[Updated April 26, 2025]
Putting everything in one place for easy access and reference :) Timeline includes all of the one-shots (and other fics in the "Tales" timeline) that I have planned/started.
Bolded titles are complete (at least tentatively), italicized titles aren't significantly started yet (either just ideas or under 250 words), and everything else is a WIP (most are sitting at 1.5k+ words so far). Also, the ones titled with "Little Moments" are more drabbles than full shorts, usually more light-hearted and goofy, and the ones with "Inner Workings" switch to first-person for little internal monologues. There are also likely to be more shorts added as inspiration strikes me (still got some time to fill between the main body of shorts and the longfics that follow [see bottom of timeline]).
Also now on AO3! ToW on AO3!
Tales of Well Basics Team Garrison (BLU) Bare Bones Basics Team Rampart (RED) Bare Bones Basics Main Character Bios & Info Post-ToW Longfics Basic Info Tales of Sawmill Main Character Basics
Timeline under the cut :)
——
Tales of Sawmill [1983-1988; will (eventually) become its own series] Tales of Teufort [1988-1993; may become its own series as well]
Moving Day
First Day
Privacy
A Special Cigarette
Art Therapy
Untitled (RED Speeding Bullet [smut; *RED Speeding Bullet begins])
Gentle Hands
For the Birds
In Vino Veritas [smut; *BLU Spy/Scout begins]
Untitled (BLU Scout/Spy [smut])
Scout Vs Scout [tent title]
Respawn Errors
Little Moments: Arson Face
Deathmatch
Going Public
Little Moments: Supply Day
Southern Comfort [smut? maybe? still on the fence; *RED Speeding Bullet ends, RED Texas Two-Step begins]
Bloody Suit [tent title]
Untitled (first Trio [Scout/Pyro/Scout] hangout)
Toys [PWP]
Desert Rain
Little Moments: Respawn Errors 2
Proving Oneself
Sick Scout
Heart-to-Heart
Life, Death, and Respawn [tent title]
Little Moments: Long Jump
Check-Up [Six-month mark]
A Bad Idea [smut; *(occasional) Scoutcest begins]
“The Gayest Fuckin’ Conversation of My Life” [*RED Texas Two-Step ends]
Pillow Talk
Munchies Run
Little Moments: Laundry Day
Spawn Camping
Little Moments: BONK!
Line in the Sand
Heat [smut? maybe? *cross-faction Flash Fire begins]
Shave and a Haircut [tent title]
Check-Up 2
Inner Workings: RED Scout - Who Am I?
Little Moments: Story Time
Town Fair
Parle Salement A Moi [PWP]
Little Moments: Spy’s Secret
Anniversary
Strange Feeling
Good Morning [PWP]
Breakfast
A Breach of Trust
Spell-Check [One year mark]
Inner Workings: BLU Spy - Expressions
Grocery Run
Camping [smut; *Flash Fire/Scoutcest-combo begins]
Inner Workings: BLU Scout - I’m Not A Fag
Little Moments: Twinkie
Sick Scout 2
Little Moments: Respawn Errors?
Cockblocked
Dance Lessons
Happy Birthday
I See You
Untitled (RED Sniper tortures Scout)
The Other Side of the Fence
Untitled (Pyro/Spy trapped)
Accessorizing [PWP]
Little Moments: A Ticklish Situation
Float Like a Butterfly
Sting Like a Bee
“Charge Me Doktor!” [PWP]
Lover’s Quarrel
Inner Workings: BLU Pyro - Mine
Night Terrors
Little Moments: Respawn Errors 3
Little Moments: Feliz Cumpleaños
Campfire Songs
Old Dogs
Scout Hunt
Brotherly Love
Those Words
Little Moments: Noise Complaint
Kindred Spirit
Reaper at Your Back
Little Moments: Fishsticks
Little Moments: Brownies [...]
Fast Car
Ink
Our Third [PWP] [...]
Tales of Well: On the Run [longfic] Great White North [longfic]
'Nother WIP. Gonna keep putting up chunks I'm happy with. Hopefully having it up somewhere will help prod my brain back into gear :) As with any of my WIPs, a [...] indicates where the rest is going to eventually go.
Summary: Scout won't shut up, and Spy offers him a cigarette, to get him out of everyone's hair.
——
[...]
“Scout!”
The sharp shout and forceful click of Spy’s cigarette case cut off Scout’s verbal tirade. Spy held one of his precious cigarettes vertically between thumb and forefinger, making sure Scout could see it. It was different from his usual tobacco-delivery vehicles: it was white instead of brown, and thinner, with a twisted tip rather than flat. Scout’s eyes fixed on it and, just for fun, Spy moved his hand back and forth. Scout didn’t seem to realize his gaze followed it, like a dog watching a ball, until Engineer couldn’t quite manage to muffle a snort of laughter. Scout shook his head and glowered at him before turning back to Spy. Spy held his eyes as he laid the smoke on the coffee table before him.
“In return for your agreement to immediately take your ’yperactive, jabbering self elsewhere and save the rest of us a collective psychotic break, I will give you one of my… special cigarettes. If!” He held up an arresting hand when Scout started reaching. “If you take it outside. I do not wish to listen to your virgin lungs ’acking your way through it.”
And it will keep you out of our hair for a few hours at least, Spy thought, lowering his hand and smiling as Scout darted forward to snatch the cigarette. He bolted without another word, the pat-a-pat-a-pat of his steps rapidly retreating down the hall, and Spy heaved a heavy sigh of relief, hearing it echoed by Engineer and Medic.
“Thank God,” Engineer said, returning to his blueprints. “If I’da known that was all it took t’chase him off, I’da taken up smokin’ months ago.”
“Ah, but it is my ineffable charm that makes it look so tempting, non? Besides, mon ami, you lack the… Machiavellian spirit required to manipulate the boy,” Spy said, taking one of his usual brown cigarettes from its case and setting it between his lips. He was smirking as he lit it. “I would feel worse about it, but even I can ’andle only so much of ’is exuberance.” His smirk widened as he blew out a plume of smoke. “And it’s not likely to do ’im any ’arm, so long as ’e is not more paranoid than ’e lets on. Or Soldier finds ’im.”
