Post-"Tales Of Well" Longfic Basics

Little Moments: Story Time Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

Little Moments: Story Time

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First Day

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

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

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

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

——

First Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

3… 2... 1…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

“That little fucker!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what?”

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

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

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

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation

[...]

“Ozzie! Oz, save me! Oz!”

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

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

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

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

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

“No no no no no-!”

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

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

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

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

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.

The Other Side of the Fence Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

The Other Side of the Fence

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

“Aiden. Please don’t.”

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

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

[...]

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!”

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!

Tales of Well Basics

What it says on the can. Basic background/world info on my TF2 shorts.

Maybe TMI before even posting any of the shorts, but I'm terrible at summaries, so I'd rather just throw up some basic info, to help keep any important setting/mechanics details in one place.

Also see: BLU team bare bones info! RED team bare bones info!

[Taken from ff.net summary] Primarily slice-of-life, romance, and cozy-fiction, with a smattering of action, drama and even, occasionally, glimpses of a larger overarching plot.

Entirely OC cast. Sorry.

Primary focus on the BLU team, particularly Scout, Spy, Pyro, and Sniper, though the RED Scout will also be taking a larger role as the shorts go on.

Pairings (not necessarily all at once): BLU Spy/Scout (not related!), BLU Red Oktoberfest (background), RED Speeding Bullet, RED Texas Two-Step, Scoutcest, cross-faction Flash Fire, Scoutcest-Flash Fire combo (is there a name for that?). [Apologies, but RED Scout is turning into a little bit of a manwhore :P]

Takes place at CP Well in the early 1990s (first short in the timeline takes place March 6, 1993), after the BLU and RED teams (Garrison and Rampart, respectively) transfer from a multi-year stint at Teufort. The majority of both teams worked with (or against) each other at Sawmill for several years before that as well.

One member of each class on each team.

Despite being on a Capture Point map, and participating in Capture Point matches, the teams also frequently partake in Capture the Flag battles, and there are the occasional King of the Hill days and Team Deathmatches thrown in for spice.

There are not fights every day, but the mercs will usually put in at least thirty to thirty-five hours a week on the field. Weekends are usually ceasefire time, but scheduling is erratic: the mercs can fight for nine days straight, then not at all for another five. Matches can last up to eight hours if victory conditions are not met, but stalemates/time-outs of this kind are rare.

Friendly fire is disabled during battle, but teammates can still make physical contact with one another. Friendly fire IS enabled during ceasefire.

Respawn exists, of the "reconstruction from a digital template" variety.

Respawn is enabled during fights, and enabled on a delay during ceasefire. Wounds taken in battle (or during ceasefire) remain until healed or respawned. If killed during ceasefire, but within the respawn area bounds, the deceased will remain in the “respawn void” until the beginning of the next match.

Respawning too often during a single match, or spending too much time in the respawn void, can lead to respawn errors, which can range in seriousness from scarring and minor memory loss to misplaced limbs and organs. Most respawn errors can be corrected by medigun/dispenser healing, a subsequent respawn, or simply the passage of time (respawn errors that fade this way [amnesia, phantom pain, or intense paranoia, for example] usually last no longer than ten minutes, though more severe ones can last for hours), but other errors can prove permanent, or permanently fatal. Usually, respawn errors will begin to appear after fifteen or so respawns in a single match, or more than eighteen hours spent in the respawn void, and the severity of the errors will, in general, be proportional to the number of deaths or time spent in the void.

Before their initial deployment, each merc receives a full medical physical examination from RED/BLU, where they are given injections that grant them increased endurance and pain tolerance, and generally increase their physical hardiness (as well as help to facilitate respawn). These injections also allow for Übercharge, and some classes also receive other abilities (Scouts’ double-jump, for example).

Supply deliveries come once a month, and shipments of improved weapons and gear usually arrive two or three times a year. Not every class will receive gear in each special shipment, though there is rarely equipment for less than three (though “equipment” might be a little generous; hats and other “cosmetic items” are included by this category).

Engineers can set up three sentries, one of each level. However, they are still limited to one dispenser and teleporter at a time.

And there we go. Again, probably way more info than anyone needs, but I'm a world-builder at heart; working out the background details like this is my catnip.

Heart-to-Heart Teaser/WIP

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

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

——

Heart-to-Heart

[...]

“So… how bad was it?”

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

“You got brothers? How many?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

Main Character Bios & Info

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

——

BLU Scout (“Blue”)

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

BLU Pyro

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

BLU Sniper

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

——

BLU Spy

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

——

RED Scout (“Red”/“Freckles”)

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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

——

RED Engineer (“Wrenches”)

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

——

RED Sniper

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

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

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

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

Extra Facts:

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

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

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

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

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