Tf2 Oc Fanfiction - Blog Posts

Tales of Sawmill Main Character Basics

Starring characters for “Tales of Sawmill”, a prequel series to “Tales of Well”! It takes place at Sawmill (duh) between 1983 and 1988 (aka: between the hiring of Team Garrison’s BLU Spy [Spy from “Tales of Well”] and the transfer to Teufort). It started out as my self-indulgent little TF2 shipping haven that was technically part of my “Tales” canon—just a place for fluff and smut for pairings that I want to write that aren’t present in “Tales of Well”—but then they guys just kept growing and growing, and now they’ve got their own little plotlines and dramas that are going to have to become actual fic at some point or else my head will explode.

It’s turning out to be a lot more… dramatic than “Tales of Well”, what little I’ve already got—I’ve mostly just got character details and plot bunnies for the primary pairs (and threesome) so far. The blurbs and ideas I do have ping pong between the fluffiest of fluffy feel-good smut, and moments that I don’t want to write because I just know they’re gonna make me cry. There’s actual, permanent character death planned, and I don’t wanna D: But I gotta, or, y’know, head explosion. Big mess. Don’t want to have to clean that up.

Just gonna put up some character basics for now, since I do want to keep my focus fixed on ToW and there’s not much actually written for Sawmill prose-wise yet. I like having these little blurbs up, though, for my own reference if nothing else (the info collected here is spread across about six Google Docs and trying to find specifics quickly can be… trying). There are a lot of characters, though. *quickly counts* Fourteen. There are fourteen characters… And they’re just the important ones so far; there are more that’re still cooking… (omfg I have a problem…) Almost all of them are BLU and there are lots of Scouts; I like BLU and Scouts, so sue me :P Not all of the characters are involved in pairings, but almost half of them are; relationships (romantic and otherwise) will be noted. Also, the Sawmill vets among the “Tales of Well” mercs are, obviously, also present in “Tales of Sawmill”; they’re included here if they have their own important storylines/pairings.

Long, long, loooooong character infodump under the cut! Enjoy!

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Note: The mercs at Sawmill go by nicknames/“codenames”, rather than class names, since there are multiple members of almost every class at any one time.

Note 2: Bios are timed from the beginning of “Tales of Sawmill” (February 19, 1983). Characters will die/retire and be replaced throughout the course of the stories. Replacements will have their status noted in “Time w/ [BLU/RED]”. Italicized refers to significant in-timeline changes (including deaths and recruitments; usually mentioned in-story).

BLU - Team Stronghold

Chicken

Name: Christopher Thomas Clark Class: Scout Age: 21 Nationality: American (Pennsylvania [Philadelphia]) Time w/ BLU: 14 months Date of Death/Retirement: Dies August 3, 1986 [fatal respawn error: respawn and medigun healing become gradually less effective]

Height: 5’7 Hair: Red, growing-out buzz cut with fringe Eye Colour: Light brown Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Slim Scars: Knife wound (forehead, over left eye), gunshot wound (right hip), ring wound (nose, left side of bridge) Other Distinguishing Features: Crooked nose (broken and healed crooked)

Uniform Cosmetics: Wooden cross pendant around neck, Troublemaker’s Tossle Cap, Digit Divulger, Thermal Tracker, Blizzard Britches Favoured Weapon: Boston Basher, Bonk! when available

Relationships: Shades - romantic, sexual (secret); Stitch - friendship; Preacher - friendship; Stretch - friendship; Smoke - intense dislike

Named for his favourite game: chicken. He particularly likes playing it with sentries and Übered Heavies. He’s one of the only Scouts that it would be worthwhile for a Medic to Übercharge.

Violent sleeper. Kicks and punches in his sleep. Shades has pretty much gotten used to being used as a punching bag whenever he and Chicken share a bed.

Arachnophobic. Like, jump on a chair and scream until his boyfriend kills the eight-legged demon arachnophobic. Despite their relationship, he will avoid visiting Shades in the Snipers’ nest unless he can be assured that there are absolutely no spiders hiding out there.

Stitch(es)

Name: Spencer Allan Devaro Class: Scout Age: 19 Nationality: American (New York [Manhattan]) Time w/ BLU: 5 months Date of Death/Retirement: Retires September 19, 1987

Height: 5’9 Hair: Auburn, crew cut Eye Colour: Green Skin Tone: Caucasian Build: Thin Scars: Appendectomy, childhood/adolescent injuries (both knees), shrapnel wound (right forearm) Other Distinguishing Features: Freckles (across nose and cheeks)

Uniform Cosmetics: Triple Jumper Favoured Weapon: Pretty Boy’s Pocket Pistol

Relationships: Chicken - friendship; Smoke - friendship; Tats - friendship

[Former RP character repurposed for fic.]

Father, with a three year old daughter at home. He’s utterly devoted to her, and will gush about her to anyone who doesn’t tell him to shut up (think a younger, less tragic Maes Hughes from FMA).

Likes sewing and knitting in his spare time. He makes stuffed animals to send home to his daughter (and to give to the Pyros), and scarves, socks, and sweaters for his teammates.

Super friendly; honestly, probably too friendly for mercenary work. He hates having to hurt people and tries to avoid fighting if possible, instead focusing on match objectives. If forced into a confrontation, he’ll try his damnedest to score headshots to keep it as short and (relatively) painless as possible.

Tats

Name: Benjamin Alexander Creighan Class: Scout Age: 25 Nationality: American (Illinois [Chicago]) Time w/ BLU: Hired August 18, 1986 [replacing Chicken] Date of Death/Retirement: [Post-ToS] Medically discharged May 22, 1989 [permanent respawn error: loses left arm to the elbow]

Height: 6’2 Hair: Dirty blond, fade Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Lightly tanned Caucasian Build: Slim, broad-shouldered and -chested, defined arms, defined legs, six-pack abs, defined pectorals Scars: N/A Other Distinguishing Features: Tattoo sleeve: spilled shot glass transitioning into stylized alleyways transitioning into running track, running silhouette at intervals (back of left hand and full left arm to shoulder [running track begins at elbow]), peacock feather tattoo (right wing of clavicle), wing tattoos (one on outside of each ankle, extending up and back onto calf), “Born to Run” tattoo (upper back, shoulder blade to shoulder blade), Scout class emblem tattoo (upper right arm), dog tags with red rubber silencers (left wing of clavicle) [after Chew’s death]

Uniform Cosmetics: Thrilling Tracksuit, Rotation Sensation, Hot Heels Favoured Weapon: Baby Face’s Blaster

Relationships: Chew - rivalry, sexual, romantic; Stitch - friendship; Mouse - friendship; Smoke - dislike

Fit. He’s not bulky, but he’s got more muscle and is far more toned than the majority of Scouts; he has washboard abs, and (if I may be crude for a moment) an ass you could bounce quarters off of. He works out religiously, at least an hour a day, and is very particular about what he eats (no junk food; he doesn’t even use Bonk when he starts getting it).

Former teenage alcoholic. His high school track coach helped him get sober and in shape, and he hasn’t touched a drop since. He also doesn’t smoke and hates being around anyone who is smoking (he spends a lot of time out of the base to keep away from the Spies).

Acts stand-offish and aloof, but is unfailingly loyal and devoted to anyone he considers a friend. He’s tough to get close to, but once he lets someone in, he’ll do anything for them and be there for them through anything.

Mouse

Name: Liam Elijah Forester Class: Scout Age: 22 Nationality: American (California [Long Beach]) Time w/ RED: Hired January 30, 1987 Date of Death/Retirement: [Post-ToS] Retires February 3, 1992 [Teufort transfer]

Height: 5’5 Hair: Blond, short, messy Eye Colour: Blue Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian [grows paler as time goes on] Build: Slim Scars: Dual subcutaneous mastectomy, gunshot wound (neck, left side) Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Weight Room Warmer, Brooklyn Booties, California Cap Favoured Weapon: Atomizer

Relationships: Bear - romantic; Taube - romantic; Smoke - strong dislike, becomes hatred [after being outed]

Transmasc. Gets T shots from Taube, and has had top surgery, but not bottom. Isn’t out (at first), except to Taube and Bear.

Rokitansky’s (Taube’s pet dove) favourite person aside from Taube himself. He likes to sit on top of Mouse’s head whenever he visits the Infirmary, and Mouse is the only person who can get away with calling him “Rocky” in Taube’s hearing.

Misses California terribly. He hates the cold and wet at Sawmill (and the snow in the winter, like wtf is that shit), and being so far from the ocean just feels weird. He tends to stick close to Bear on colder days (Bear’s like a walking furnace), and he has a tape of wave sounds that he listens to to help him fall asleep.

Bear

Name: Matvei Nikolai Antonov Class: Heavy Age: 36 Nationality: Russian Time w/ BLU: Hired October 25, 1986 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

Height: 6’3 Hair: Bald Eye Colour: Light brown Skin Tone: Lightly-tanned Caucasian Build: Overweight, well-defined arms Scars: Bullet wound (upper right arm), bullet wound (right shoulder, front and back) Other Distinguishing Features: Perpetual five o’clock shadow

Uniform Cosmetics: Combat Slacks Favoured Weapon: Natascha

Relationships: Taube - romantic, sexual; Mouse - romantic

Quiet and intellectual; he and Taube play chess nightly and fully half of the literature in the Infirmary is Bear’s. Still more than willing to crack open a beer with the Engies and Snipers and shoot the shit, though, or down a fifth of vodka with the Scouts and start tossing them around (all in the name of fun, of course. Usually).

Big dude. His nickname is an apt description of him, at least physically. He’s definitely carrying more weight than he should (especially around his gut), but there’s a lot of muscle under the fat. He uses the Twins [Scouts, not listed] as dumbbells when they start annoying him.

Intensely protective of his teammates, especially Taube and Mouse. He takes the role of meat shield in battle seriously and gladly, and has a higher than average number of respawns for a Heavy as a result.

Smoke(stack)

Name: Leland Hugh Wilson Class: Engineer Age: 43 Nationality: American (Alabama [Mobile])  Time w/ BLU: 2 years, 3 months Date of Death/Retirement: Retires November 23, 1987

Height: 5’10 Hair: Dirty blond, high and tight, receding hairline Eye Colour: Brown Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian (farmer’s tan) Build: Stocky, broad-shouldered and -chested Scars: Knife wound (upper back, left of spine), shrapnel wounds (left forearm, scattering of 7, 1 larger near elbow) Other Distinguishing Features: Skull smoking a cigarette tattoo (left ankle, outside)

Uniform Cosmetics: Blue camouflage bandana (tied around neck), Antarctic Researcher, Lawnmaker (Job version) Favoured Weapon: Southern Hospitality

Relationships: Chicken - hatred; Tats - intense dislike; Mouse - hatred [after learning he’s trans]; Bear - dislike; Taube - dislike; Spook - dislike

[Former RP character repurposed for fic.]

Bigoted asshole. Racist, sexist, and homophobic. Hates on principle anyone who isn’t a white American cisgendered heterosexual male, and he’s not afraid to use every nasty name in the book on someone who doesn’t fall into that category.

Smokes more than the Spies. He always has a cigarette unless he’s eating, sleeping, or showering. Chicken tried hiding his smokes once; Smoke made sure he never did again.

Fought in Vietnam as an engineer with the United States Marine Corps. The shrapnel scars in his left arm are from a grenade, and they go deep; his left hand is noticeably weaker than his right.

Hercules

Name: Evangelos Hadrian Levandakis Class: Engineer Age: 34 Nationality: Greek (Athens) Time w/ BLU: 2 years, 1 month Date of Death/Retirement: Dies July 12, 1985 [respawn failure after being killed during ceasefire by Convict]

Height: 6’2 Hair: Dark brown, crew cut, slight receding hairline Eye Colour: Dark blue Skin Tone: Olive Build: Well-muscled, broad-shouldered and -chested Scars: Machining accident (right hand, back) Other Distinguishing Features: Birthmark (back, right shoulder blade, roughly apple-sized)

Uniform Cosmetics: Builder’s Blueprints, Dogfighter, Winter Backup, Hazard Handler Favoured Weapon: N/A [see below]

Relationships: Spook - romantic, sexual

[Former RP character repurposed for fic.]

Hercules is as pacifistic as it is possible for a mercenary to be. He refuses to use conventional guns, even in defense of his own life, and prefers to avoid building sentires, focusing instead on teleporters and dispensers, unless his teammates really want more sentries down than Smoke can provide.

Former bodybuilder, and still in phenomenal shape. It’s all working muscle, too, not just for show—his strength is on par with most Heavies.

Loves to cook, especially Greek food. He makes special grocery orders for almost every supply day, and there’s usually a plate of dolmades, spanakopita, or tzatziki and pita wedges in the BLU kitchen for folks to snack on throughout the day during ceasefire.

Preacher

Name: Tobias Fredrik Lindberg Class: Medic Age: 59 Nationality: Swedish Time w/ BLU: 3 years, 1 month Date of Death/Retirement: Retires January 20, 1987

Height: 5’10 Hair: Greying brown Eye Colour: Blue Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Average, broad-shouldered Scars: N/A Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Golden cross pendant and chain around neck, Surgeon’s Side Satchel, Vicar’s Vestments, Field Practice Favoured Weapon: Crusader’s Crossbow

Relationships: Team Stronghold (entire) - officerial; Chicken - paternal

Team Stronghold’s leader until his retirement. Takes his position very seriously, and does his best to look after the mental and physical health of the team, sometimes to the detriment of his own.