Engineer gave him a curious look, but Medic smiled in a decidedly evil manner. “Ah, I zhought it did not look like vun of your usual zigaretten. How strong vas it, exactly?”
“Strong enough to keep ’im occupied until dinner, at least, though ’e is likely to have quite an appetite when ’e returns,” Spy said, shrugging when Medic cackled. Engineer’s confusion deepened.
The hard-hatted man frowned between Doc and the too-smug Spy. He knew he was missing something, and he wasn’t sure that the “special cigarette” Scout had absconded with was quite so harmless as Spy seemed to think. He gave his blueprints a longing look, then sighed and set down his pencil, getting to his feet. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, he had a feeling someone should follow Scout and keep an eye on him. Just in case.
——
It had taken Scout way too long to find a way to light the cigarette. He’d tried the kitchen, hoping for matches, but there had been nothing for him there. He’d pestered Demo for the use of his matches or lighter until the damn cyclops had chased him out of his workshop, hollering about “sensitive chemicals” and “needing to concentrate”. Sniper’s nest had been empty, and he was never going to risk going into Pyro’s room again. Finally, his search had brought him to the base’s rear courtyard, and it was there he found his salvation, or at least an ignition source.
Sniper stood at a small folding table set up beside Engie’s “baby”—a double-decker barbeque converted from two halves of an old oil drum and various scrap Engie had pulled from the seemingly unending piles in his workshop; Engie had gotten BLU to bring it along with his truck when the team had moved—while Pyro carefully arranged charcoal briquettes and pieces of scrap wood inside. Though the plates heaped with meat on the table took Scout’s attention for a moment, thoughts of barbeque making his stomach gurgle in anticipation, he was mostly able to keep his focus on the happily humming firebug in the heavy rubber suit.
“Yo, Py, y’got a light I can borrow- Whoa, shit!”
Pyro spun quickly, and he had his flamethrower in his hands. Fuck, where had he been keeping that thing? Scout threw his hands up when the weapon’s muzzle swung to point directly at his face, though he was forced to lower them again when he dropped the cigarette, fumbling to catch it without crushing it. His flailing, and Pyro’s soft growls, drew Sniper’s attention, and the sharpshooter raised an eyebrow when he saw what Scout held.
“Well now, whatcha got there, Twinkle Toes?” he said, stepping forward and resting a hand on Pyro’s shoulder. That settled him somewhat; he stopped growling, at least. Scout flipped Pyro the bird—and had to dance back when Pyro let loose a small jet from his flamethrower—before he held out the cigarette for Sniper to inspect.
“One’a Spy’s smokes,” he said proudly, puffing his chest out. “It’s special, too; he said so, and it ain’t brown like all his other ones. He told me to come smoke it out here, and I was lookin’ for fuckin’ matches, but Py’s out here so I thought I’d ask him for a light.”
He cast a glare at the younger man, but Pyro’s hostility had faded into genuine curiosity over the small white cylinder in Scout’s hand. He leaned in close to peer at it (or Scout assumed he was peering from behind the huge lenses of that creepy-ass mask), and even gave it an experimental prod with one rubber-gloved finger. Sniper smiled and straightened, tipping his hat back.
“Looks special, alright,” he said, scratching his forehead with a chuckle. “Well, I hope y’have fun. I’ll make sure t’throw a few extra hot dogs on the barbie for ya.”
“Thaaaanks…” Scout said, frowning as Sniper turned back to his meat preparation, and he returned his attention to Pyro. The firestarter was still staring at the cigarette in his hand with something that Scout was fairly sure was awe. “So, ya got a light?”
Pyro straightened and Scout flinched when he swung the flamethrower’s muzzle up again. This time, though, he held it at a comfortable distance, tilted so the pilot light sat at prime cigarette-lighting height. Scout whooped and offered his profuse thanks as he set the cigarette between his lips and carefully leaned forward. He’d seen Spy light his smokes hundreds of times, if not off the end of a flamethrower. Just hold it to the fire and inhale-
The first rush of smoke came with a burnt, earthy flavour he didn’t find entirely unpleasant, but it was also accompanied by an intense, scratchy burning in the back of his throat that had him doubled over hacking. He steadied himself with his hands on his knees, choking and coughing until he was half sure he was going to die. The burning slowly faded, however, and he was left with a dizzying lightness in his head when he was finally able to straighten up. He swayed, holding up the cigarette to peer at it critically.
He took another puff, more carefully, and held the smoke briefly in his lungs before exhaling; Pyro watched him in blatant fascination. Scout still coughed, but it wasn’t as harsh and didn’t last as long. By the time he’d finished, he felt… floaty. Light. It actually wasn’t half bad.
Five minutes later, Engineer found himself looking upon a strange sight as he came out the base’s back door. Pyro sat cross-legged by the trunk of the scraggly little tree that shaded the rear of the courtyard, while Scout hung upside-down in front of him by his knees from one of the tree’s lower branches. The speedy Bostonian seemed surprisingly sedate, even considering his odd position. As Engie strode up, he took a puff from the “cigarette”, holding the smoke in his mouth before blowing a stream toward the filters in Pyro’s mask. He giggled before he’d finished exhaling, and the remaining smoke ended up being expelled by laughter-laced coughs.
Sniper still stood by the unlit barbeque, but his full attention was on the pair at the tree. He looked over at Engie when he got close, grinning unabashedly. “Gotta say, it’s one’a Spy’s more entertainin’ notions, eh?”
Engie shook his head, tucking his hands in the pockets of his overalls, and said, “The Hell did he give the kid?”
