Shave And A Haircut Teaser/WIP

In Vino Veritas Teaser/WIP

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

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

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

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

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

——

In Vino Veritas

[...]

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

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

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

Fuck, was he really doing this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dipping my toes back in the pool

Socially awkward intro time!

Ok, so I haven't been on tumblr for... a decade? Close to? God, I feel old... But I was in desperate need of some TF2 fanart after the seventh comic dropped, so I'm back. Created a new account since it feels suuuuper weird going back to my old one and I want a place to post my things in a more coherent and organized manner than my early-twenty-something self.

So yeah! Here we are! To start off, I'm planning on using this blog as a place to throw up the shorts from my (slowly) in-progress TF2 OC fanfic series "Tales of Well" (link to fanfiction.net copy), and any other info or thoughts about it that I feel like sharing. It might eventually transition into a world-building/story-posting blog for my original world (some vastly out-of-date posts on it being available on yet another blog I started around the same time as my first just for my writing), but I'm not sure yet. I've just been doing a lot of work on the shorts lately and want to throw as much of it out there as possible, even if it's not even remotely close to done yet.

If anyone out there stumbles across this and takes a look, welcome, thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

Ta-Da!

Main Character Bios & Info

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

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BLU Scout (“Blue”)

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

BLU Pyro

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

BLU Sniper

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

——

BLU Spy

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

——

RED Scout (“Red”/“Freckles”)

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

——

RED Engineer (“Wrenches”)

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

——

RED Sniper

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Anniversary Teaser/WIP

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

——

Anniversary

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ta yeule! I am no such thing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’Ow ’ave I not murdered you yet?”

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

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

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

“Order up.”

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

[...]

Privacy

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

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

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

——

Privacy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Da. Little Pyro enjoys privacy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Moments: Laundry Day Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

[...]

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

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

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

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

“¡Voy a matarté cabrón!”

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

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

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

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

Scout Hunt Teaser/WIP

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

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

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

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

——

SCOUT HUNT

[...]

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

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

[...]

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

[...]

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

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

[...]

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

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

Respawn Errors Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

Respawn Errors

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

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

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

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

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

“SCOUT?”

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

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

——

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

“Sniper!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously! Hardhat, we been over this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

“Eugh, what the Hel- Mmph!”

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

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

“What the fuck!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wrenches? Issat you?”

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

——