Ordained priest. Is always willing to provide a confidential listening ear and moral or spiritual comfort or advice to the team. Chicken is a frequent partaker (he’s one of the only openly religious mercs), and Preacher will always make time for him.

Was an infantryman, then chaplain, with the Swedish Army during World War 2. He has excellent aim with his crossbow and can be a ferocious battle-Medic when the situation calls for it, though he definitely prefers healing to hurting.

Taube

Name: Luis Armin Huber Class: Medic Age: 51 Nationality: Austrian Time w/ BLU: Hired January 11, 1986 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

Height: 5’10 Hair: Grey Eye Colour: Blue Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Average, broad-shouldered and -chested Scars: N/A Other Distinguishing Features: N/A

Uniform Cosmetics: Medic’s Mountain Cap, Surgeon’s Stethoscope Favoured Weapon: Medi Gun

Relationships: Bear - romantic, sexual; Mouse - romantic

Brought Rokitansky (his pet turtle dove) from home and allows him free rein of the Infirmary unless there’s an actual procedure being performed. Loves all birds, but especially doves and corvids (crows, ravens, etc).

Initially attached himself to Bear because Bear provided good cover; Taube hates getting shot. Their relationship evolves very quickly, however. Taube is impressed by Bear’s intellect and strength, and theirs is one of the few long-lasting, truly loving relationships at Sawmill (and Teufort, and Well).

Has a quiet, but deep, love of woodworking, especially furniture-making and detail work. He built and carved his own desk in the Infirmary, as well as a pair of rocking chairs and Rokitansky’s cage (basically a 5’x2’ birdhouse with barred walls). He also builds a pigeon coop for the pigeons and doves that hang around Sawmill, where they can safely roost and get an easy meal.

Shades

Name: Noble Cedric Taylor Class: Sniper Age: 29 Nationality: Australian (New South Wales [Sydney]) Time w/ BLU: 2 years, 1 month Date of Death/Retirement: Goes MIA October 14, 1987

Height: 6’3 Hair: Dirty blond, growing out crew cut Eye Colour: Blue-grey Skin Tone: Tanned Caucasian Scars:  Respawn error: knife wound (“Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril), knife wound (neck, right side) Other Distinguishing Features: Short goatee

Uniform Cosmetics: Bare Necessities, Rugged Rags Favoured Weapon: Sniper Rifle

Relationships: Chicken - romantic, sexual (secret); Stretch - friendship

Suffers from severe depressive disorder, and is being provided medication by BLU. He doesn’t like taking it, though; he doesn’t want to put up with the side-effects. Preacher and Chicken frequently try to convince him to take it, with varying degrees of success.

Sunglasses are prescription, and he almost never takes them off. He’s badly near-sighted; he can barely see anything more than two feet away without his sunglasses.

Prefers to be alone. Practically lives in the Snipers’ nest, a large elevated hunter’s blind at the edge of the forest behind the BLU barracks, even during winter. He’s rarely seen around the base for more than a few minutes at a time, usually just long enough to shower or grab some food before he’s gone again.

Stretch

Name: Peter Michael Allen Class: Sniper Age: 28 Nationality: Australian (Northern Territory [primarily Outback]) Time w/ BLU: 18 months Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

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

Uniform Cosmetics: Triggerman’s Tacticals, Conspicuous Camouflage, Itsy Bitsy Spyer (blue doll [after name exchange with Spook]) Favoured Weapon: Sniper Rifle

Relationships: Chicken - friendship; Hercules - friendship; Shades - friendship; Spook - friendship/heterosexual life partnership; Team Stronghold (entire) - officerial [after Preacher’s retirement]

More open to hanging out with the rest of the team than most Snipers, and spends most of his free time around base, even if he’s just cleaning his guns or reading. Easy to talk to, and on friendly terms with pretty much everyone on the team even if he doesn’t outright consider them friends. He cares for them all a great deal and does his best to look after them, both on and off the field, whether they realize (or want) it or not.

Loves wildlife in all its forms. He keeps peanuts, sunflower seeds, and other little snacks on him at all times to feed to the various birds, rodents, reptiles, and other creatures that fill the forest around Sawmill. He also loves spiders, and will go out of his way to avoid breaking webs that he finds and drop off little insect treats when he can.

Hates the overabundance of low door frames and archways around Sawmill. He frequently finds himself losing his hat during matches when it gets knocked off by a low door frame [he does eventually get a string to hold it on], and has smacked his forehead off of some of the shortest ones more often than he’d like to admit.

Spook(y)

Name: [REDACTED] Class: Spy Age: 31 Nationality: (Assumed) French Time w/ BLU: Hired February 19, 1983 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

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

Uniform Cosmetics: Le Professionnel (turtleneck version) Favourite Weapon: Knife

Relationships: Convict - sexual, becomes hatred; Hercules - romantic, sexual; Stretch - friendship/heterosexual life partnership; Beau [RED Spy, not listed] - rivalry, romantic, sexual

Needs to know everything that is happening with absolutely everyone at all times. Will hoard his “intel” (on both teammates and opponents) as jealously as a squirrel hoarding nuts, and doesn’t consider himself above the occasional blackmail or manipulation if he feels a situation warrants it (usually when he really wants something from someone, or they really piss him off).

Does his best to keep himself immaculately clean and presentable at all times. He despises the amount of mud at Sawmill, and will take teleporters and rooftop pathways to move across the battlefield as often as humanly possible.

Very stealth focused, both during fights and ceasefire. Especially after he gets his Cloak and Dagger [about a year into his contract], he spends a great deal of his time around base cloaked; it gives him an unreasonable amount of pleasure to literally appear out of nowhere and scare the crap out of his teammates.

RED - Team Redoubt

Chew

Name: Kenneth Richard Green Class: Scout Age: 22 Nationality: English (Nottingham) Time w/ RED: Hired September 10, 1983 Date of Death/Retirement: Dies March 10, 1987 [fatal respawn error] 

Height: 5’8 Hair: Light brown, fade Eye Colour: Light brown Skin Tone: Pale Caucasian Build: Thin Scars: Gunshot wound (left lower abdomen) Other Distinguishing Features: Chipped right front tooth (upper)

Uniform Cosmetics: Rubber silencers on dog tags (alternates between red, black, and white), Crimbo Cap, Delinquent’s Down Vest Favoured Weapon: Cricket bat [speciality weapon]

Relationships: Tats - rivalry, sexual, romantic

Major oral fixation. Chews his nails, chews gum, chews his dog tags, chews anything. He started getting silencers for his tags after he chipped his tooth on them. He also smokes, more for the sensation and out of habit than for the nicotine.

The only non-American Scout, and frequently takes shit for it. He doesn’t take it lying down, though; he’s more than happy to prove that his cricket bat hits just as hard as any of the Yanks’ baseball bats, and that a cricket ball to the face hurts a Hell of a lot more than a baseball.

Insanely competitive. Will take anything that offers even the slightest hint of a challenge and turn it into a contest that he fully intends to win, even if he has absolutely no chance of doing so. Has been on the losing side of multiple drinking contests with the Demos, and even more sparring matches with the Heavies and Soldiers.

Convict

Name: Hollis Jacob Colling Class: Sniper Age: 23 Nationality: Australian Time w/ RED: Hired September 3, 1984 Date of Death/Retirement: N/A [Teufort transfer; Well transfer]

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  Favoured Weapon: Huntsman

Relationships: Spook - sexual, becomes hatred

Ruthless and violently cruel to both enemies and allies. He can be charismatically manipulative if there’s something he wants, but he prefers using violence and pain to get results whenever he can.

Spends most of his free time on his own, usually out in the forest around the base. He has his own nest (aside from the Snipers’ nest that “came with” the base), deeper in the forest, and he’s been known to violently repel anyone, friend or foe, who approaches it.

Hates being rejected or told “no”, and will hold a grudge ’til the end of time. A quick way to make it onto his hit list is to stand in direct opposition to him getting what he wants.

Post-"Tales of Well" Longfic Basics

Premise and some lore and characters for longfics that will follow the end of Tales of Well. However many one-shots Tales of Well ends up being. Honestly, shorts will probably keep being added even after the longfics are done as inspiration strikes me, until I fill out as much in-universe time as is possible within the fics’ timeline. I’m loving writing about these characters; they’re honestly some of the favourite OCs that I’ve created over the years. I just wish my non-fandom OCs and their stories could hook me as hard D:

Anyway, longfics! Both will be more dramatic and serious in tone than the majority of the one-shots, though I’ll do my damnedest to keep them from getting downright depressing. First is “On the Run”, which will directly tie into TF2 canon and feature (*hides face*) canon characters. Honestly, that’s the most intimidating part of writing this one: actually making sure I don’t completely destroy the canon characters that show up.

The second longfic is “Great White North”, and will have even more OCs! (I have a problem please help me…) Will still tie in with canon, though it’ll shift to the back burner a bit. There’s more “lore” behind this one, and a bunch of new additions to the cast :) It’s also the one I’m more excited to write, so it’s more fleshed out (and takes up the majority of this post o.o).

Infodump under the cut! Enjoy!

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Tales of Well: On the Run

Premise

After years of growing steadily more and more disillusioned with the RED/BLU “war”, and multiple unsuccessful attempts, the BLU Spy and Wrenches (the RED Engineer) finally manage to break open the intelligence briefcases. Inside are samples of a strange, glowing liquid element, unnerving medical and technical reports, and reams of classified documents that shed an uncomfortable light on the reasons the mercenaries are fighting.

They had been told they were being hired to “test new weaponry and battlefield technologies”. What they hadn’t been told was that every moment of their lives under RED and BLU’s employ had been watched, recorded, and neatly packaged for the amusement of wealthy investors… and the morbid satisfaction of the Administrator, one “F.P.”. Every triumph, every trauma, every private moment over their years of fighting: it had all been on display for countless strangers, a violent, candid soap opera to entertain the rich and unscrupulous.

Aside from gaining this unsettling knowledge, there is another, more pressing consequence to opening the intel: both teams have been marked for immediate termination. The mercenaries are forced to flee for their lives, with robot "termination teams" hot on their heels. They decide to take out the snake at the head, and set course for TF Industries HQ for the fight of their lives.

——

Great White North

Premise

[Spoilers for the end of “On the Run”, I guess lol]

Having barely escaped the Administrator and her minions by the skin of their teeth, with the aid of Olivia Mann and former members of Team Fortress, the runaway mercs take Olivia’s suggestion to change targets, and go after what the Administrator really cares about: Canadium. The strange element only found over the northern border has been being mined, experimented with, and jealously guarded by the Administrator, for reasons the mercs are only just beginning to understand.

Olivia puts the Well mercenaries in contact with Team Great White North, former TF Industries mercs who (with Olivia’s help) have been working to wrest TF Industries’ massive Canadium stockpiles out of the Administrator’s hands. Together, they may be able to put an end to the Administrator, and, hopefully, the entire pointless, endless RED/BLU war.

—

Lore

Canadium: In its basic state, Canadium is a transparent, faintly glowing red-and-white liquid roughly the same viscosity as maple syrup. It remains in a liquid state at room temperature and solidifies at -30 degrees Celsius into maple leaf-shaped crystals that have roughly the same hardness as quartz. It is extremely difficult to provoke a chemical reaction from Canadium, but reactions are often exceptionally violent when they do occur. 

Canadium shares many of the effects of Australium, and has a few unique features of its own. It does not extend life to the extent Australium does, but it increases general health and hardiness exponentially, and can revive the recently deceased. Signs of prolonged exposure include increased politeness and tolerance of others, a love of fighting and drinking, and increased muscle mass. Heavily exposed men also have their chest hair grow in a maple leaf pattern. There are different varieties of Canadium, depending on where in Canada it was found, and the degree of the effects of exposure varies between the different types (Rocky Mountain Canadium gives greater muscle mass, Maritime Canadium increases love of fighting, Quebec Canadium [blue-and-white rather than red-and-white] increases love drinking, etc).

[Originally, it was just pure self-indulgence having the new "magic element" being from my home country, so I'd have an excuse to make an all-Canuck mercenary team. In doing research for ToW, though, I saw something from the Engineer Update background art that made me very happy:

So yeah, I am 100% latching on to one tiny little piece of background art as an excuse to expand on my self-indulgent integration of Canada to the TF2 universe! I know it's only talking about gold, but I'm going to ride this little bit of background art straight into Hell!]

—

Team Great White North

Originally formed to defend TF Industries’ largest Canadium stockpile without being told exactly what they were guarding, but the mercs broke their contracts and went into hiding after discovering it and what the Administrator was using it for. Olivia Mann offered to help them hide from the Administrator and her robots in exchange for help siphoning off the Administrator’s stockpiles, and she provided them with a hideout “base” in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. They have been performing smash and grab raids for a little more than a year before being joined by the Well mercs.

Nick: Scout. 24 year old male. City kid from Toronto. Uses a lacrosse stick instead of a baseball bat. Really likes his hats; has several “favourite” toques that he cycles through.

Danny: Scout. 22 year old male. City kid from Halifax. Uses a hockey stick instead of a baseball bat, and wears a hockey helmet in fights. Missing left lateral incisor.

Colin: Demoman. 23 year old male. Cape Bretoner (L’Ardoise). Friendly, as long as you don’t take away his booze. Makes grenades out of empty Moosehead beer cans.