“Just a li’l of th’old ganja, if I had to take a guess, mate,” Sniper said, his grin widening impossibly further when Scout leaned forward to blow more smoke at Pyro and ended up falling from his branch into Pyro’s lap. It was a short fall; Scout was giggling again seconds after he’d landed on the firebug. “S’pose if anyone could get their hands on it, it’d be the spook, but Scooter musta been runnin’ ya pretty ragged for him to resort to it.”
“Oh, he was doin’ that fer certain, damn motor-mouth,” Engie said, smiling as he watched Pyro roll a still-giggling Scout off his lap into the dirt. “So Spy gave him weed?”
Sniper chuckled, nodding. “Yup. Recognized the smell right away, but I doubt the kid’s run across it enough to know it. Gotta say, we shoulda thought of this earlier. Whatever ganj Spy can get his hands on is probably strong enough to slow down a stampedin’ elephant, never mind a hyperactive scrawny manchild.”
[...]
Again, what it says on the can! There'll be less focus on the Reds than the Blues over the course of the shorts, though a few will (eventually) take more prominent roles. They aren't quite as fully realized in my head as the Blues are yet (aside from the aforementioned few), so they might sound a little trope-y/archetypal in their descriptions. They'll grow, though; my boys always do :)
Age: 18 (almost 19) Nationality: American (New York [Brooklyn]) Time w/ RED: N/A [begins “First Day”] Height: 5’4 Hair: Strawberry-blond, fade Eye Colour: Light brown Build: Thin, well-defined legs Distinguishing Features: Buck teeth, freckles (literally everywhere: face [particularly over nose and cheekbones], neck, shoulders, back, legs, and arms)
Fresh meat. Recruited to RED to replace Team Rampart’s recently (permanently) deceased Scout, and still trying to find his footing in the world of RED and BLU’s bizarre “war”.
Looks like he’s in his mid-teens, at most, thanks to his height (or lack thereof) and babyface. He hates it.
Young and friendly, but not as naïve as one might expect, and has enough attitude for someone thrice his size when pushed too far.
Age: 34 Nationality: American (Georgia [Savannah]) Time w/ RED: 5 years, 3 months Height: 5’8 Hair: Dirty blond, buzz cut Eye Colour: Dark brown Build: Stout, broad-shouldered and -chested Distinguishing Features: Customized Gunslinger (right hand), perpetual five o'clock shadow
More stoic and reserved than his BLU counterpart, though it is largely due to his teammates being, on the whole, less friendly than the Blues. Perfectly willing to open up to and relax with the right people, though he can be quite picky about who exactly the “right people” are.
Has a deep love of machines and robotics, to the point that it may be slightly unhealthy (he had a perfectly functional right hand before he received blueprints for the Gunslinger). It’s not uncommon for him to skip meals and lose sleep while working on a new sentry upgrade or the schematics for a new gadget.
The guy to vent to if you need to get something off your chest. He may not have much to offer by way of advice, depending on the situation, but he’ll listen and empathize and won’t judge, and no one will ever hear a word of what’s been told to him in confidence.
Age: 31 Nationality: Australian (Queensland [primarily Outback]) Time w/ RED: 8 years, 6 months Height: 6’2 Hair: Brown, short, messy Eye Colour: Brown Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Distinguishing Features: “Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril
The best word to describe him is likely “intense”. His smile, his stare, his presence: all of it gives the impression of tightly contained ferocity and force, and something… unsettling just below the surface.
A loner who’s rarely seen around base during ceasefire unless he’s after something specific. Spends most of his time off the field either in his nest or hunting out past the fences.
Sadistically cruel to his enemies; prefers using his Huntsman and kukri during fights for more visceral kills. Also has a deep hatred of the BLU Spy, a feeling that is returned with interest.
The Rest
Soldier: A violently delusional madman. Frequently observed conversing with his shovel (her name is Miss Tabitha, and you will show her the respect a lady of her calibre deserves), and as quick to lash out at his teammates as his enemies, if he feels they deserve it.
Pyro: Never seen out of his (their? its?) suit. Ever. No one knows if they are male, female, or even human. Enjoys blood almost as much as they enjoy fire; the Axetinguisher is their favourite weapon.
Demoman: An alcoholic, red-headed Irishman with an uncanny knowledge of chemicals and explosives. Still has both of his eyes (so far), but is missing two fingers off his left hand and is more than a little hearing impaired.
Heavy: The strong, silent type, who will crush you like an empty soda can if you get on his nerves.
Medic: Psychotic. Sadistic. Terrifying. Definitely should not be practicing medicine in any capacity. Sees his teammates more as test subjects than potential patients, and isn’t afraid to tell them so.
Spy: Despite being a mercenary with RED for almost six years, he is 100% certain that he is too good for this shit. Arrogant, self-centered, and vain. Has been forcing (thoroughly unwanted) romantic advances on the BLU Engineer for years to keep himself entertained.
What it says on the can! Some details about my BLU boys. Eventually might put up proper bios for everyone, but for now, just some very basics about who they are. Scout, Pyro, Sniper, and Spy are the primary focus on the BLU team, so they've got a little more info. I'll throw up the RED one soon, once I've actually got it done (it won't be as long, though).
Age: 23 Nationality: American (Massachusetts [Boston]) Time w/ BLU: 13 months Height: 5’11 Hair: Light brown, crew cut Eye Colour: Hazel Build: Slim, broad-shouldered, well-defined legs Distinguishing Features: N/A
[Technically the main character? At least in the beginning.]
The prototypical Scout. An arrogant, loud-mouthed, hard-brawling boy from Boston, with a single ma, eight older brothers, and enough energy (even without his monthly supply of Bonk) to drive even the most patient of his teammates up the wall.
The biggest pain in everyone’s ass. General levels of tolerance for him and his antics range from Engie and Sniper’s resigned acceptance to Soldier and Medic’s near-homicidal antipathy.
Unapologetically offensive (though racism is generally off the table. Homophobia is fair game, though). Curses constantly, insults everyone he meets, and loves to push people’s buttons to see how much of a rise he can get out of them.
