses…

Scout hugged his knees tighter, resting his forehead against them and watching the thin stream of water falling from the end of his nose. He hadn’t thought that he’d enjoy killing so much. He knew it wasn’t… real, not during a battle with respawn waiting to snatch them all back from the jaws of “true” death, but it was still killing. Someone didn’t survive having their head shot off, or exploding into chunks, or being literally cut in half by minigun fire. There had been a definite rush in watching blood and body parts fly, and it had only grown more intense when he was its cause. He’d been in fights back home, beaten some guys real bad (if not quite to RED and BLU standards), but the adrenaline rush of a good fight was nothing against the pure, animal satisfaction he got blowing away Blues.

He liked it, but it felt wrong. Especially after seeing how his teammates had responded to the battle. They had been vicious, some of them, most of them, animals more than men. Heavy had been horrifying, bellowing laughter as that massive gun tore the Blues to shreds, and Pyro had been… monstrous. An alien, pyromaniac beast with a voice like nothing human. Scout had even seen Engineer chuckling darkly over the mangled corpse of the BLU Spy, his wrench and gloves dripping blood.

He knew he hadn’t been much better, after his third or fourth death and respawn. By then, the cycle of kill, be killed, respawn, repeat had settled with him, and he’d gotten a second kill on his BLU counterpart without the same feeling of shocked horror that had stymied him after his first. Instead there’d been a heady rush of feral exhilaration, and, from the moment the Blue’s corpse had faded after that second encounter, he’d sought more of it with a desperation that scared him, now that he had a chance to look back. The BLU intel had always been his true goal, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he’d been reckless in choosing his paths to it, more interested in how many kills he could get before his next respawn than finding the safest route. It had resulted in more than a few deaths of his own.

He sighed, folding his hands over the back of his head. There was that, too. The deaths. Respawn was nothing short of miraculous, bringing them back in perfect shape even after being dismembered or pulped or whatever else might happen to them, but they still died. He’d died more than twenty times, according to the board in the respawn room at the end of the day. And dying hurt. Some of his deaths had been like the first, instant and near painless, but others…

The BLU Scout had seemed to take special pleasure in tormenting him, drawing out every death that he could. Despite only being responsible for five of Scout’s deaths, he’d broken his legs, shattered his hands, broken his back, and only seen fit to actually end Scout’s life when the flow of the battle drew him onward. At least he had ended it, though. Scout had seen Demo after an unfortunate run-in with the BLU Pyro, where the sloppy-drunk Irishman had been granted no such mercy. Scout felt his gorge rising and swallowed thickly.

Why had he gotten himself involved in all this? Yeah, the money was fucking astounding, but this was only his first battle and he’d already seen men burned alive and blown to smithereens, and been riddled with bullets and beaten painfully to death himself. Was six figures worth turning into the kind of lunatic he saw in Medic and Soldier and Pyro? Was it worth all the pain? What would Ma say? He shivered in spite of the hot water. She’d always talked about the “dangerous men” she’d known in her younger years, but how could she approve of a son who enjoyed killing so thoroughly?

Scout lifted his face and scrubbed his hands over it with a groan. He wasn’t built for thinking about this kind of shit. He realized for the first time just how wrinkly his toes and fingertips had become and grimaced. He hated wrinkling up; it was why he never took baths. He got to his feet with another groan, trying to rub the sleep out of his leg and ignore a deep ache still settled in his ribs, and turned off the taps.

In the sudden absence of hissing water, Scout heard the tak tak of bootheels on the tile and he looked up sharply. The room was still filled with thick steam—how long had he been showering?—but he could make out a lanky, hatted silhouette near the sinks at the other end of the room.

“Y’finally finished up in there, Speedy?” There was no mistaking Sniper’s throaty drawl. “Was startin’ t’worry ya might’ve melted.”

Scout snorted, smiling in spite of the melancholy that had kept him under the shower’s spray so long. “I know I’m pretty fuckin’ sweet, but I’m not made a’sugar, Snipes.”

Sniper’s chuckle was a low rumble through the slowly dissipating steam. Scout liked him. He and Engie were the only ones on the team who had treated him like, well, a teammate since his arrival a few days ago, and Sniper had gone out of his way to help show Scout around before his first “official” day. He’d even fed him his first night, when Demo and Pyro had thought it would be hilarious to incinerate his dinner.

Sniper had brought Scout, still nervous and more than a little put-out by the hazing, to his “nest” (a small room, barely bigger than a closet, at the top of a very tall ladder that offered a view all the way across the battlefield) and offered him a bowl of hearty rabbit stew. “Caught the li’l buggers just outside the fence,” Sniper had said with pride. Scout had been reluctant to try rabbit, thinking of the twitchy-nosed little bunnies he’d seen on his train ride in, but in the end he’d emptied three bowls over the course of a nearly two hour long chat. Sniper was quiet and more than a little intense, but Scout couldn’t help but feel comforted by his unflappable presence in the midst of the rest of the team’s madness.