Hank: Heavy. 36 year old male. Team leader. Lumberjack from northern BC. Wears plaid flannel and uses a big axe. Married to Madeleine.

Quinten: Engineer. 25 year old male. Third-generation Japanese-Canadian from Vancouver. Alvin’s son, not happy his father joined the team with him. Total sci-fi and computer geek. Dating Marshall behind Alvin's back.

Kacey: Engineer. 24 year old female. Half-Mi’kmaq, Haligonian. Full name is Kimberly Cecilia, but she hates it, so she just goes by Kacey. Big sister to the younger guys on the team, especially Colin.

Alvin: Medic. 53 year old male. Second-generation Japanese-Canadian from Vancouver. Quinten’s father, joined the team with him to keep an eye on him and keep him safe. Uses the “Healing Hands” rather than a medigun: gloves that, when activated, heal on contact.

Marshall: Sniper. 28 year old male. Rancher from Alberta, not far from Calgary. Was kicked in the head by a horse when he was sixteen, is still a little “goofy” as a result (has some minor brain damage that mostly manifests in excessive cheeriness, lapses in attention, poor impulse control, and “rage blackouts” when provoked). Uses a modified cattle-prod as a melee weapon. Dating Quinten behind Alvin's back.

Madeleine: Spy. 35 year old female. Quebecois. Former CSIS recon officer, and cat burglar. Wears a white pant suit, a white fedora with a red band, a red domino mask, and a red scarf. Married to Hank.

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

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

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

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

——

Little Moments: Noise Complaint

“Ahhh! Fuck yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ohhhh-ohh fuh-uh-uh-uh-uck!”

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

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

“Bite me, Poutine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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!”

The Other Side of the Fence Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

The Other Side of the Fence

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

“Aiden. Please don’t.”

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

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

[...]

Breakfast Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

Breakfast (tent. title)

[...]

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

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

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

“Wha- Huuk!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Piss jars?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ha!”

[...]

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.

[...]

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.

Little Moments: Story Time Teaser/WIP

Another one that just needs a little bit of intro to be done. A lot of the Little Moments are like that, honestly :\ Ah well. I'll finish these shorts if it kills me!

Summary: Scout's hanging out with Spy, and he's bored. Spy comes up with a new way to keep him entertained.

——

Little Moments: Story Time

[...]

Scout tipped his head back over the arm of the couch to look at Spy. “What’re ya readin’?”

“Doctor No, by Ian Fleming,” Spy said. “Not ’is best Bond novel, but I like reading them in order.”

“Ain’t that a movie? The one with Sean Connery in it, bein’ some kinda spy?” Scout said, scrutinizing the cover of the book. Spy nodded, flipping a page.

“Oui. It is based on the novel, as are the other James Bond films.” He gestured toward his bookcases without lifting his eyes from the page. “I ’ave the first nine, if you would like to take a look.”

Scout shrugged, making a face. “Nah, I ain’t much for readin’. Gives me a headache.”

Spy frowned and finally looked up at Scout, raising an eyebrow. “Eye strain? I wouldn’t ’ave expected you to require les lunettes, cher.”

“My eyes’re fine,” Scout said, rolling them. “The words ’n’ letters just get all weird when there’s a bunch of ’em. The councillors at school when I was a kid said I had some kinda ‘learnin’ disabilities’—dyslexia, and AHAD or somethin’ like that—but I ain’t fuckin’ retarded. S’just hard t’read for too long.”

“Most learning disorders do not indicate mental retardation, petit,” Spy said. His frown had taken on a more thoughtful aspect. “Though, ADHD does explain quite a bit…”

Scout made an indignant noise, but Spy ignored him, closing his book and setting it on the small table next to the armchair. He got to his feet, stepping over to one of the bookcases, taking a slow drag on his cigarette as he looked over the collection of literature. He picked one book out and thumbed through the first few pages before shaking his head and putting it back. A few seconds later he selected another, and the process repeated itself.

It was on the fourth book that Scout’s curiosity finally bubbled over: “What’re ya doin’?”

Spy didn’t answer right away. He replaced an absolute brick of a book—Scout could see it was called The Stand thanks to the huge red letters on the cover—with a rueful smile and a shake of his head, then plucked out a smaller book a couple shelves down. He made a small sound of satisfaction after a perfunctory flip through and went to sit back in his armchair. Scout, sitting cross-legged and watching him with wary interest, fidgeted as Spy lit another cigarette and made himself comfortable.

“This,” Spy said, tapping a finger against the cover of the book he held, “is The Bourne Identity, by Robert Ludlum. It is one of my favourite spy novels, full of globe-trotting adventure, conspiracy, intrigue, violence, and romance.” He smiled and ashed his cigarette. “I am going to read it to you.”

Scout blinked, then grimaced. “Oh, nah nah. No way. I ain’t sittin’ around for fuckin’ story time with Spy. Nuh-uh. M’not a fuckin’ little kid.”

Never mind that he liked stories—it was just the actual reading part that was hard—or that he had loved story time in kindergarten, and when the teacher would read from a good book in English class. And when Ma had read to him when he was sick, or when he had a really tough book for a book report. When he was a kid. He started to get up, shaking his head.

“You did say you were bored,” Spy said with a nonchalant shrug. There was that little upward quirk at the corner of his mouth. “I thought a story full of violence and cursing and sex might be more appealing than staring at the walls, but I could be wrong.”

Scout paused, halfway to his feet, and narrowed his eyes. Listening to Spy read did sound better than wandering around trying to find something else to do, but it was clear the other man was trying to entice him, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. He considered for a second, hovering in his half-seated position.

“It ain’t gay sex, is it?” he asked finally. Spy snorted out a puff of smoke along with a tight laugh and shook his head, rubbing his eyes as he clearly fought further chuckles. Scout sat back down, recrossing his legs and glowering as Spy got control of himself.

“Ahh, non, it is not gay sex, cher,” Spy finally said, clearing his throat with another light chortle. “You could do with more culture than Spider-Man and Bugs Bunny, and there are worse places to start than with Jason Bourne. And it should be interesting enough to ’old your attention for a little while, at least.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Bugs Bunny, French Fry,” Scout said, but he settled into a more comfortable position, elbows on his knees and chin in one hand. “But I guess I ain’t got nothin’ else t’do.”

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.”

[...]

Line In the Sand Teaser/WIP

This is only a short bit, but I like it :) It's going under a cut, though, because there is excessive profanity. Red's pretty pissed...

Summary: The RED Scout takes advantage of a no-teams deathmatch battle to let his teammates know exactly how sick he is of their crap.

——

Line in the Sand

[...]

“Does anyone else hear music?”

[...]

“No fuckin’ way…”

Pyro threw up his fists and bellowed in pure exultation. “FRHHHBRRRD! Hrr hrr hrr! Fhhhck yhhs!”

[...]

“All right, motherfuckers! I’m only sayin’ this shit once, so listen the fuck up: I am done bein’ fucked with!”

Red ducked as an arrow sailed past his head and he turned his attention to the RED battlements. In one quick motion, he sent a baseball pelting at his teammate with that cheery tink everyone was becoming far too accustomed to. Spy barked out a laugh when the RED Sniper’s pained curse echoed across the field. Red pointed his bat in the direction his ball had gone.

“Do I sound like I’m fuckin’ finished, asshole?” he roared. “I’m sayin’ this shit, so you stand there and fuckin’ listen!

“I am fuckin’ done! I been puttin’ up with yer bullshit from day one and I am fuckin’ sick of it! So no more stupid names, no more hidin’, or torchin’, or blowin’ up my shit. No more fuckin’ around!

“No more ‘leetle boy-man’, or ‘midget’, or ‘twerp’, or ‘piccolo scoiattolo’—yeah, I know what that means, ya testa di cazzo dago fuck! No more ‘twitchy wee gobshite’, or ‘munchkin’, or ‘fresh meat’, or any a’the other shit ya been throwin’ at me!

“No more playin’ keep-away cuz ‘ha fuckin’ ha, Scout’s so fuckin’ short’! No more settin’ my fuckin’ laundry on fire, no more weird fuckin’ shit in my food! It’s done! Get off a’my fuckin’ dick!

“The next time one a’you assface, shit-brained, douchebag, motherfucking cunts pisses me off, I’m shovin’ my bat so far up yer Goddamn ass, I’ll be able to use yer fuckin’ molars for battin’ practice!

“FUCK!”

The PA gave one last lingering screech to punctuate Red’s final, furious profanity, and the field fell silent. Red stood, head down and heaving shoulders plainly visible. He tipped his head back slowly, and he let himself fall backward, landing flat on his back with a muffled thud. He lifted both hands to direct dual middle fingers in his teammates’ general direction.

“Fuckin’ blow me. Assholes.”

[...]

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: Laundry Day Teaser/WIP

This one's mostly done! I just need to work out, like, a paragraph or two of intro, but it just keeps eluding me for some reason (it's driving me nuts D:). So, yeah, a Little Moment, just a silly little scene between longer shorts :) No cut this time, since it's short!

Summary: Scout did the laundry, and Pyro is not happy.

——

[...]

Sniper frowned, leaning aside as Scout scrambled over the back of the couch to keep out of Pyro’s reach. “The bloody Hell did ya do now?”

“Nothin’!” Scout yelped, almost tripping over the coffee table in his haste to get to the other side of it. “Pyro just can’t take a fuckin’ joke!”

Pyro snarled and took a swing at Scout; Sniper ducked as the axe whistled by in a wide horizontal arc. “Every single one of my shirts is pink! And they all say ‘Gay Mexican’ on them!”

“Not all of ’em!” Scout said, doing his best to keep Sniper and as much furniture as possible between himself and the incensed younger man. “Some say ‘Muy Caliente’.”

“¡Voy a matarté cabrón!”

Scout let out another yelp as Pyro darted around the side of the couch, and hopped backward to avoid another heavy swing. “Whoa, hey, c’mon dude! I thought we were friends!”

“That’s why I’m gonna cut your fucking head off instead of roasting you alive, gringo!” Pyro bellowed. Sniper kept his head down, and did his best to fight down a growing urge to laugh.

Scout pouted at Pyro as he backed away from him, hands up defensively before him.

“Hey, c’mon man, ya don’t gotta start bein’ fuckin’ racis- Ahh shit!”

Munchies Run Teaser/WIP

(In most of the shorts where both Scouts are present, they're going to be referred to in narration as Red and Blue, just FYI.) If anyone who can actually speak Spanish reads this, please let me know if Pyro's Spanish dialogue is wrong in any way! I'm an English-only girl and I try to get my translations as accurate as I can, but, especially for the longer bits, I'm sure I probably screwed something up D:

Warning: this one's got excessive f-bombs and f-slurs (courtesy of Blue). Proceed with caution if that kind of language bothers you! Also marijuana use *shrugs*

Summary: Pyro and the Scouts get some of Spy's weed for their hangout session, and the munchies inevitably strike.

——

Munchies Run

[...]

“¡Eyyy, Rojo! ¡Ese! ¿Qué pasa, hombre?”

Red’s shock stole away any greeting he might have been prepared to offer, leaving his mouth hanging dumbly open. He had heard maybe five un-mask-muffled words out of Pyro in the weeks they’d hung out, and those only in moments of extreme surprise or excitement. Hearing as many words again, all at once, in that surprisingly deep, hoarse voice brought Red’s brain to a stuttering halt.

His silence didn’t go unnoticed: Pyro started laughing after a few seconds without a greeting in return, and Blue snorted, grinning up at Red.

“I know, right?” he said, giving Pyro a light shove. “He gets right fuckin’ chatty when he’s high, compared t’usual anyway, but most a’what he says is in fuckin’ Mexican.”

“Español, pendejo,” Pyro said, shoving him in return. “Es-pa-ñol.”

“Yeah, Mex-i-can,” Blue said, rolling his eyes and attempting to take a puff from the joint he held. He grunted when he realized it had gone out. “Roll another one, now Red’s here.”

[...]

Pyro’s face lit up. “¿Tu hablas Español?”

“Un poco,” Red said, grinning when Pyro made a gleeful sound. “I’m from Brooklyn, man, c’mon. I’m multicultural as shit, for a freckly blond white dude. Spanish was my language class in school, and there was this Puerto Rican family that lived next door; their oldest daughter was hot as shit. One a’my brothers dated a Mexican chick for a while, too. She made the best fuckin’ fajitas, man; really got my ma to step up her game on taco night.”

“Wait, hold on! This ain’t fuckin’ fair! You two can talk in Mexican to each other and I’m not gonna have a fuckin’ idea what yer sayin’!” Blue threw up his hands, and Red turned his grin on him.

“Español, pendejo,” he said, and Pyro cackled.

[...]

“¿La camioneta de Engie?” Pyro suggested, pointing over his shoulder. Red knew, from warnings on his previous visits, that the BLU Engineer was protective of his beat-up green Ford pickup, but he was less likely to murder them for borrowing it than the BLU Sniper would be if they took his camper. Blue glanced over at the vehicle and grunted in a vaguely frustrated manner.

“No keys,” he said, drumming his fingers against his cheek, narrowing his reddened eyes as he thought.

Red, coughing into a hand as he passed the joint on to Pyro, said in a tight voice, “Y’serious, man? Don’t need fuckin’ keys.”