Age: 20 Nationality: Mexican (Santa Ana) Time w/ BLU: 12 months Height: 5’9 Hair: Black, chin length, long bangs Eye Colour: Brown Build: Underweight, defined arms Distinguishing Features: Third-degree burn scar: left arm, elbow to shoulder; left side, mid-ribs to armpit; back, left side, mid-back to upper shoulder; neck, left side; left cheek from jaw to cheekbone (primarily hypertrophic scarring, some contracture on left shoulder)
Almost never seen out of his suit and mask, and rarely spends time with the rest of the team. He showers and eats on his own, and barely leaves his room during ceasefire, usually only emerging for the occasional visits with Engie in his workshop, or to burn things.
He was “convinced” to show his face by Scout several months ago at Teufort (during a very long weekend of Bonk-induced harassment), and hasn’t really forgiven him for it yet.
Is only really comfortable around Engie and Medic. He will only speak to the two of them willingly without his mask, and if he’s not in his room, Engie’s workshop is the next best place to look for him.
Age: 38 Nationality: Australian (Northern Territory [primarily Outback]) Time w/ BLU: 11 years, 3 months [longest-serving merc] Height: 6’5 Hair: Dark brown, short, messy, long sideburns Eye Colour: Dark blue Build: Thin, broad-shouldered Distinguishing Features: “Sniper scar”: left cheekbone and side of left nostril, perpetual five o'clock shadow
Team Garrison’s unofficial leader.
He and Spy have been on the same team since Spy was recruited at Sawmill a decade ago. He considers Spy to be his best friend and they give off major “old married couple” energy, despite their relationship being entirely platonic. 100% heterosexual life partners.
More friendly than a lot of Snipers, and is seen around base more often during ceasefire. He has a camper van, but it’s more a means of transport than a home. He actually sleeps in his provided room in the barracks most nights, and is usually the first one up in the morning (he makes the coffee).
Age: 41 Nationality: (Assumed) French Time w/ BLU: 10 years, 1 month Height: 5’8 Hair: Wouldn't you like to know? Eye Colour: Light grey Build: Slender Distinguishing Features: N/A
Like Sniper, more friendly and less reserved than one might expect of a typical member of his class. He’s been at this “war” long enough to not take things too seriously any more, and he’s grown to have at least some degree of affection for the rest of the team over the years.
Incredibly nosy, and a shameless gossip. Knows more about the rest of the team than they would ever expect.
Surprising absolutely everyone (including himself), he’s found himself on unexpectedly friendly terms with Scout. He’s one of the few that Scout will actually sit down with long enough to have an actual conversation with.
Soldier: Utterly devoted to the cause, and expects the best from the rest of the men, to an often infuriating degree.
Demoman: An alcoholic, one-eyed, Black Scotsman. Suspiciously similar to the Team Fortress Demoman, Tavish DeGroot. The “fun older brother” of the team; one of the few members of Team Garrison that tolerates, and even sometimes enjoys, Scout’s particular brand of obnoxious, hyperactive jackassery.
Heavy: Uncle Heavy. Laid-back and easy-going, more than willing to sit and chill with the guys, drinking a few beers and shooting the shit. Very protective of his team, especially Medic (his “husband”).
Engineer: The team dad. Quiet, friendly, and down-to-earth. Always willing to sit and listen to any of the guys’ problems and try to help them sort through them. The only married merc, and the only parent: he has two young daughters (nine and eleven years old) back home that he will gladly talk anyone’s ear off about.
Medic: The chronically exasperated mother-hen of Team Garrison. Austrian, despite Soldier’s unwavering belief that he must be German (due to German being his mother tongue). Oldest merc at 58 years old, a fact which Scout never lets him forget. Has a pet turtle dove named Rokitansky (after the Austrian physician and pathologist [not anything to do with rockets in spite of, again, Soldier’s certainty that this is the case]) who lives in the Infirmary. Has been in a loving relationship with Heavy since their days at Sawmill.
An actual coherent WIP, with (mostly) complete scenes and no randomly ending in the middle of a scene! Technically a WIP since there's going to be a lot more to this short; I guess this could be considered as part one of Respawn Errors? Even though I do want to post the whole short as one piece once it's done. I dunno, just wanted to throw this up.
Summary: Something's gone wrong with respawn...
——
You could always feel a respawn error. The fact that there was any feeling at all told you what it was. Respawn was painless, entirely sensationless even. You died, then opened your eyes again in the respawn room as good as new. It took ten, or fifteen, or however many seconds (depending on how often you’d died already), but it felt like no more than a blink. Just dead, then not.
Respawn errors, though… Whether it ended up just leaving you with a new scar, or rearranging your organs in all kinds of fun and painful ways, you felt it. Sometimes it was something as simple as pain or injury, but there was also full-body pins and needles, memory loss, nausea, panic attacks, dizziness: the whole list of shitty side effects.
This was different. BLU’s Scout had experienced more than his fair share of errors, enough to know what could be considered “normal”, under the circumstances. This time there was no pain, no nausea, none of the usual unpleasantness. Instead, there was a… giddiness. A flush of almost orgasmic ecstasy that raced from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He felt stretched, then compressed, and then the entire world—such as it was, in the void—pulsed.
He opened his eyes in the respawn room, gasping and stumbling as he hadn’t since his earliest days with BLU. Something was… not wrong. Different. His hands flew, feeling across his torso, arms, legs, crotch, head. Nothing felt out of place, and he didn’t seem to be growing anything new. He wasn’t spitting blood, and his memory was still intact; he remembered the RED Soldier’s shovel swinging in to split his skull all too well. There had to have been an error, though.
He looked around, and froze. He was… He was usually taller than the benches in the respawn room, right? Wait, of course he was taller than the fucking benches, what the fuck was was he thinking? Why did they seem so tall, then? And everything else, for that matter. The lockers were steel cliffs a good thirty feet away, and the handle of one of Hardhat’s toolboxes sat right at his eyeline.
“SCOUT?”