A fluffy towel smacked Scout in the face and he caught it as it tumbled down toward his chest. Sniper was grinning at him. “Better dry off and cover up before ya shrivel any more, Squirt.”

“I ain’t shrivellin’,” Scout said, though he did cast a self-conscious glance downward before he started drying himself. “Yer the one who’s peepin’ on my junk, ya dirty old perv, so…”

“So what?”

Scout blinked and paused as he was wrapping the towel around his waist. He gaped at Sniper for a moment, who was now clearly visible past the last lingering wisps of fog. He didn’t have his aviators on, and there was a fierce, hungry gleam visible in his eyes even from across the room. It was almost enough to make Scout nervous. He shrugged and cleared his throat, feeling a flush spreading up his neck and cheeks.

Then Sniper laughed. “Oh, relax, kid. Christ, the look on yer face!” He crossed the room and clapped his arm around the boy’s bare shoulders. “Let’s getcha somethin’ t’eat and maybe y’can tell me a little about those dark clouds y’were lost in when I walked up, eh?”

Scout blinked again, and then a broad grin stole across his lips. Intense, but comforting. After today, that might be just what he needed. “That actually sounds awesome; I’m fuckin’ starved.”

Anniversary Teaser/WIP

Summary: The Aussie and the Frenchman don't come to the little diner in town very often, but Dana always appreciates the break from backshift monotony that they provide.

——

Anniversary

[...]

The night shift, though, was when the Frenchman and the Aussie came in.

They were Dana’s favourite regulars, though “regulars” might have been a bit of a stretch: their visits were sporadic, and she’d only really seen them maybe seven or eight times since their first appearance almost a year back. They were some kind of contractors, part of the group working out of the old train depot in the desert, but while their fellows who frequented the town had garnered something of a… reputation in town, the Frenchman and the Aussie were never anything but friendly and courteous, if maybe a little aloof. They weren’t too hard on the eyes, either, which was always a pleasant treat during a long shift.

Their visits, infrequent as they were, followed a by-now familiar routine, so when the slightly janky glow of the dusty camper’s headlights pulled into the parking lot, Dana perked up from where she’d been leaning on the counter in a haze of stupefied boredom. The night so far had been even more quiet than usual, with not even the usual drunks staggering in. Any diversion would have been welcome, and this one was definitely more welcome than most.

She poured out two glasses of water, no ice, and two mugs of coffee from the good pot to the rumbling and squeaking of the camper rolling into its accustomed space. The engine chuffed to a halt, and she heard the muffled mutter of voices from outside as she set the drinks on a serving tray. The words burst into sudden clarity as the door swung open.

“-etter things to spend my money on.” The Aussie was the first to enter, holding the door open for his companion and tipping his wide-brimmed hat at Dana in greeting. “It still runs fine, and it’s not like I’ve got plans t’do any drag-racin’ out here.”

“It sounds like a wounded animal begging to be put out of its misery,” the Frenchman said, offering Dana a nod and small smile as he made his way to the booth in the smoking section with the least-scarred table, taking his usual seat in the bunkette with a view of the door. “Even the convict’s van doesn’t sound ’alf as bad, and it ’as made acquaintance with every ditch within twenty kilometres of the base. Even Engineer thinks it’s time to retire the poor beast, and ’e’s put as much work into keeping it alive as you.”

[...]

“Yer not worried ’bout Twinkle Toes gettin’ jealous?” the Aussie said, a smirk clear in his voice. The Frenchman snorted, and Dana returned to her place behind the counter just in time to see him rolling his eyes as he stirred three creamers and a sugar packet into his coffee.

“’Ardly. Even if ’e gets in that kind of mood, I only need ask ’oo it was that Wrenches punched in the face, and why, and ’e shuts up quickly enough.” He sipped his coffee and stirred in another half a sugar pack. He took a second sip, hummed in satisfaction, and set down his spoon.

There was a long moment of comfortable silence. The Aussie sipped his coffee and the Frenchman lit a cigarette. Dana was hanging the order ticket up for the kitchen when the Frenchman spoke again.

“’E told me ’is name, a few months ago. Not long after ’is… little tryst with the RED Scout.”

“No shit?” The Aussie blinked, his mug halfway to his lips. “How’d ya manage ta squeeze that out of him?”

“As if you could bear to ’ear the gory details, mon ami,” the Frenchman said with a chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ll ’ave you know, it was freely offered. Completely out of nowhere, and in French, no less. I’ll admit, I was surprised, and impressed.” He chuckled again, but Dana thought there was a sad quality to it. “It says a lot about us, non? A simple introduction is seen as the epitome of friendship, or romance.”

“Mm.” The Aussie took another sip of his coffee. “You tell ’im yours?”

Dana started wiping down the counter, keeping half an eye on the pair. She saw the Frenchman frown slightly, a more uncomfortable look than she had expected to see on his face. He took a sip of his own coffee, gazing into the mug for a long moment afterward.