He coughed again and staggered to his feet. He felt both Blues’ eyes on him as he swayed for a second, wobbling a step backward before steadying himself. He took a deep breath and carefully weaved his way across the courtyard to the truck. He wasn’t dizzy or anything unfortunate like that, but his limbs felt as if they were working a few seconds ahead of, or maybe behind, his brain. That, and his head seemed to want to float along independent from the rest of his body. Spy had some good shit.

Pyro and Blue followed him as he tugged off his shoulder bag and fished through it, withdrawing his still-gleaming new slim jim. He knew it wasn’t usually the most useful piece of equipment out here, but he liked having it with him; it made him feel closer to home. He’d made it with a little help from Wrenches not long after Dickface had told him to fuck off. The price for the materials and aid had been a promise to drive the asshole Australian’s camper into the fence at least once. Red had gleefully driven it through the fence and into a ditch (or ravine, or side of a butte) on multiple occasions since.

Pyro made a soft sound of approval, and Blue stared in open fascination. He started to lean in, and Red had to push him out of the way so he could actually get the slim metal rod into position and start working at the truck door’s internal mechanisms.

“You can boost cars?” Blue said in undisguised awe, squatting as if that would get him a better view of what Red was doing. Red grinned, jiggling the slim jim until he heard, and felt, the familiar heavy clunk from inside the door, and pulled it open.

“Ty, my brother, taught me,” he said, tucking the tool back into his bag and retrieving a screwdriver, before tossing the bag into the bed of the truck and wriggling in under the dash panel. “Breakin’ in when I was eleven, hot-wirin’ a year after. I can bust my way out of a locked trunk, too. Ty’s doin’ six years for a bunch a’grand theft autos right now, but he’s- Ow! Fuckin’ wires… He’s still my best brother, taught me loads a’shit. He just likes cars.”

“My brother Joey likes cars, but he never stole ’em,” Blue said in a reproachful tone, though it was diminished somewhat by his blatant interest in Red’s activities, especially when the lights on the dash panel flickered and then began to glow steadily. “S’kinda cool, though.”

“Es bueno saberlo,” Pyro said, leaning back against the truck bed. “Por si acaso.”

“That’s what Ty always said. ‘Just in case,’” Red said. The truck rumbled to sudden life as if in response and Red slid out of the cab, beaming. “I dunno if he was thinkin’ munchies when he said that, but still applies, right?”

“Fuck yes!”

It was unclear whether Blue was agreeing or just happy that the truck was running. Either way, he bolted past Red and hopped into the driver’s seat, slapping his hands on the wheel with a whoop.

Then he froze. When he hadn’t moved for a couple seconds, staring out the front windshield with wide eyes, Red gave him an experimental poke, making him jerk as if shocked. He shook himself and looked between Pyro and his fellow Scout, dismay painting his features to an almost comical degree.

“Can anyone drive high?” he said in a whine. Red blinked and frowned—he hadn’t thought of that—but Pyro rolled his eyes with a snort.

“Mueve tu trasero, pendejo,” he said, jerking a thumb. Blue stumbled out of the truck with significantly less grace than when he’d entered, and Pyro took his place behind the wheel. His eyes roved briefly over the dash and center console before he set his foot on the gas. He revved the engine experimentally a couple of times, and seemed pleased, nodding to himself with a small smile. He switched his foot to the brake and set the truck in gear.

He then noticed the two Scouts still standing next to him, staring. Blue’s mouth was hanging open as if he had just witnessed something magical. Red looked less impressed, though he still stared slightly wondering at Pyro’s apparent competence. That putting a truck in gear indicated competence must have said something about their current collective state, but Pyro didn’t seem in the mood to figure out what. He raised an eyebrow, and gestured to the passenger seat and truck bed.

“¿Nosotros vamos?” he said. Blue continued to gape until Red jostled him in his rush to jump into the truck bed.

“I wanna ride in the back!” Red said, bouncing with his hands on the roof of the cab. Blue blinked, then snorted and weaved his way to the passenger seat.

“We’re not stoppin’ if ya fall out,” he said as he slammed the door shut and, after a second’s thought, buckled his seatbelt. Pyro rolled his eyes again and opened the cab’s rear window after closing his own door.

“Él no es el que conduce,” he said over his shoulder. “Aunque deberías sentarte.”

Red chuckled, but did sit, leaning back against the cab as the truck gave a lurch before creeping steadily forward, gaining speed as they passed the fence and started toward the vague, distant lights of town.

——

“Augh, my God, take them away, somebody, before I fuckin’ die.”

Red snorted, but grabbed the flailing bag of cheese puffs as Blue waved it in his direction, more to prevent any more from being flung from the bag than to sate his own hunger. He still popped a few of the vibrantly orange snacks into his mouth before setting the bag down beside him, with the myriad other packages of half-finished junk food. He hummed happily. He hadn’t had cheese puffs in so long; even without the munchies, they would’ve tasted awesome.

Pyro sighed from the other side of the truck bed, crumpling his latest chocolate bar wrapper and flicking it lazily at Blue, who was sprawled like a well-sated rug on the roof of the truck’s cab. He smirked when Blue’s only response was to grunt and weakly flap a hand at him.

“Munchies achieved,” Pyro said, stretching his legs out, careful not to crush any of the bags of chips, cookies, and various other snacks scattered through the truck bed that still actually had anything in them. There were still plenty of empty wrappers and bags to provide percussive accompaniment to his movement, though. Red had to laugh.

“Fuck, man, we are fuckin’ pigs,” he said, flicking away an empty flaky pastry wrapper, still with smears of icing clinging to it. When the squat, balding man who’d owned the desert town’s sole convenience store had seen them strolling up to the counter with at least half of his stock of snack foods in both the salty and sweet varieties, Red had thought he’d been on the verge of fainting, or having a heart attack. They’d paid a pretty penny for the inevitable victims of their cannabis-enhanced appetites, more than the little store probably saw in a month.

The munchies’ grip on all three of them had been complete and unwavering, though. The drive into town had been uneventful, if a little bumpy—Pyro was an exceptionally careful driver when stoned, apparently, keeping the truck going no more than twenty even on the straighter stretches of pot-holed road—so Red had rolled another joint for them to smoke on the way in. They had all been giggling and half-starved by the time Pyro had very carefully managed to manoeuvre the truck into a space in the middle of the otherwise empty lot, and their extravagant paychecks had left little room for self-restraint in their intoxicated state once they’d laid eyes on the shelves filled with processed sugar, salt, and fat.

A short drive to the edge of town later, and the three mercenaries had spent the better part of the next hour and a half gorging on candies sweet and sour, chips ranging across almost every flavour and brand, various mass-produced and hand-made baked goods, jerky and Slim Jims (of the edible variety, though Blue had taken five thoroughly bewildering minutes to ponder the similarities between the processed meat snack and the car-jacking tool in Red’s bag), and multiple large bottles of every kind of pop the store had on hand. Both Blue and Pyro had expressed amazement at the amount of food Red had packed away—for someone so small, he had a seemingly bottomless stomach—and the trio had spent a good ten laughter-filled minutes bouncing cheese puffs and gummies off each other’s faces as they tried (and more often failed) to make a toss into waiting mouths.

Now, though, the feast was complete, the wreckage strewn about Red and Pyro’s legs in the bed of the truck. Despite his protestations of near-death, Blue rolled over onto his stomach and groaned, reaching vainly for one of the discarded bags.

“Nnnnh, fuckin’ Skittles’re too far away,” he grunted, slithering ponderously off of the truck’s roof and into the bed, brushing aside bags empty and half-full alike as he cleared a spot for himself near Pyro and, more importantly, the large bag of Skittles that had been resting by his knee. He echoed Pyro’s earlier sigh as he tossed a few of the brightly coloured candies into his mouth.

“If this is how pigs fuckin’ feel, man, then pin a curly tail t’my ass and call me Bacon,” he said. “Fuck, I haven’t had Skittles in so fuckin’ long.”

“Oink oink,” Red said, chuckling and barely resisting the urge to find that bag of pork rinds; he couldn’t remember if they’d finished them off or not. “Ugh, man, I’m so fuckin’ glad we don’t hafta fight tomorrow. I’m gonna be rollin’ ’round the base for days.”

Pyro nudged Red’s leg with his foot. “I still can’t believe you ate four whole cans of Pringles by yourself.”

As the high from the drive had faded, Pyro’s chattiness had diminished somewhat, but he had started using more English often when he did speak up. Red was kind of glad he didn’t have to mentally translate everything Pyro was saying anymore, especially while he was high. And there was still enough Spanish peppered into Pyro’s speech to confuse Blue, which would never not be funny.

“Pringles are fuckin’ delicious, bro,” Red said with broad grin, folding his hands over his stomach and nodding at the heap of used cling-wrap sitting next to Pyro. “How many fuckin’ cookies did you eat, anyway? Ya cleared out that whole shelf a’home-baked shit, and I only got one.”

“Me gustan las galletas,” Pyro said, glowering sullenly at Red. “I knew I was missing one.”

“Wait, so you ate all of ’em?” Blue said, staring. “Dude, that was, like, thirty cookies, plus those brownies, and most a’the Oreos. And ya took the last Oreo! Dude!”

“Like you didn’t keep all the candy for yourself,” Pyro said, giving the Skittles a significant glance; Blue clutched the bag tighter and hastily popped a few more into his mouth as Red laughed. “It’s a miracle you still have any teeth, hombre. Between Bonk and…” He looked over the scattered wrappers. “At least five of those chocolate bar wrappers are yours, and that whole bag of sour gummies. You’ve gotta have tantas caries.”

“I don’t got… whatever Mexican shit ya said,” Blue said, flapping a hand when Pyro rolled his eyes. “My teeth’re fine. Not like fuckin’ Bucky over here.”

He tossed a Skittle at Red, who caught and ate it despite the glare he leveled at Blue. “There’s nothin’ wrong with my fuckin’ teeth, assface.” He ran his tongue over them self-consciously and muttered, half under his breath, “They ain’t that big.”

Pyro smiled at him and nudged him again with his foot. “Es lindo. Ellos, y las pecas. Me gusta la mirada pecosa, y chicos blancos que se sonrojan.”

Blue stared at Pyro in utter bafflement, but Red could feel a flush rising in his neck and cheeks. Not that he didn’t stare as well. He was far from fluent in Spanish—even if he did know a not inconsiderable amount—but he thought he’d gotten the gist of what Pyro had said. He thought, but if he had… Pyro was ignoring Blue’s puzzled gaze, instead smiling warmly at Red. There was something in that smile, something more than friendly, and it only got stronger when Pyro’s eyebrow quirked up. Red swallowed hard, and jumped with a bitten off yelp when Blue suddenly spoke:

“What’s with that look?”

The elder Scout was looking between Red and Pyro, though he seemed mainly focused on the latter. He gestured vaguely, pointing between the other two with eyes narrowed. Pyro turned his raised brow on him, though it became a decidedly less suggestive expression as he did; Red’s face was a credit to his name. Blue squinted at both of them for a moment longer, then wagged a finger at Pyro.

“You got the hots for Red. Like, y’actually think he’s cute ’n’ shit,” he said. Red made a choked sound, but Pyro only gave a nonchalant shrug, leaning more comfortably back against the edge of the truck bed. Blue continued his intense scrutiny of him, a thoughtful grimace tugging his lips down. 

“Ya fucked old Red, too, back at Teufort,” he said, gaze going distant with remembrance without leaving Pyro’s indifferent face. Red was silently wondering if it was possible for someone to blush to death. “I mean, halfa the dudes there fuckin’ did, but I remember, he barely hadta pester you at all. He said some shit… You woulda barely been with the team a few months…”

He blinked, and fixed Pyro with a wide-eyed, disbelieving stare. “Dude, are you, like, actually a fag?”

Pyro growled sharply and punched Blue hard in the arm. “I’m fucking gay, cabrón,” he said, giving Blue another punch high on the shoulder for good measure. “Call me ‘fag’ again y te freiré los huevos.”

“Ow! Fuck, man, Jesus!” Blue yelped, deflecting another punch. “Shit! I won’t say it!” He hesitated in lowering his hands from their defensive position. “But you’re, like… Y’actually like dudes? To fuck? No chicks?”

Red had to laugh despite the heat still tickling his cheeks, and Pyro crossed his arms over his chest, still glowering as he settled back. “Sí, pendejo. I ‘like dudes, to fuck, no chicks’. That a problem?”

“No!” Blue said quickly, flinching. “Fuckin’- It ain’t a fuckin’ problem. I just… never realized before, and I never really met someone who’s actually… y’know. Queer. At least, I don’t think so.” A thoughtful frown flitted back across Blue’s face. “I guess Spy is, kinda, and Heavy, maybe. And I know Doc’s a faaaa- gay. He’s gay, too,” he said, shying away again from Pyro’s dark glare.

“Nice save, bro,” Red said, smirking.

“Fuck off, assfag- ah, dammit! Stop lookin’ at me like yer gonna fuckin’ hit me!” Blue threw up his hands again and gave Pyro a pleading look. Pyro’s glare didn’t falter, but he shook his head.

“I won’t hit you any more,” he said, “for now, but I don’t like esa maldita palabra. That word,” he clarified with a sigh when Blue gave him a blank look. Blue looked uncertain for a moment, but soon sighed as well and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Fuck, man, fine. I’ll try not t’say it,” he said, “but ya can’t get pissed if I screw up, a’right? S’just… It’s just what ya fuckin' say, y’know.”

Pyro nodded in a surprisingly patient way, given that he’d likely just left two good bruises on Blue’s arm. “Good. And if you call me that again, I still get to fucking murder you. Pausadamente. Con fuego.”