Scout yelped and covered his ears, looking up to see who’d screamed at him. Up, and up, and up… His eyes went wide, and his hands fell limply to his sides.
“Hardhat…? I- I think I need some help.”
——
There he was, the tricky wanker. Sniper rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. He’d been trying to get a clear shot on the damn RED Sniper for the last hour, but the bastard was always just too far around a corner, or just below a windowsill. Now he was sitting pretty, thinking he was so clever, ducked down behind a shipping container with his Huntsman and waiting to nip off any Blues who made it over the moat. Bloody drongo, Sniper thought, settling his rifle stock against his shoulder and laying his finger on the trigger. Gotta wait for just the right-
“Sniper!”
He jerked, scope jittering away from his target. God, he’d been sitting still too long if he was this twitchy. He cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth, and slowly turned from the balcony window he’d been sniping through.
“Truckie, you’d better have a damn good reason for interruptin’ my- What the bloody Hell!”
He leapt back from what Engineer thrust toward him. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. It looked to be a perfect, doll-sized replica of Scout. And it was cursing furiously in a tiny voice as it flailed and writhed in Engie’s hold.
“Lemme go, Hardhat! This ain’t fuckin’ funny! Put me the fuck down! This ain’t fuckin’ helpin’!”
Sniper bent down slightly, pushing up his aviators. “Strewth… Is that Scout?”
“Fuckin’ right it’s Scout, numbnuts!” The tiny figure in Engie’s hands pedalled his feet desperately before going limp with a defeated sigh.
Sniper couldn’t believe it. It was Scout, maybe a foot tall but otherwise still bearing perfect adult proportions. Engie held him with a hand under each armpit, though he was small and thin enough that one hand easily could have encircled his entire body. Sniper curiously tipped back the bill of Scout’s tiny cap; a baseball bat about as long and thick as a half-used pencil swatted his hand.
“Hey, fuck off!” Scout barked. His voice was high and almost tinny, but distinctively Scout’s for all that. “Will ya quit starin’ and fuckin’ help me? Hardhat’s just been runnin’ around lookin’ for ya, holdin’ me in this-” He looked over his shoulder at Engineer and bellowed schreechily, “-fuckin’ retarded way! I can fuckin’ walk, gears for brains!”
Engie frowned at Scout, but set him down on the crate that Sniper used as a coffee table during fights; Sniper’s tall coffee mug stood almost as high as Scout’s waist. Scout started to sit, but, realizing the mug would likely be taller than him if he did, remained standing with a scowl. He started pacing across the crate-top instead, his cleats making a soft tik-tik-tik against the wood.
Sniper did sit, and Engie as well—they were still beside the window in plain view, when all was said and done. Lighting a cigarette, Sniper watched Scout sulkily stalk from one side of the crate to the other, occasionally giving the coffee mug or that one exposed nailhead a kick.
“So… how in the Hell-?” he started, frowning when Scout winced and covered his ears.
“Christ, lower the volume, wombat,” he said. “Ev’rythin’s right loud.”
Sniper raised an eyebrow, but obligingly lowered his voice. “What happened?” He frowned at Engie. “Don’t tell me this is some kinda experiment ya roped him into?”
“Hell no!” Engie yelped, and Scout cursed.
“Seriously! Hardhat, we been over this!”
“Sorry, son, sorry,” Engie said, patting Scout on the head. Scout growled at him. “But this wasn’t me. I think somethin’s gone wrong with the respawn system. Real wrong.” He poked Scout in the side, which sent him stumbling halfway across the crate. “Tell him.”
Scout glared, rubbing his ribs, but he sighed and looked over at Sniper. “It felt like a respawn error, kinda. I mean, the fuckin’ RED Soldier bashed me, and I was actually feelin’ shit before I came back. It felt… nice, though. Kinda. I dunno!” He threw up his hands. “I just died and fuckin’ respawned like this! Hardhat was already there, and he brought me t’you so we could try to figure this shit out.”
“I think that when-” Engie made a soothing gesture when Scout flinched and opened his mouth to scold again. He said more softly, “I think that earlier, when the Demos went boom and took out halfa both teams, it was too many simultaneous respawns fer the system t’handle. Now it’s all… screwy. I gotta admit, I came out just a li’l before Scout and I felt the same kinda thing. Doesn’t seem t’be anythin’ wrong with me yet, though.”
“Bullshit,” Scout said. “Total bullshit. I get the fuckin’ Thumbelina treatment and Engie’s fuckin’ fine?”
“I said there ain’t nothin’ wrong yet, son,” Engie said. He looked uncharacteristically grim. “Who knows what mighta happened that just ain’t had the chance t’trigger yet?”
Sniper took a drag from his cigarette and scratched at the long scar running along his left cheekbone. “Has anyone else respawned since? D’ya know?”
“I saw the RED Scout bite it on our way over here, but I dunno if the Reds are havin’ the same problem,” Engie said, chuckling when Sniper blew a weak plume of smoke at Scout, who coughed and staggered, waving his hand frantically before his face. “I didn’t see any a’ours, but who knows what’s happened in the last couple minutes?”
Sniper grunted. The sounds of battle beyond the sniper deck hadn’t stopped during the course of their conversation. Scout was peeking out the window, having moved away from the smoke cloud and leaning carefully around the edge of the frame. He winced when blue Pyro-chunks went fountaining up in front of him.
“Pyro’s out,” he said, shrugging and stepping back from the window to lean against Sniper’s mug. “Maybe we should head back to the respawn room, meet up with him and see if anythin’s wrong.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea, Twinkle Toes,” Sniper said. He got to his feet, tucked into the corner, and plucked Scout up by the back of his shirt. Scout yelped and squirmed, but settled once Sniper lowered him onto his shoulder. He chortled—which was odd in itself; Scout didn’t chortle—and stood with his feet firmly planted against Sniper’s vest and a hand keeping him steady by gripping Sniper’s hat.
