Little Moments: Noise Complaint

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.

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!”

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!

——

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.

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.”

[...]

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.

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!”

[...]

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.

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.”

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]

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.”