He held Blue’s gaze for a long moment, long enough to make Blue shrink back, but jumped when a joint bounced off his cheek and landed in his lap. He looked over at Red, who was tucking the weed box back through the truck window into the cab. He smiled when he saw Pyro blinking at him.

“I didn’t wanna ruin the moment,” he said, “but I figured one more to wind down before we head back? It’s the indica this time, should keep it mellow.”

“Issat what ‘indica’ means?” Blue said, watching as Pyro baptized and lit the joint with no further prompting. “I saw that on most a’the containers Spy’s got, so I guess it’d make sense. I’ve never actually caught him stoned, but he’s pretty fuckin’ chill most a’the time anyway, so it might be tough to tell.”

“I don’t think Spy actually smokes enough to get stoned. No como nosotros,” Pyro said. He puffed and passed the joint to Red before continuing. “Some people use it to help with stress, sabes, just a hit every now and then. Pain relief. Apetito. Depresión también, y… uh…” He looked to Red, frowning. “Ansiedad. ¿Cómo lo dices?”

“Anxiety?” Red said after a second’s thought. He passed the joint on to Blue, who was listening to Pyro with such rapt attention that Red had to shove him before he took the weed.

Pyro nodded. “Sí, sí. Anxiety. Puede ayudar con el, ah… panic attacks, y cosas así.”

“Spy doesn’t have those, I don’t think,” Blue said, coughing a little. “He might use it for pain, though. His knees bug him sometimes.”

Red’s smirk returned. “Oh yeah, I forgot yer fuckin’ an old man. Gotta watch out for grandpa’s knees.”

“Oh, like Wrenches wasn’t a dirty old man, fuckin’ you,” Blue shot back. “He’s not that much younger’n Spy, and yer still a fuckin’ kid.”

“I’m not a kid, fuckface, and Wrenches is only, like, thirty-four,” Red said. “Spy’s gotta be forty. At least.”

“He is not. He’s late thirties, max. Py, back me up here,” Blue said, turning to his teammate. Instead of bolstering his argument, however, Pyro cast a meaningful glance at the joint, still barely smouldering between Blue’s fingers, forgotten. Blue blinked, then cursed and took a few frantic puffs to keep the joint alive. He started hacking, trying vainly to stifle the vicious coughs that resulted in his elbow, and Pyro managed to pluck the joint from his weaving and bobbing hand with a smirk of his own.

“Me preguntaba cuánto tiempo ibas a bogart eso,” he said, taking a contented drag. 

[...]

“So, ya don’t like tits? Like, at all?”

The idea seemed completely baffling to Blue; he was pretty damn high, but Red figured it wasn’t that hard a concept to grasp. Pyro shook his head and made a face as he passed the joint on to Red.

“Son solo… sacos de grasa con pezones. Nada especial,” he said, gesturing and shrugging. “Quiero decir… Heavy’s got tits.”

Blue blinked, looking stunned for a few silent seconds. Then he groaned and scrubbed viciously at his face. “Aw, fuck, man! Now I got th’image a’Doc motorboatin’ Heavy stuck in my head! Thanks a fuckin’ lot!”

Red choked on his latest inhale and started hacking out laughter, his face quickly becoming, once again, near as crimson as his t-shirt. Pyro rescued the joint when Red lost his grip on it, chuckling at Blue’s continued groans of disgust as he took another puff for himself.

“Sabes que probablemente lo hace,” he said, his smile becoming conspiratorial. “Nunca le digas… but I saw something, ahhh, lacy in Heavy’s size in the Infirmary closet, una vez. No pude verlo bien, pero creo que Doc es un poco… kinky…”

Red was still laughing, clutching his gut as tears leaked down his cheeks, but he managed to get out a revolted groan. “Eugh, fuck. At least that’s one thing I don’t hafta worry about with my team. Imagine walkin’ in on that.”

Red jumped when Pyro burst out with a hearty laugh of his own, and Blue went beet red from shirt collar to hairline. Red looked between the two, then made a face and exclaimed in a combination of amusement and disgust.

“Aw, shit! You already walked in on ’em? Fuck, dude!”

“I needed some fuckin’ Tylenol!” Blue said, the picture of indignant, horrified distaste. “I had a fuckin’ headache ’n’ all I wanted was some fuckin’ Tylenol, but those assfucks wouldn’t answer the fuckin’ door, so…”

“Acabas de entrar, con Doc montando a Heavy como un caballo,” Pyro said with a vicious grin. Blue scrubbed his face again, making inarticulate sounds of revulsion. “You’re lucky I was just listening to music when you busted into my room, pendejo. Pudo haber sido mucho peor.”

“Dude, don’t even,” Blue said, groaning. “Ugh. Just… ugh.”

Red shook his head with a few final chuckles, wiping the last traces of moisture from his cheeks, and said, “Man, I don’t get it. Ya fuck Spy up th’ass and ya suck his dick, but yer still all squeamish ’n’ shit. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna see yer Heavy gettin’ nasty with anyone-” He shuddered theatrically and Pyro snorted back another laugh. “-but, I mean, for the rest it’s just… dudes fuckin’. S’no big deal.”

“No big deal? It fucked! It’s- It just-” Blue ran a hand through his hair, half shoving off his hat, then stopped. He blinked slowly before turning a suspicious, red-eyed glare on Red. “Waaaait a minute. I thought you said when we talked before that you wasn’t a fag.”

Pyro growled, but Red’s indignant yelp held Blue’s attention. “I’m not! I ain’t a fuckin’ fag! Sorry,” he added when Pyro hissed at him. “But I’m not fuckin’ gay, man.”

“Y’let Wrenches fuck ya, though,” Blue said, “and y’were gettin’ fucked by yer Sniper in, like, a week. And y’practically fuckin’ begged me to blow and fuck ya, too!”

“I didn’t beg, asshole; I was drunk, and I’m fuckin’ horny! I’m only nineteen, ya fuckin’ geezer! Jackin’ off don’t fuckin’ cut it, and there ain’t no chicks ’round here, in case ya haven’t noticed!”

“I’m only twenty-four, cockfag! I get horny, too, and it was still more’n a fuckin’ year before I got desperate enough t’actually fuck a dude, even when old Red was throwin’ himself at everythin’ with a dick and a pulse! And I still don’t take it up th’ass!”

“Hey, we already agreed suckin’ dick is way gayer than gettin’ fucked, so-”

“We did not fuckin’ agree, ya little assfag! You said that so I wouldn’t think you was fuckin’ queer, and I think it’s pretty fuckin’ obvious ya are! ‘It’s just dudes fuckin’.’ The fuck is that? Admit it! Yer a fuckin’ fag!”

“Fuck you! Just ’cause I don’t turn into a pussy-ass little bitch any time someone mentions two guys together don’t make me fuckin’ gay!”

“You getcher ass! Fucked! How can you not be a fuckin’ faggot if you-”

A heavy, echoing thud made both Scouts start. Unnoticed by either of them, Pyro—with a great deal of eye rolling, head shaking, and disgruntled muttering—had extinguished the joint, slipped out of the truck bed, and started collecting the various empty chip bags and snack wrappers within easy reach. He had built up an impressive pile as Red and Blue had argued, and the thud had come from him dropping a sizable chunk of scrap wood on top of it to keep it from being blown away by the light night breeze.

Noticing the Scouts’ attention, he shrugged. “Necesidad de deshacerse de la basura,” he said, “y no quería interrumpir la pelea de tu pequeño amante.”

Red flushed and sputtered, but Blue vaulted out of the truck bed to examine Pyro’s garbage pile, curiosity shoving his and Red’s disagreement firmly from his mind.

“Yer gonna burn it?” he said. Pyro nodded, arranging the heap more to his liking and adding a few more pieces of wood. Where they’d come from, neither Scout had any idea; Pyro always just seemed to have something flammable at hand.

“How’re we gonna light it, though?” Blue said, frowning. “Y’don’t got yer flamethrower.”

Pyro gave his teammate an unimpressed look, pulling out the book of matches they’d been using to light their joints. “¿De verdad crees que no puedo iniciar un incendio sin mi lanzallamas, pendejo? ¿Lo dice en serio?”

Blue opened his mouth, but his retort turned into a yelp when Pyro lit the entire matchbook, a ball of fire coming to life at his fingertips with a faint whoof. Blue jerked back, cursing, but Pyro just watched the little ball of flame for a moment before calmly setting it into the garbage-tinder nest he’d created for it.

[...]

“What in the sweet blue Hell did you boys do to my truck!”

[...]

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.”

[...]

Proving Oneself Teaser/WIP

A big end-chunk for this one. Got a few earlier bits, but they're either really short or I'm not as thrilled with them and am probably gonna rewrite them.

Summary: Soldier blames the day's loss on Scout, and labels him a useless liability to the team. Scout decides to prove him wrong.

——

Proving Oneself

[...]

[...] The bulkhead slammed shut behind him, cutting off the screams of the pursuing Reds with a deep, final clang.

He collapsed back against the heavy steel, his legs finally giving way. It was done. He’d done it. The intel briefcases felt heavy enough to drag him straight through the floor, but he had them.  He’d brought them both in, all by himself. Soldier couldn’t say shit this time. He just had to get the cases down to the War Room, now, shove them in Soldier’s stupid face, show that helmet-wearing dick he wasn’t useless. He laid his head back against the bulkhead, swallowing hard to fight down a wave of nausea when the room spun around him. Maybe he could just take a minute…

Groaning, Scout heaved himself up straight. He wasn’t going to do this half-assed. He’d gotten the intel this far; he just had to get through a few hallways and rub Soldier’s nose in how fucking wrong he was. Then he could go pass out. There wasn’t even going to be anyone shooting at him the rest of the way. Easy peasy, numbnuts. Hard part’s done. Just start walking.

The first step nearly sent him tumbling to the floor—without the adrenaline rush of running for his life, his pains were starting to vigorously make themselves known—but he caught himself with another step, then another when his pounding right knee threatened to buckle under his weight. He realized he was more falling forward one step at a time than walking, but it was movement. The long, empty concrete passage seemed to stretch and yaw before him, and he shook his head. Just get to the War Room, show Soldier-

“Scout! Damnation, boy, what in the holy Hell happened to ya?”

Hardhat was in front of him, holding a hand against his shoulder to stop him. He wasn’t wearing his goggles. He looked weird without his goggles. Scout looked at the hand pressed to his shoulder and shrugged it away, stepping sideways to move around the stout Texan. Keep moving, drop off the intel, prove Soldier wrong…

“-et Medic, now. When did he even go out, I didn’t-”

“I don’t know, I just heard the door and came t’see-”

“I would nae try stoppin’ him. I’ve ne’er seen that look on the lad’s face…”

The concrete corridor was slowly being populated by his teammates. He saw their wavering blue silhouettes, some approaching but none making another move to touch him after Engie. He heard the thump of their footsteps as they started falling in behind him. Or was that his heartbeat? Doesn’t matter, he thought, steadying himself against a wall for a moment. He took a deep breath and peeled himself away—almost literally: his bloody shirt clung to the wall as he straightened—and continued around a corner.

There was the kitchen. Halfway to the War Room. There was a hushed buzz of voices behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. As long as they didn’t try to stop him, he didn’t care. The briefcases really did seem to be dragging him down, and if he stopped he probably wouldn’t be able to start again. He just had to drop them off, shove it in Soldier’s stupid, stupid face…

His knee throbbed sharply and he stumbled. Gloved hands caught him, keeping him upright, and someone said… something. He mumbled in return—he wasn’t sure what, but it was enough to get the hands to release him—and started dragging his feet laboriously forward again. He could feel someone close at his side, slowing to match his pace as he took one wavering step at a time. Each one sent knives through his calves and made the hallway rock around him. He closed his eyes when one particular architectural lurch was accompanied by a similar motion in his stomach, but his feet kept moving. Almost there… Then he could rest.

He didn’t realize he hadn’t opened his eyes until an arresting hand on his shoulder made him blink, and then squint. Fuck, was it always so bright in here? His feet had stopped. He looked down at them—Christ, his legs were a mess—and then up again, jerking when he saw the War Room door. The War Room? Fuck, right, the War Room. The intel. Shove it in Soldier’s face.

He lifted a hand to knock, and paused, blinking owlishly, when the RED briefcase swung before his eyes. Right, right. He carefully managed to settle the briefcase handle in his other hand with its blue twin, feeling very lopsided with all the weight held to one side, and lifted his now empty hand. It hurt to knock, but he thumped his fist against the door again and again.

He fell forward when the door wrenched in, colliding face first with Soldier’s chest. It actually felt amazing after the initial lurch, being able to rest his weight against something solid, at least until Soldier pushed him back.

“What the Hell is this pansy parade? Do you maggots have any idea-”

It took most of Scout’s strength to shove the briefcases at Soldier, but the stunned look on the man’s face was worth it. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, so Scout could fully enjoy watching his eyes pop when he registered what had been thrust into his arms. His mouth gaped, and his bewildered gaze flicked between Scout and the intel with growing incredulity. Without the briefcases weighing him down, Scout was able to straighten (mostly), and he met Soldier’s baffled stare. He hoped he looked badass, rather than woozy.

“Call me useless now, asshole,” he said. “I fuckin’ dare you.”

Silence. Sweet, shocked silence. Scout had never thought it could sound so good.