“Whoo! Hi-yo Silver! Awaaaaay!” he crowed, pointing in the direction of the respawn room. Engie snorted behind a hand, and Sniper rubbed his eyes with a weary groan on his way down the ramps.
“How is he even more annoyin’ when ya shave him down by five feet?”
“Less talkin’, more walkin’! Mush, wombat! Mush! To Pyro!”
——
Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Breathing was hard, his limbs felt heavy, and his clothes were way too warm and tight. The RED Scout groaned, eyes squeezed shut, and laid a hand against his forehead, battling nausea and a throbbing pain in his temples as he respawned. What the fuck?
“Eugh, what the Hel- Mmph!”
Scout slapped a hand over his mouth. That was not his voice. That was not his voice. It was deep and a little raspy, and there wasn’t any of the usual (slight) whistly lisping that came from his not-really-that-big-fuck-you front teeth. The usual inflections were there, but it lacked the pitch and smoothness that he’d come to associate with his own golden pipes over the years.
He coughed and cleared his throat, and was about to speak again when he caught sight of the hand he’d coughed into. He stared, raising the hand, fingers spread, before his face. The fingers were long and slender, and clothed in black leather. Gloves. He never wore gloves, especially not gloves like these, which even to Scout’s eyes looked fancy and expensive.
“What the fuck!”
That voice! It wasn’t his voice! He looked down at himself, and wailed. There was no familiar red t-shirt and dark grey-brown pants, high white socks and worn red sneakers. Instead, there was finely crafted, almost brick-red Italian wool—suit jacket, waistcoat, and pants—and he could feel some kind of smooth, flowy fabric encasing his arms beneath the jacket. Even his underwear felt… soft. Kinda nice, actually…
“Ugh, Dio mio, what ith thith fresh Hell?”
Scout spun, and recoiled with a yell. That was him! He was standing there, a few feet away. It was like looking in a mirror, if the image in the mirror had suddenly stepped through and taken a life of its own. It spoke with his voice, muttering barely audible curses, and looked thoroughly disgruntled. Scout felt sick.
He cautiously shuffled forward and poked… himself in the shoulder, drawing a sharp flinch and a decidedly un-him-like sneer.
“Are… are you me?” he said weakly. The man that looked like him rolled his eyes and flicked him sharply in the forehead. The familiar gesture drew out an equally familiar response:
“Aw, fuck off Spy!” Scout blinked, and stared. “Spy?”
“Obviouthly, you mitherable petht.” Spy-in-Scout’s-body glowered, crossing his arms over his chest. Scout’s chest. Fuck, this was weird. “Ugh, why can’t I thpe- thpea- speak properly? Merda, thith ith- thisss isss-” He threw up his hands. “Nel nome di Dio! What ith wrong with you!”
“Wrong with me? I can barely fuckin’ breathe, my head’s fuckin’ killin’ me, I feel like I’m gonna puke, and I’m in your fuckin’ body, apparently! That’s what’s fuckin’ wrong with me!” Scout snapped back. “What the fuck is goin’ on!”
[...]
Spy was silent for a long moment, just looking at him, before he said, “Have you had a thig-” He closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and continued in a more deliberate and grating tone, “Have you had a cigarette since you respawned? Merda de Dio…”
Scout blinked again and opened up his—Spy’s—suit jacket, searching for the pocket where Spy kept his disguise kit. Spy rolled his eyes and Scout yelped when he slapped his hands away and dug through the jacket’s left inside pocket—and his pants pocket—to retrieve the disguise kit and an engraved Zippo lighter. Muttering to himself in Italian, Spy took out a cigarette, almost put it in his own mouth, then groaned and handed it to Scout. Scout reached for the lighter, but Spy flicked it to life himself and lit the cigarette for him before stuffing the lighter and disguise kit in his pocket. Scout’s pocket. Scout’s body’s pocket. Scout pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to shake off another wave of… he could only call it “existential confusion”. He’d put up with some pretty freaky shit in the time since he’d signed on with RED, but this definitely took the fucking cake.
He took a puff on the cigarette, grimacing at the taste and the burn in his throat and on his tongue. How could Spy smoke these things? Weed he could get behind, but cigarettes were just fucking gross. The throbbing in his temples almost immediately lessened, though, and the nausea receded. He even felt a little more relaxed. He took another puff, and crossed his arms over his chest as he slowly started feeling less like he’d been run through the tumble-dryer on high. He looked down at the still lispily muttering Spy (oh fuck, was he really that fucking short?) and let out a sigh.
“If ya buzz the esses like zees when ya talk, ya won’t lisp as much,” he said, “or keep yer tongue further back from yer teeth when ya say ’em.” He shrugged when Spy shot him a suspicious look. “I don’t want ya makin’ me sound like a fuckin’ lispin’ moron.”
“But that ith… is so far removed from the truth, I would not want to sound disingenuous,” Spy said, blinking and making a small sound of surprise; the lisp, and the slight whistling accompanying it, still clung, but it was definitely less pronounced. “It actually works. Huhn.”
Scout rolled his eyes. “After years a’speech therapy, I’d hope it fuckin’ works.” He took another puff and looked for a spot to ash, eventually settling on just ashing off to the side when no likely ashtray presented itself. “Now that y’can talk without givin’ yourself an aneurysm, will ya tell me what the fuck is happenin’? Is this…”
He had been going to say “normal”, but the word was so far from their current situation, he couldn’t get it out. Spy grimaced and looked down at himself, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.
“No, this is not something I have ever heard of, or experienced, before,” he said. He examined his hands closely, frowning at the calluses on his fingers. “Respawn errors are a fact of life out here, but this is decidedly abnormal.”
“‘Abnormal’? Understatement a’the fuckin’ century there, pal,” Scout grumbled. In his (admittedly limited) experience, respawn errors meant a headache, or feeling dizzy, or needing to puke. This was… “This is so fucked up. What the fuck are we supposed to do? Die again and see if it gets fixed?”