“Non. Not yet,” he said, sighing as he set his mug back down. He took a drag from his cigarette and tapped ash off into the ashtray at the end of the table. The Aussie’s brow went up when his friend didn’t continue.

“He’s gonna start wonderin’ ’bout that, if ya don’t soon. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t started buggin’ ya for it already, if it’s been a few months. Y’know how he is,” he said.

The Frenchman shook his head. “Better than you do, ami. I just play the ‘I’m a Spy’ card if he starts trying to pry. There is still enough mystique in’erent in my profession to allow me to keep ’im in the dark when I wish.”

“Uh huh.” The Aussie’s eyebrow stayed up, disbelief as clear in those two syllables as it was on his face. “And keepin’ him in the dark is still yer plan? Can’t say that’s what I was expectin’.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow of his own. “Oh? ’Ow so?”

“Just thought y’were a li’l more open with them as got their hooks fixed in ya, based on past experience. Kid’s practically got ya wrapped ’round his little finger.” The Frenchman stiffened visibly, shooting the Aussie a dark look, and the Aussie smirked widely. “Mate, eleven years is a long bloody time. I can read ya like a book, fancy-arse Spy nonsense and all. We both know, if that scrawny mongrel says ‘jump’, you ask ‘how high?’” He laughed and poked the other man in the shoulder. “You really are smitten, aren’tcha? With Scout, of all the bloody people. Fuck me dead!”

“Oh, wipe the grin off your face, bushman,” the Frenchman said, smoothing his suit jacket where the Aussie had poked. “You are acting like a twittering ’igh school girl.”

“Oh, this is worth twitterin’ over if anythin’ is, mate.” The Aussie’s grin only grew and he leaned forward. “Yer blushin’!”

“Ta yeule! I am no such thing!”

“You are!” The Aussie laughed again, and, even from behind the counter, Dana could see the flush rising in the Frenchman’s cheeks. “Ha! Gremlin’s got you twisted up like one a’yer own bloody ties! Christ on a bike, how the Hell did that happen?”

“You think I do not also want to know? Esti de câlice de tabarnak!” the Frenchman said, rubbing at his temples. Dana thought she heard him growl as he tapped ash from his cigarette a little harder than necessary. “’E is not at all up to my usual standards. Everything about ’im should be utterly repellent! ’E is loud, and crass. Not only uneducated, but seemingly willfully ignorant as well. ’Opelessly juvenile. Thoughtless, careless, infuriatingly sure of ’imself especially when ’e ’as no reason to be. Uncultured, ’yperactive to the point of trying even my patience, stubborn, rude-”

“And…” The Aussie still wore a smirk. The Frenchman gave him a dry look.

“And…” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tabarnache… ’E is surprisingly sensitive, even kind, when ’e puts ’is mind to it. More selfless than ’e will ever admit, and more unsure than ’e lets on, to the point that it really is endearing, in a way. Startlingly naïve in surprising ways. Almost painfully eager to prove ’imself, and so determined.” A small smile twitched his lips before it grew into a nasty grin of his own. “’E’s incredible in bed, too.”

The Aussie’s smile collapsed into a sullen grimace. “Ahh, and y’just had ta bring that up…”

“Hon hon hon. I can tease too, bushman.” The Frenchman chuckled. “Though, I must admit, it is not nearly as easy as it used to be.”

“Eh, I’ve put up with yer poncy ass long enough; I’m almost used to yer bizzo by now, scary as that is t’think about.” The Aussie shrugged, smile returning. “Don’t mean I like hearin’ the bloody details, mind you, but I’m not gonna lose my head. Consentin’ adults, and all that.” The Aussie paused and narrowed his eyes. “Scout is consentin’, right?”

The Frenchman gave his friend another flat look, pointedly ashing his cigarette. “Do I look like the convict to you?”

“Well, sometimes. What with yer disguise kit an’ all.”

“’Ow ’ave I not murdered you yet?”

“You have. Nine times by my count. Wait, ten. Forgot last week.” Dana saw the Aussie kick the Frenchman in the shin, and fought back a laugh. She had no idea what they were talking about, but their easy camaraderie and banter was really sweet to see. “It wasn’t my fault he figured it out, by the way; ya had no call stabbin’ me.”

“Oh, please. You could not ’ave pointed it out more clearly if you’d been ’olding a map. Thanks to your thoughtful guidance, ’e ’as started referring to me as ‘Poutine’, on occasion, rather than just ‘French Fry’. I am still trying to decide whether it is worth killing  ’im over or not…”

The Aussie laughed again, a rich belly laugh that wasn’t interrupted by a kick to his own leg or the rude gesture the Frenchman directed at him when the kick drew no response.

“Order up.”

Dana turned to the kitchen window and saw the collection of steaming dishes on the ledge. She gathered them up on her serving tray, throwing Chuck a quick thanks, and brought them out the Aussie and Frenchman’s table. The Aussie was still chuckling behind a hand and the Frenchman was finishing off his cigarette a little too nonchalantly.

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