Letting out a slow breath, he tottered back a few steps, the jarring thud as his back hit the wall not dislodging his smile. He slid down the wall to sit heavily, closing his eyes against the glare of the fluorescents. He’d done it. All by himself, no matter what anyone said. He wasn’t fucking useless…

“Open your eyes, cher.”

Spy. Always calling him those stupid froggy things. Share. Petty, or pity, or whatever the fuck it was. He opened his eyes, just a slit; a blue blur filled almost his entire vision.

“S’bright,” he murmured. He closed his eyes again. His voice sounded far away. “I got it, Spy. All by m’self…”

“You did, petit, you did.” A hand brushed through his hair, pushing his cap and headset away. It felt nice, the lightly probing touch across his scalp. Something gently slid behind his shoulders, pulling him away from the wall, and something else slid under his knees. His stomach swooped as the floor disappeared beneath him, replaced by the cradle of two heavy arms.

“Da, little Scout is credit to team.”

Heh, Heavy arms. Heh.

He could feel more words rumbling up from Heavy’s chest, but they lost their distinction to his ears. Deep mumbles and clipped murmurs drifted unintelligibly by him, lulling in the way their inflections matched the gentle swaying of the world, now more soothing than nauseating. His pains had faded, not entirely, but the sharp individual stings and twinges had amalgamated into a less intense full-body ache. Worth it, he thought, a weak smile turning his lips as consciousness slipped away.

Deathmatch Teaser/WIP

Some beginning, a complete chunk of middle, and the end *headdesk* I'm sorry, I just can't write linearly. It's a problem...

This one's going to be mostly Spy-centric, taking a look at his thoughts on and relationships with Scout, Sniper, and the RED Sniper in particular. A little attempt at a fight scene, too (not sure how well I pulled it off, though).

Summary: The Administration introduces a new match-type. No teams. Last man standing wins.

——

Deathmatch

[...]

“Wait. She said ‘deathmatch’,” Engie said slowly, frowning. Scout shrugged, picking more dirt and gravel out of his shoes.

“Yeah, so? Deathmatch. Big fuckin’ deal. We done it before,” he said, flicking a pebble caught in his cleats across the room. “Go out there, bash the Reds, try not to get bashed too many times ourselves-”

“‘Deathmatch’, she said,” Engie repeated. The horror in Spy’s face said he alone yet understood. “Not ‘team deathmatch’.”

Scout froze in the midst of picking at another stubborn pebble. A thankfully inactive grenade dropped from Demo’s limp fingers, bouncing wildly across the floor until Sniper stepped on it. Both were gaping at Engie, as were Medic and Heavy, the former of whom shared Spy’s look of abject horror. Soldier was the only one not stunned to some degree by the observation; even Pyro stood clutching his flamethrower to his chest, looking nervously between the others, while Soldier waved his shovel and bellowed about treason and bureaucrats, for which he seemed to have an equal hatred.

A screeching electronic sound drew everyone’s attention to a small slot in the wall. A chugging series of beeps filled the room as a long piece of paper came sliding from the slot, creeping out inch by inch, until a ripping sound came from the other side of the wall and the paper fluttered to the floor. Spy was closest and he stooped to pick it up. He read through it as Scout inspected the slot—he’d wondered aloud at its purpose in the past and his curiosity was once again piqued—and the others shuffled and fidgeted uneasily as they waited for Spy’s report. It was brief, when it came.

“We are in for a fun day, mes amis,” Spy said grimly, scowling as he passed the page to Sniper, who skimmed it quickly before shoving it at Engie with a curse.

“Deathmatch,” he growled as Engie started reading with a more critical eye. “No teams. Last man standin’ wins. That means full friendly fire.”

“Hhhr shhht,” Pyro moaned, looking down at his flamethrower with a mournful droop to his shoulders. Active friendly fire meant Spy-checking—fully half of Pyro’s job on most days—was next to, if not entirely, impossible.

Spy gave the weapon a look that was significantly more distasteful and muttered, “‘Oh shit’, indeed.”

“Ten respawns apiece, yeah, and full friendly fire, sorry Py.” Pyro moaned again and Engie gave him a sympathetic smile before he continued, “The other respawn rooms’ve been opened up and we’ll get shuffled randomly through the ones on our side every time. Other’n that, it’s pretty much just kill whatever moves ’til yer th’only one left. We’ll all get respawned back in after someone wins, at least; s’not gonna be seventeen of us hangin’ ’round in the void ’til the next fight.” He passed the paper back to Spy. “There’s some in there specifically fer you about yer disguise kit and whatnot, and some fer Doc, too. The rest is just the usual bull. ‘You signed up fer this, y’can’t pull out now or else,’ yadda yadda yadda.”

“It is bull!” Scout popped up straight, hobbling a little until he got his left foot settled back properly into its shoe. “Total bullshit! I didn’t fuckin’ sign up to shoot you guys!”

“Vhile I’m sure ve all appreciate zhe sentiment, Scout, I am also sure you are likely zhe least qualified to argue over vhat you, or any of us, signed up for,” Medic said drily, rubbing his chin. “I do seem to remember zhe vording of zhe contract being slippery, and, knowing you, I doubt you spent a great deal of time sorting zhrough zhe specifics.”

Scout puffed himself up and started to step toward him, but Spy gripped the back of his shirt to stop him without looking up from the paper. His face was looking more and more grim the longer he read.

[...]

“We could simply ignore this little ’iccup, of course—only kill the Reds, like we would during any normal team deathmatch—but I ’ighly doubt the Reds will do the same. We’d likely be down to killing each other in the end, regardless.”

[...]

“If yer holdin’ any grudges, now’s the time t’get ’em out, I s’pose,” Sniper said.

[...]

——

The report of a sniper rifle coming from above him made Spy freeze. Ahh, so there he was… He crept forward, using the boxes in the RED warehouse as cover until he could tiptoe up the ramp toward the RED Sniper’s perch. If he could kill that fils de pute at least once today, he could die—well, “die”—a happy man. That beastly convict… He had suffered the man and the indignities that had accompanied him for too long to let any opportunity to kill him slip by.

He heard another rifle crack, this time followed by a distant wailing cry. A very familiar wailing cry. Spy’s stomach dropped and he started creeping faster, trying to move as quickly as he could while still maintaining stealth without resorting to his cloak. The convict had a tendency to play with his targets, even when he wasn’t using that damned bow of his, and that had been Scout’s all too distinctive scream. As if Spy needed another reason to hate the bastard.

There was another shot and another scream in the time it took him to fully ascend the ramp, and Spy’s jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth squeaked against each other. He found the RED Sniper kneeling beside one of the windows, his focus fixed entirely on what lay at the other end of his scope. The smile on his lips was smug.

“Can’t run so fast now, eh Zippy,” he murmured, shifting the rifle against his shoulder, and only two decades of professional experience kept Spy from hissing out his rage. Instead, he drew a deep breath through his nose, activated his cloak, and moved up behind the oblivious Red. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the convict fired again, and his hand trembled holding his knife as the subsequent chuckling that came to his ears sent a spear of pure rage through him.

Fil de pute de câlisse de- He could see out the window, see the convict’s target in the distance, sprawled just outside the train station entrance. Scout. One of his legs appeared to be missing from just below the knee, and the other was a red mass above. There was also a wide dark patch staining the lower right of his shirt. Even up here, Spy could hear his frantic, but quickly weakening, cries for Medic.

The RED Sniper popped the spent casing from his rifle and slid in a fresh round, letting out another smug chuckle. Spy couldn’t hold back a growl, and he saw the convict start. Spy dropped his cloak as the convict pushed away his rifle and started to rise with a curse. Let the connard see him. Spy didn’t give him a chance to straighten fully anyway.

“You should not ’ave done that to my Scout, you filthy condamner,” he hissed, driving his knife into the back of the Red’s neck so hard he pitched forward through the window, kukri not even half drawn. Spy held on, riding the corpse to the ground, and he calmly but quickly stepped away as they struck concrete, folding his balisong back into his pocket.

He couldn’t hold his calm long, however. Scout. He found himself sprinting toward where he’d last seen Scout’s mangled form, thankfully surrounded by a pocket of battlefield quiet. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or pained that Scout wasn’t there. He’d already died and respawned, so at least he wasn’t suffering any more, but Spy knew it must have been a horrible death to go through. Scout never handled slow deaths well.

Spy shook his head and ducked into the train station, reactivating his cloak. He had to look after himself, first and foremost. During a match like this, so much sentimentality was likely to cut short his already diminished chances to win the day. Scout did tend to draw it out of him, though… He grimaced when he heard the beeping of a sentry in the direction of the BLU base and started back toward that side of the field. He had to try to get through to the end of this, and hopefully help facilitate that end’s coming a little sooner. No matter how much Scout’s pain twisted in his guts.

——

[...]

“Tell you what, mate,” the convict said, wiping a line of blood from his chin with a predatory smile. “You win. I’ll let ya kill me, if I get to take that Scout a’yours for a spin, eh? Gettin’ kinda tired a’mine; could use some fresh meat. Yours has got… spirit, and-” His grin widened. “-judgin’ from his hollerin’ earlier, a fine set a’lungs. I like that.”

The words hit Spy like a dash of ice-cold water; every muscle twitched to instant tensity, and his skin felt suddenly drawn tight across them. He didn’t recognize the feral roar that echoed through the room as his own, didn’t remember closing the space between himself and the filthy convict. He found himself swinging his knife with reckless abandon and, though there was none of his usual finesse in the flurry of swipes and stabs, he still felt the blade find purchase far more than once.

The convict’s amusement quickly faded, and he met Spy’s furious attacks with growls of effort, turning aside the butterfly knife with his kukri whenever he could, but finding the sudden onslaught too vicious to keep razor lines of red from being opened all across his face and arms and chest. Every line drawn fuelled Spy’s fervent desire for the bastard’s death. He slashed harder, and faster. The convict grunted, one eye squinted shut against the blood streaming down from a wide cut above his brow, and shoved forward, kukri held across his chest like a shield.

He managed a couple more swipes, but Spy was unprepared for the push. He stumbled back a step, and that was enough opening for the convict’s longer blade to carve a long, deep line down his thigh. The pain flared through his fury and bloodlust, overpowering them, and he staggered to the floor, hissing at the bolt of agony that spread from his leg. He tried to get his arms under him, but the convict delivered a sharp kick to his ribs that had him collapsing onto his stomach, and then planted a firm and surely feculent boot in the center of his back.

“Well, that certainly touched a nerve.” The boot pushed down, and Spy screamed as the blade of the kukri drove into his forearm. “Wouldn’t’ve thought that arrogant, loud-mouthed mongrel would be the type fer a fancy-pants French poof like you.” Spy ground his teeth against another cry as the kukri jabbed in again, higher up his arm. “Must be somethin’ special in the sack, eh? Can’t imagine you takin’ it from a brat like him, but the kid’s prob’ly still virgin tight after nothin’ but your pencil dick. Lookin’ forward to findin’ out…”

“Funny, I really don’t think it’s any a’your concern, mate.”

Spy’s rapidly returning fury was doused by shock. He couldn’t see from his current angle, but he recognized Sniper’s voice. The BLU Sniper. There was a growl above him, and Spy choked when the kukri twisted vindictively before being withdrawn from his arm. He rolled onto his back, cradling his arm to his chest, and watched as the Red Sniper stalked toward the Blue. His Sniper stood just inside the intel room door, looking weary but otherwise freshly respawned. He held his rifle as if it weighed a hundred pounds, not set at his shoulder for a shot, but still pointing squarely at his RED counterpart.

“Shoulda hung back, mate,” the convict said, pausing and starting to circle, juggling his blade from hand to hand, as Sniper stepped further into the room. “Let me take care a’him, nip me from a couple dozen feet.”

“Thought about it.” Spy could hear the weariness from Sniper’s face echoed in his voice. “But I figured the frog’d probably rather me pullin’ the trigger on him than you.” Sniper raised his rifle to chest height. “’Sides, I’ve wanted to do this face-to-face for a long while.”

The convict darted forward and to the side, growling like an animal, but not moving far or fast enough to avoid the rifle’s long barrel as he closed in. Sniper flicked it up under his opposite’s chin almost lazily when he got close, steadying the heavy stock against his hip, and he pulled the trigger without shifting so much as his gaze. There was something comical, Spy thought, in the way the convict was propelled backward, lax body trailing after his ruined head. Then he came to earth with a dull splat, and started to fade.

Sniper was at Spy’s side, helping him to his feet, before the body had fully vanished. Spy groaned, his wounded leg nearly buckling under him, but Sniper kept him steady, not seeming to mind the copious amounts of blood as he helped him to the nearest wall so he could lean back against it. Spy’s arm was a blaze of pain, but numbness was starting to creep into his fingers. He flexed them, hissing as they filled with pins and needles, and a renewed stab of agony drove into his forearm. He fumbled in his jacket with his other hand until Sniper held out a cigarette to him. Sniper’s were a decidedly inferior brand, but it would do.

“Merci, mon ami,” he said, holding it to his lips and letting Sniper light it for him. He shuddered and took a long drag. “I did not relish the idea of ’aving that salaud take ’is time with me. Things were already bad enough.”

“Yeah, it looked like a good time to step in. That, and I saw on the respawn board that you two were the only other ones left, and I meant it about wantin’ to kill him up close and personal,” Sniper said, arms crossed over his chest. “Surprised he had you in such dire straits, though.”