“Under more ordinary circumstances, suicide may be preferable to our current situation,” Spy said wryly, “but if respawn is malfunctioning badly enough to cause-” His mouth twisted. “-whatever this is, I would rather avoid risking it failing completely if I die again. So, no, dying again is something that we should do our best to avoid, I think, if at all possible.”
“It was just a suggestion, Jesus Christ,” Scout said. “I don’t hear you offerin’ anythin’ to get us outta this.”
“Because I have not had a chance to think, between shepherding you through how to satisfy nicotine cravings and trying to figure out how your malformed mouth works.” Spy ignored Scout’s indignant “Hey!”, and rubbed at his forehead, shutting his eyes. “Ingegnere is our best chance to fix this, clearly. Respawn is facilitated by a machine in some capacity, after all. More complex than his sentries, but he is still more likely to have at least some idea of what to do with it than anyone else. We should go find him, and see-”
A sharp electrical bzzzt filled the respawn room and Scout and Spy both covered their ears with cries of pain. For a few endless, agonizing seconds, Scout felt like his entire skull was being criss-crossed by live electrical wires; it was as though all of the bones in his head were vibrating. His vision faded into a void of white, and he heard nothing but a nerve-piercingly high, almost electronic whine. It was like chewing on foil or hearing nails on a chalkboard, but a million times worse.
Then, in a blink, it was gone. Completely. No fading or winding down; just gone, as if a switch had been flipped. Scout let out a hard breath and lowered his hands from the sides of his head. Oh, come the fuck on! What now? He didn’t need any more weird shit on top of everything else going on right now. He looked quickly around the room. Everything seemed the same. Spy stood before him (still in Scout’s body, unfortunately), though he was now cursing and rubbing his ears, and nothing about the respawn room itself had changed.
Wait. One of Wrenches’s toolboxes sat a little ways behind Spy. That hadn’t been there before. Frowning, Scout stepped past Spy and reached for the toolbox’s handle.
The toolbox unfolded with a smart snap before his fingers came within an inch of it, and Scout yelled and jumped back as a sentry started assembling itself before him. The clack and rattle of metal was the only sound after that brief cry as both he and Spy stared, watching the level one sentry build itself up before settling with a sharp, high beep. The turret head swiveled around the room, more quickly than Scout had ever seen a sentry move. It turned its barrel first on Scout, then on Spy. It beeped again, swiveled back to Scout, then to Spy, still moving too fast. Scout frowned when the sentry let out another beep, this one shriller, almost a sound of alarm. He glanced at Spy, who was scrutinizing the sentry with an air of blatant disbelief. There was no fucking way…
Swallowing hard, Scout crouched down to the sentry’s level. Its turret swung back to him, its barrel extending and retracting as it continued emitting periodic alarm beeps, and Scout hesitantly reached out to lay a hand on top of it.
“Wrenches? Issat you?”
He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry when the sentry bobbed its turret up and down in an unmistakable nod.
——
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?
——
[...]
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 first short chronologically. Been having way too much trouble just getting my wording right when I try to continue it (it's just the BLUs arriving at and exploring the new base and getting settled in ffs) but I've got the opening and part of a scene later on (separated by [...]) and I figured, fuck it, I'll throw it up. Probably end up deleting this post once the full short is done, but it's been bugging me having the second short be the first one that I posted anything for :/
It's pretty safe to assume any short with one or both Scouts in it will have excessive f-bombs; this one does.
Summary: The BLU team arrives at their new home.
——
Sniper had never thought his camper van small. For one man with limited spatial requirements and little desire for luxury, he thought it was perfect. It had a tiny kitchenette with a stove, fridge, and diner-style table, a cubby bed tucked up over the cab and a pull-out folded into the sofa along the back wall (and the kitchen’s table and benches could be converted into a bed, too, in a pinch), and even a little bathroom with a shower and flush toilet. He’d seen some of the monstrosities that tourists liked to roll around in, more full trailer homes on wheels than proper camper vans, and could only shake his head, wondering who could possibly need so much extra space.
On the long drive from Teufort to Well, however, he had to wonder if maybe something a little bigger would have been so bad.
It was supposed to be a simple two hour drive, moving Builders’ League United’s Team Garrison to their new base. A few dozen clicks or so of empty desert backroad—boring, but easy. Easy, if one didn’t consider the innumerable potholes in the barely maintained road, or the fact that there were nine mostly large men jammed into the camper’s few, not very large seats in hundred-plus degree heat. It was now approaching the midpoint of the third hour of their two hour trip, and none of them were particularly happy about it.
Despite multiple stops already to stretch their legs and get some air—and once to replace a tire fallen victim to one of the many, many goddamn potholes—everyone was feeling hot and cramped. Even up in the cab, with the windows down to allow in as much breeze as possible, it was sweltering, and bloody bright. Sniper could feel a rager of a headache building in his temples after so long staring at the black strip of asphalt in the endless waste of sun-baked dirt—even through his sunglasses, it was like staring into the Goddamn sun—and Spy, in the passenger seat beside him, had discarded his suit jacket in a rare concession to the heat. There had been a few grumbles from the back, but so far, most of the team had had the courtesy to keep their dissatisfaction to themselves in such tight, uncomfortable quarters, so as to not make the extended trip any more unpleasant.
Most of them.
“Are we fuckin’ there yet?”
A chorus of displeased groans followed on the heels of that most hated of road-trip questions, and Sniper’s tightening grip squeaked on the steering wheel. He’d known it was coming—really, it surprised him that it had taken this long—but he still had to unclench his jaw before he could reply.
“No, Scout,” he grated out, trying and failing to keep the annoyance from his tone, “we’re not there yet. Can see the base, though; shouldn’t be much longer.”