Spy grunted. “Rest assured, I did not expect it either. My cloak ran out at the worst time, and we ’ad a lovely little tussle before ’e… touched a nerve.” He flicked ash from the cigarette, frowning. “I reacted more strongly than I should ’ave.”

“Sounded like ya had plenty cause, from what I heard at the tail end there,” Sniper said, and a cold, hard lump dropped into Spy’s stomach. It must have shown; Sniper shook his head and went on, “Relax, mate. It ain’t none a’my business, any more than it’s his or anyone else’s. I won’t say nothin’ t’anyone.”

Spy nodded slowly, feeling the lump in his gut loosen, and he took another drag. He watched the other man as Sniper propped his gun beside him and lit a smoke of his own. He was a good man, truly, for all that he could be utterly uncivilized and uncouth. He had acted as Team Garrison’s unofficial leader for years; even Soldier deferred to him almost without question. While tactless, blunt curiosity and an inability to keep personal secrets seemed to be universal traits shared by the members of the BLU team (and Spy was self-aware enough to include himself amongst them), and despite a genuine concern of his own for the rest of the men, Sniper was exceptionally discrete and never one to pry unless he felt there was a real, pressing need. Spy felt he could trust him near unconditionally, startling and strange as that was, even now after over a decade of professional acquaintance.

No one else would learn of Spy’s relationship with Scout from him, Spy was sure. And Scout wouldn’t hear anything about the convict’s threats, or how damnably effective they’d been.

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over Spy and he bowed his head, resting his forehead on his palm. His other hand was numb again, and the loss of feeling was creeping up his wounded arm. He huffed out a sigh.

“Ugh, we should get dees over weed,” he said, grimacing when he heard the thickening of his accent. He had lost more blood than he’d thought. “Ma tête feels like eet ees full of coton.”

“And how’s that any different from usual?” Sniper said, smirking. Spy rolled his eyes at him.

“Hon hon hon, monsieur ees so funny,” he said drily, grinding out his cigarette against the wall. He reached under his coat and withdrew his revolver, holding it for the other man to take. “No offense to dat beastly rifle of yours, but I would radder leave my ’ead at least somewhat eentact. Call eet a Frenchman’s vaneety.”

Sniper frowned. He took a long moment to stub his own cigarette, blowing the last of the smoke out slowly, eyes on the gun. He drummed his fingers against the wall. Spy’s hand started to shake—the revolver was heavy in his blood-loss weakened grip—and Sniper sighed, taking the weapon. He frowned at it, flicking open the chamber and snapping it shut again.

“Y’sure, mate? I don’t mind givin’ ya the win,” he said. Spy grunted.

“Oh, ouais, I ween and must ’obble my way back to base so Medic can ’eal me, eef de blood loss does not keell me first,” he said, snorting in a very un-Spy-like manner. “I am not so eager for de respawn void, mon ami. I’d radder be put out of dees meesery so we can all put dees maudit jour be’ind us.”

Sniper chuckled, hefting the revolver. “Fair ’nough, I suppose. Alright.” He pushed himself away from the wall and snapped the gun up so its barrel pointed right between Spy’s eyes, posed like a spaghetti-Western gunslinger. He smirked. “Any last words, ya froggy bastard?”

Spy observed the theatrics with a blasé expression. “T’es osti de criss de con.” He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Can you-” He swallowed past a wave of nausea. “S’il te plaît, do not tell… mon voyou about…”

“No need to worry, mate. He won’t hear a word from me.” The gun barrel pressed against Spy’s forehead, refreshingly cool even through his mask. “See ya on th’other side.”

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]

A Special Cigarette Teaser/WIP

'Nother WIP. Gonna keep putting up chunks I'm happy with. Hopefully having it up somewhere will help prod my brain back into gear :) As with any of my WIPs, a [...] indicates where the rest is going to eventually go.

Summary: Scout won't shut up, and Spy offers him a cigarette, to get him out of everyone's hair.

——

A Special Cigarette

[...]

“Scout!”

The sharp shout and forceful click of Spy’s cigarette case cut off Scout’s verbal tirade. Spy held one of his precious cigarettes vertically between thumb and forefinger, making sure Scout could see it. It was different from his usual tobacco-delivery vehicles: it was white instead of brown, and thinner, with a twisted tip rather than flat. Scout’s eyes fixed on it and, just for fun, Spy moved his hand back and forth. Scout didn’t seem to realize his gaze followed it, like a dog watching a ball, until Engineer couldn’t quite manage to muffle a snort of laughter. Scout shook his head and glowered at him before turning back to Spy. Spy held his eyes as he laid the smoke on the coffee table before him.

“In return for your agreement to immediately take your ’yperactive, jabbering self elsewhere and save the rest of us a collective psychotic break, I will give you one of my… special cigarettes. If!” He held up an arresting hand when Scout started reaching. “If you take it outside. I do not wish to listen to your virgin lungs ’acking your way through it.”

And it will keep you out of our hair for a few hours at least, Spy thought, lowering his hand and smiling as Scout darted forward to snatch the cigarette. He bolted without another word, the pat-a-pat-a-pat of his steps rapidly retreating down the hall, and Spy heaved a heavy sigh of relief, hearing it echoed by Engineer and Medic.

“Thank God,” Engineer said, returning to his blueprints. “If I’da known that was all it took t’chase him off, I’da taken up smokin’ months ago.”

“Ah, but it is my ineffable charm that makes it look so tempting, non? Besides, mon ami, you lack the… Machiavellian spirit required to manipulate the boy,” Spy said, taking one of his usual brown cigarettes from its case and setting it between his lips. He was smirking as he lit it. “I would feel worse about it, but even I can ’andle only so much of ’is exuberance.” His smirk widened as he blew out a plume of smoke. “And it’s not likely to do ’im any ’arm, so long as ’e is not more paranoid than ’e lets on. Or Soldier finds ’im.”

Engineer gave him a curious look, but Medic smiled in a decidedly evil manner. “Ah, I zhought it did not look like vun of your usual zigaretten. How strong vas it, exactly?”

“Strong enough to keep ’im occupied until dinner, at least, though ’e is likely to have quite an appetite when ’e returns,” Spy said, shrugging when Medic cackled. Engineer’s confusion deepened.

The hard-hatted man frowned between Doc and the too-smug Spy. He knew he was missing something, and he wasn’t sure that the “special cigarette” Scout had absconded with was quite so harmless as Spy seemed to think. He gave his blueprints a longing look, then sighed and set down his pencil, getting to his feet. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, he had a feeling someone should follow Scout and keep an eye on him. Just in case.

——

It had taken Scout way too long to find a way to light the cigarette. He’d tried the kitchen, hoping for matches, but there had been nothing for him there. He’d pestered Demo for the use of his matches or lighter until the damn cyclops had chased him out of his workshop, hollering about “sensitive chemicals” and “needing to concentrate”. Sniper’s nest had been empty, and he was never going to risk going into Pyro’s room again. Finally, his search had brought him to the base’s rear courtyard, and it was there he found his salvation, or at least an ignition source.

Sniper stood at a small folding table set up beside Engie’s “baby”—a double-decker barbeque converted from two halves of an old oil drum and various scrap Engie had pulled from the seemingly unending piles in his workshop; Engie had gotten BLU to bring it along with his truck when the team had moved—while Pyro carefully arranged charcoal briquettes and pieces of scrap wood inside. Though the plates heaped with meat on the table took Scout’s attention for a moment, thoughts of barbeque making his stomach gurgle in anticipation, he was mostly able to keep his focus on the happily humming firebug in the heavy rubber suit.

“Yo, Py, y’got a light I can borrow- Whoa, shit!”

Pyro spun quickly, and he had his flamethrower in his hands. Fuck, where had he been keeping that thing? Scout threw his hands up when the weapon’s muzzle swung to point directly at his face, though he was forced to lower them again when he dropped the cigarette, fumbling to catch it without crushing it. His flailing, and Pyro’s soft growls, drew Sniper’s attention, and the sharpshooter raised an eyebrow when he saw what Scout held.

“Well now, whatcha got there, Twinkle Toes?” he said, stepping forward and resting a hand on Pyro’s shoulder. That settled him somewhat; he stopped growling, at least. Scout flipped Pyro the bird—and had to dance back when Pyro let loose a small jet from his flamethrower—before he held out the cigarette for Sniper to inspect.

“One’a Spy’s smokes,” he said proudly, puffing his chest out. “It’s special, too; he said so, and it ain’t brown like all his other ones. He told me to come smoke it out here, and I was lookin’ for fuckin’ matches, but Py’s out here so I thought I’d ask him for a light.”

He cast a glare at the younger man, but Pyro’s hostility had faded into genuine curiosity over the small white cylinder in Scout’s hand. He leaned in close to peer at it (or Scout assumed he was peering from behind the huge lenses of that creepy-ass mask), and even gave it an experimental prod with one rubber-gloved finger. Sniper smiled and straightened, tipping his hat back.

“Looks special, alright,” he said, scratching his forehead with a chuckle. “Well, I hope y’have fun. I’ll make sure t’throw a few extra hot dogs on the barbie for ya.”

“Thaaaanks…” Scout said, frowning as Sniper turned back to his meat preparation, and he returned his attention to Pyro. The firestarter was still staring at the cigarette in his hand with something that Scout was fairly sure was awe. “So, ya got a light?”

Pyro straightened and Scout flinched when he swung the flamethrower’s muzzle up again. This time, though, he held it at a comfortable distance, tilted so the pilot light sat at prime cigarette-lighting height. Scout whooped and offered his profuse thanks as he set the cigarette between his lips and carefully leaned forward. He’d seen Spy light his smokes hundreds of times, if not off the end of a flamethrower. Just hold it to the fire and inhale-

The first rush of smoke came with a burnt, earthy flavour he didn’t find entirely unpleasant, but it was also accompanied by an intense, scratchy burning in the back of his throat that had him doubled over hacking. He steadied himself with his hands on his knees, choking and coughing until he was half sure he was going to die. The burning slowly faded, however, and he was left with a dizzying lightness in his head when he was finally able to straighten up. He swayed, holding up the cigarette to peer at it critically.

He took another puff, more carefully, and held the smoke briefly in his lungs before exhaling; Pyro watched him in blatant fascination. Scout still coughed, but it wasn’t as harsh and didn’t last as long. By the time he’d finished, he felt… floaty. Light. It actually wasn’t half bad.

Five minutes later, Engineer found himself looking upon a strange sight as he came out the base’s back door. Pyro sat cross-legged by the trunk of the scraggly little tree that shaded the rear of the courtyard, while Scout hung upside-down in front of him by his knees from one of the tree’s lower branches. The speedy Bostonian seemed surprisingly sedate, even considering his odd position. As Engie strode up, he took a puff from the “cigarette”, holding the smoke in his mouth before blowing a stream toward the filters in Pyro’s mask. He giggled before he’d finished exhaling, and the remaining smoke ended up being expelled by laughter-laced coughs.

Sniper still stood by the unlit barbeque, but his full attention was on the pair at the tree. He looked over at Engie when he got close, grinning unabashedly. “Gotta say, it’s one’a Spy’s more entertainin’ notions, eh?”

Engie shook his head, tucking his hands in the pockets of his overalls, and said, “The Hell did he give the kid?”

“Just a li’l of th’old ganja, if I had to take a guess, mate,” Sniper said, his grin widening impossibly further when Scout leaned forward to blow more smoke at Pyro and ended up falling from his branch into Pyro’s lap. It was a short fall; Scout was giggling again seconds after he’d landed on the firebug. “S’pose if anyone could get their hands on it, it’d be the spook, but Scooter musta been runnin’ ya pretty ragged for him to resort to it.”

“Oh, he was doin’ that fer certain, damn motor-mouth,” Engie said, smiling as he watched Pyro roll a still-giggling Scout off his lap into the dirt. “So Spy gave him weed?”

Sniper chuckled, nodding. “Yup. Recognized the smell right away, but I doubt the kid’s run across it enough to know it. Gotta say, we shoulda thought of this earlier. Whatever ganj Spy can get his hands on is probably strong enough to slow down a stampedin’ elephant, never mind a hyperactive scrawny manchild.”

[...]

Team Rampart (RED) Bare Bones Basics

Again, what it says on the can! There'll be less focus on the Reds than the Blues over the course of the shorts, though a few will (eventually) take more prominent roles. They aren't quite as fully realized in my head as the Blues are yet (aside from the aforementioned few), so they might sound a little trope-y/archetypal in their descriptions. They'll grow, though; my boys always do :)

RED - Team Rampart

Scout

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 Build: Thin, well-defined legs Distinguishing Features: Buck teeth, freckles (literally everywhere: face [particularly over nose and cheekbones], neck, shoulders, back, legs, and arms)

Fresh meat. Recruited to RED to replace Team Rampart’s recently (permanently) deceased Scout, and still trying to find his footing in the world of RED and BLU’s bizarre “war”.

Looks like he’s in his mid-teens, at most, thanks to his height (or lack thereof) and babyface. He hates it.

Young and friendly, but not as naïve as one might expect, and has enough attitude for someone thrice his size when pushed too far.

Engineer ("Wrenches")

Age: 34 Nationality: American (Georgia [Savannah]) Time w/ RED: 5 years, 3 months Height: 5’8 Hair: Dirty blond, buzz cut Eye Colour: Dark brown Build: Stout, broad-shouldered and -chested Distinguishing Features: Customized Gunslinger (right hand), perpetual five o'clock shadow

More stoic and reserved than his BLU counterpart, though it is largely due to his teammates being, on the whole, less friendly than the Blues. Perfectly willing to open up to and relax with the right people, though he can be quite picky about who exactly the “right people” are.

Has a deep love of machines and robotics, to the point that it may be slightly unhealthy (he had a perfectly functional right hand before he received blueprints for the Gunslinger). It’s not uncommon for him to skip meals and lose sleep while working on a new sentry upgrade or the schematics for a new gadget.

The guy to vent to if you need to get something off your chest. He may not have much to offer by way of advice, depending on the situation, but he’ll listen and empathize and won’t judge, and no one will ever hear a word of what’s been told to him in confidence.

Sniper

Age: 31 Nationality: Australian (Queensland [primarily Outback]) Time w/ RED: 8 years, 6 months Height: 6’2 Hair: Brown, short, messy Eye Colour: Brown Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Distinguishing Features: “Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril

The best word to describe him is likely “intense”. His smile, his stare, his presence: all of it gives the impression of tightly contained ferocity and force, and something… unsettling just below the surface.

A loner who’s rarely seen around base during ceasefire unless he’s after something specific. Spends most of his time off the field either in his nest or hunting out past the fences.

Sadistically cruel to his enemies; prefers using his Huntsman and kukri during fights for more visceral kills. Also has a deep hatred of the BLU Spy, a feeling that is returned with interest.

The Rest

Soldier: A violently delusional madman. Frequently observed conversing with his shovel (her name is Miss Tabitha, and you will show her the respect a lady of her calibre deserves), and as quick to lash out at his teammates as his enemies, if he feels they deserve it.

Pyro: Never seen out of his (their? its?) suit. Ever. No one knows if they are male, female, or even human. Enjoys blood almost as much as they enjoy fire; the Axetinguisher is their favourite weapon.

Demoman: An alcoholic, red-headed Irishman with an uncanny knowledge of chemicals and explosives. Still has both of his eyes (so far), but is missing two fingers off his left hand and is more than a little hearing impaired.

Heavy: The strong, silent type, who will crush you like an empty soda can if you get on his nerves.

Medic: Psychotic. Sadistic. Terrifying. Definitely should not be practicing medicine in any capacity. Sees his teammates more as test subjects than potential patients, and isn’t afraid to tell them so.

Spy: Despite being a mercenary with RED for almost six years, he is 100% certain that he is too good for this shit. Arrogant, self-centered, and vain. Has been forcing (thoroughly unwanted) romantic advances on the BLU Engineer for years to keep himself entertained.

Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics

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

BLU - Team Garrison

Scout

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

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

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

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

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

Pyro

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

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

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

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

Sniper

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

Team Garrison’s unofficial leader.

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

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

Spy

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

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

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

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

The Rest

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

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

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

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

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

Respawn Errors Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

Respawn Errors

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

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

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

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

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

“SCOUT?”

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

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

——

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

“Sniper!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously! Hardhat, we been over this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

“Eugh, what the Hel- Mmph!”

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

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

“What the fuck!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wrenches? Issat you?”

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

——

In Vino Veritas Teaser/WIP

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

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

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

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

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

——

In Vino Veritas

[...]

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

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

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

Fuck, was he really doing this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving Day teaser/WIP

The first short chronologically. Been having way too much trouble just getting my wording right when I try to continue it (it's just the BLUs arriving at and exploring the new base and getting settled in ffs) but I've got the opening and part of a scene later on (separated by [...]) and I figured, fuck it, I'll throw it up. Probably end up deleting this post once the full short is done, but it's been bugging me having the second short be the first one that I posted anything for :/

It's pretty safe to assume any short with one or both Scouts in it will have excessive f-bombs; this one does.

Summary: The BLU team arrives at their new home.

——

Moving Day

Sniper had never thought his camper van small. For one man with limited spatial requirements and little desire for luxury, he thought it was perfect. It had a tiny kitchenette with a stove, fridge, and diner-style table, a cubby bed tucked up over the cab and a pull-out folded into the sofa along the back wall (and the kitchen’s table and benches could be converted into a bed, too, in a pinch), and even a little bathroom with a shower and flush toilet. He’d seen some of the monstrosities that tourists liked to roll around in, more full trailer homes on wheels than proper camper vans, and could only shake his head, wondering who could possibly need so much extra space.

On the long drive from Teufort to Well, however, he had to wonder if maybe something a little bigger would have been so bad.

It was supposed to be a simple two hour drive, moving Builders’ League United’s Team Garrison to their new base. A few dozen clicks or so of empty desert backroad—boring, but easy. Easy, if one didn’t consider the innumerable potholes in the barely maintained road, or the fact that there were nine mostly large men jammed into the camper’s few, not very large seats in hundred-plus degree heat. It was now approaching the midpoint of the third hour of their two hour trip, and none of them were particularly happy about it.

Despite multiple stops already to stretch their legs and get some air—and once to replace a tire fallen victim to one of the many, many goddamn potholes—everyone was feeling hot and cramped. Even up in the cab, with the windows down to allow in as much breeze as possible, it was sweltering, and bloody bright. Sniper could feel a rager of a headache building in his temples after so long staring at the black strip of asphalt in the endless waste of sun-baked dirt—even through his sunglasses, it was like staring into the Goddamn sun—and Spy, in the passenger seat beside him, had discarded his suit jacket in a rare concession to the heat. There had been a few grumbles from the back, but so far, most of the team had had the courtesy to keep their dissatisfaction to themselves in such tight, uncomfortable quarters, so as to not make the extended trip any more unpleasant.

Most of them.

“Are we fuckin’ there yet?”

A chorus of displeased groans followed on the heels of that most hated of road-trip questions, and Sniper’s tightening grip squeaked on the steering wheel. He’d known it was coming—really, it surprised him that it had taken this long—but he still had to unclench his jaw before he could reply.

“No, Scout,” he grated out, trying and failing to keep the annoyance from his tone, “we’re not there yet. Can see the base, though; shouldn’t be much longer.”

The heat-distorted silhouette of their future home had first risen out of the craggy desert landscape in the distance not even a minute before, and had only just begun really gaining distinction from its surroundings as the road’s meandering track led them on toward it. Sniper judged they had another five minutes of unnecessary twists and turns—maybe fifteen, on this shithole road—before they reached it. If Scout could’ve kept his damn mouth shut for just another fifteen minutes…

The sounds of scuffling and scrambling were accompanied by another outburst from those in the back, seemingly propelling Scout into the camper’s cab on a wave of outraged cries. He nearly impaled himself on the center console in his haste to see out the front windshield; Spy pressed a hand to his skinny chest to keep him from throwing himself straight into the glass. Scout didn’t seem to notice: he was still fully leaning into Spy’s hand when his face split in a massive grin at the sight of the structures looming in the distance.

“Fuck yeah! S’about fuckin’ time!” he said. Sniper rolled his eyes when Scout leaned further into the cab, finally brushing away Spy’s hand and fully blocking Sniper’s view of the road as he tried to get a look at the speedometer. “Christ, why’re ya goin’ so fuckin’ slow, wombat? We’re almost there and yer drivin’ like my fuckin’ gramma.”

Sniper shoved Scout out of his way with a hand in the face, and said, “I can’t go any faster if I can’t see the bloody road. Gonna send us straight into another pothole, and I don’t have a second spare tire, so unless ya wanna walk the rest a’the way?”

“I could probably get there fuckin’ faster,” Scout griped, but he subsided somewhat, bracing himself crouched in the cab’s threshold. He popped up every few seconds, though, to peer out at the slowly approaching base. He reminded Sniper of—funnily enough—a wombat, peeking in and out of its hole. A very talkative, vulgar wombat.

“Seriously, who the fuck drew up this road? A straight fuckin’ line from here to there, how hard would thatta been? They can afford to pay us hundreds a’grand a year, and they invented fuckin’ respawn, for Christ’s sake, but they can’t fill in a few ditches and blow up a few rocks so we can have a fuckin’ straight road? Wait, is that fuckin’ train tracks? We’re drivin’ through the desert in the fuckin’ hobo rape-van, and we coulda taken the fuckin’ train?”

“It’s not a ‘rape-van’, ya bloody whelp,” Sniper growled, tugging the bill of Scout’s baseball cap down over his eyes and cutting a glare at Spy when his cough didn’t quite cover a tight chuckle. “There’s no direct line from Teufort to here. Drivin’, even on this sorry excuse of a road, is faster than havin’ t’switch trains three’r four times.”

“Man, if the Reds got ta take the train, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ pissed,” Scout said, straightening his hat. “What if they got there already an’ they’re fuckin’ with all our shit?”

“The base and battlefield ’ere are far larger than at Teufort, and ’ave far superior security,” Spy said, taking a drag from his ever-present cigarette. “The battlefield is fair game, but there are bulk’eads at each barracks’ entrance, so the Reds should not be able to get in.” He held his hand out the window to let the wind take the ash from the tip of his cigarette. “We won’t need to worry about that ostie ‘Alarm-o-Tron’ nonsense any more, at least, with a proper security system in place.”

“Hey, I liked the Alarm-o-Tron. There was some fun shit on there,” Scout said, grinning. “‘The RED Spy is a woman!’ Fuckin’ classic.”

“Mmm, Rosso never ’as quite forgiven you for that, ’as ’e?” Spy said with a chuckle, and Sniper had to smile. That had been a good few days, after Engineer had finally given into Scout’s pestering and showed him how the enormous alert board in the Teufort base’s basement worked, even if Scout had eventually turned his Alarm-o-Tron antics on his teammates. Seeing the Reds losing their minds over the sporadic (and usually ridiculous) alerts blaring through their base (“The RED Sniper is about to explode!” was one of the BLU sharpshooter’s personal favourites) had provided better entertainment than they usually had in months.

“M’still not convinced the RED Pyro ain’t a fuckin’ vampire,” Scout said, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. “I mean, we never seen him out a’that suit durin’ the day, and he’s a bloodthirsty motherfucker, always usin’ his fuckin’ axe… Why else would the Alarm-o-Tron have ‘is a vampire’ on it if someone ain’t one?”

“Because RED ’n’ BLU are run by a buncha loons,” Sniper said, snorting and rolling his eyes. The camper bumped over a raised patch of asphalt, and he winced when something started rattling under the bonnet. He could see the road actually leading into the base now. One more turn and then a surprisingly straight stretch to the barbed-wire-topped fence surrounding the compound where they’d be spending the next God knows how long resuming their endless battles with the mercenaries from Reliable Excavation Demolition. He gave the dashboard a reassuring pat.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” he murmured, wincing again as another bump increased the violence of the rattle. “Not even another mile, y’can do it.”

“Adorable,” Spy said, raising an eyebrow. “Per’aps we can finally put the poor thing out of its misery once we arrive, if its valiant effort to get us the next few ’undred feet doesn’t do it for us.”

“Ah, blow it out yer ass, Spy, she’s fine,” Sniper said, hunching slightly over the steering wheel and adding under his breath, “Yer fine, yer fine, just a li’l further…”

Thankfully, despite the increasingly concerning sounds coming from the engine compartment, and Scout’s renewed complaints about the speed of Sniper’s driving with their destination “literally right fuckin’ there, man, come on”, the camper managed to make it past the fence and into the expansive courtyard at the rear of the BLU base before letting out a groaning wheeze and shuddering to a grateful stop. The relief in the sighs and groans of those in the back was almost palpable. Scout clambered over Spy and out the passenger door with a whoop, ignoring the Frenchman’s irate curses as elbows, knees, and cleats jabbed into him in the course of his scrambling passage.

[...]

Sniper saw the red dot on the wall half a second before Scout darted past him, and managed to catch the hem of the younger man’s t-shirt just before he passed out of reach. The echoing crack of a rifle shot accompanied Scout’s yelp as he was yanked backward, and a not insignificant hole appeared in the concrete wall where his head would have been. Spy raised an eyebrow at it, taking another puff off his smoke.

“It seems the Reds are already ’ere,” he said, and Scout started cursing, jerking his shirt out of Sniper’s grip and bolting to the window he’d almost been shot through. Sniper stepped up beside him with a sigh, looking out across the field at the RED base, as Scout started bellowing threats and swears at the top of his lungs.

The RED Sniper was making no attempt to hide himself; he stood in the window of the battlements directly across the field from theirs, rifle raised. The red dot of his sight returned, making Scout hit the deck with another yell as it passed over him, and Sniper crossed his arms over his chest when the little red light drifted there.

“Yeah, we see ya. Wanker.” There was another crack, and he felt the wind of the shot as it passed his cheek. He didn’t flinch.

“Fuckin’- He knows we ain’t fightin’ yet, right?” Scout said, peeking up over the windowsill.

“Of course he does. He’s just bein’ a bloody dipstick,” Sniper said, glowering when his RED counterpart waved, and offering a rude two-fingered gesture in return. He glanced at Spy, who was leaning against the wall beside the window. “Y’know he won’t actually shoot ya. Not yet.”

“While your trust in that filthy convict is encouraging, I’d rather avoid the risk,” Spy said, blowing a plume of smoke toward the window. Another bullet cut through it, making it curl into two distinct, swirling clouds. Spy rolled his eyes. “Ouais, I’ll stay ’ere, out of sight, merci beaucoup.”

Privacy

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

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

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

——

Privacy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Da. Little Pyro enjoys privacy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”