The heat-distorted silhouette of their future home had first risen out of the craggy desert landscape in the distance not even a minute before, and had only just begun really gaining distinction from its surroundings as the road’s meandering track led them on toward it. Sniper judged they had another five minutes of unnecessary twists and turns—maybe fifteen, on this shithole road—before they reached it. If Scout could’ve kept his damn mouth shut for just another fifteen minutes…
The sounds of scuffling and scrambling were accompanied by another outburst from those in the back, seemingly propelling Scout into the camper’s cab on a wave of outraged cries. He nearly impaled himself on the center console in his haste to see out the front windshield; Spy pressed a hand to his skinny chest to keep him from throwing himself straight into the glass. Scout didn’t seem to notice: he was still fully leaning into Spy’s hand when his face split in a massive grin at the sight of the structures looming in the distance.
“Fuck yeah! S’about fuckin’ time!” he said. Sniper rolled his eyes when Scout leaned further into the cab, finally brushing away Spy’s hand and fully blocking Sniper’s view of the road as he tried to get a look at the speedometer. “Christ, why’re ya goin’ so fuckin’ slow, wombat? We’re almost there and yer drivin’ like my fuckin’ gramma.”
Sniper shoved Scout out of his way with a hand in the face, and said, “I can’t go any faster if I can’t see the bloody road. Gonna send us straight into another pothole, and I don’t have a second spare tire, so unless ya wanna walk the rest a’the way?”
“I could probably get there fuckin’ faster,” Scout griped, but he subsided somewhat, bracing himself crouched in the cab’s threshold. He popped up every few seconds, though, to peer out at the slowly approaching base. He reminded Sniper of—funnily enough—a wombat, peeking in and out of its hole. A very talkative, vulgar wombat.
“Seriously, who the fuck drew up this road? A straight fuckin’ line from here to there, how hard would thatta been? They can afford to pay us hundreds a’grand a year, and they invented fuckin’ respawn, for Christ’s sake, but they can’t fill in a few ditches and blow up a few rocks so we can have a fuckin’ straight road? Wait, is that fuckin’ train tracks? We’re drivin’ through the desert in the fuckin’ hobo rape-van, and we coulda taken the fuckin’ train?”
“It’s not a ‘rape-van’, ya bloody whelp,” Sniper growled, tugging the bill of Scout’s baseball cap down over his eyes and cutting a glare at Spy when his cough didn’t quite cover a tight chuckle. “There’s no direct line from Teufort to here. Drivin’, even on this sorry excuse of a road, is faster than havin’ t’switch trains three’r four times.”
“Man, if the Reds got ta take the train, I’m gonna be so fuckin’ pissed,” Scout said, straightening his hat. “What if they got there already an’ they’re fuckin’ with all our shit?”
“The base and battlefield ’ere are far larger than at Teufort, and ’ave far superior security,” Spy said, taking a drag from his ever-present cigarette. “The battlefield is fair game, but there are bulk’eads at each barracks’ entrance, so the Reds should not be able to get in.” He held his hand out the window to let the wind take the ash from the tip of his cigarette. “We won’t need to worry about that ostie ‘Alarm-o-Tron’ nonsense any more, at least, with a proper security system in place.”
“Hey, I liked the Alarm-o-Tron. There was some fun shit on there,” Scout said, grinning. “‘The RED Spy is a woman!’ Fuckin’ classic.”
“Mmm, Rosso never ’as quite forgiven you for that, ’as ’e?” Spy said with a chuckle, and Sniper had to smile. That had been a good few days, after Engineer had finally given into Scout’s pestering and showed him how the enormous alert board in the Teufort base’s basement worked, even if Scout had eventually turned his Alarm-o-Tron antics on his teammates. Seeing the Reds losing their minds over the sporadic (and usually ridiculous) alerts blaring through their base (“The RED Sniper is about to explode!” was one of the BLU sharpshooter’s personal favourites) had provided better entertainment than they usually had in months.
“M’still not convinced the RED Pyro ain’t a fuckin’ vampire,” Scout said, a thoughtful frown crossing his face. “I mean, we never seen him out a’that suit durin’ the day, and he’s a bloodthirsty motherfucker, always usin’ his fuckin’ axe… Why else would the Alarm-o-Tron have ‘is a vampire’ on it if someone ain’t one?”
“Because RED ’n’ BLU are run by a buncha loons,” Sniper said, snorting and rolling his eyes. The camper bumped over a raised patch of asphalt, and he winced when something started rattling under the bonnet. He could see the road actually leading into the base now. One more turn and then a surprisingly straight stretch to the barbed-wire-topped fence surrounding the compound where they’d be spending the next God knows how long resuming their endless battles with the mercenaries from Reliable Excavation Demolition. He gave the dashboard a reassuring pat.
“Almost there, sweetheart,” he murmured, wincing again as another bump increased the violence of the rattle. “Not even another mile, y’can do it.”
“Adorable,” Spy said, raising an eyebrow. “Per’aps we can finally put the poor thing out of its misery once we arrive, if its valiant effort to get us the next few ’undred feet doesn’t do it for us.”
“Ah, blow it out yer ass, Spy, she’s fine,” Sniper said, hunching slightly over the steering wheel and adding under his breath, “Yer fine, yer fine, just a li’l further…”
Thankfully, despite the increasingly concerning sounds coming from the engine compartment, and Scout’s renewed complaints about the speed of Sniper’s driving with their destination “literally right fuckin’ there, man, come on”, the camper managed to make it past the fence and into the expansive courtyard at the rear of the BLU base before letting out a groaning wheeze and shuddering to a grateful stop. The relief in the sighs and groans of those in the back was almost palpable. Scout clambered over Spy and out the passenger door with a whoop, ignoring the Frenchman’s irate curses as elbows, knees, and cleats jabbed into him in the course of his scrambling passage.
[...]
Sniper saw the red dot on the wall half a second before Scout darted past him, and managed to catch the hem of the younger man’s t-shirt just before he passed out of reach. The echoing crack of a rifle shot accompanied Scout’s yelp as he was yanked backward, and a not insignificant hole appeared in the concrete wall where his head would have been. Spy raised an eyebrow at it, taking another puff off his smoke.
“It seems the Reds are already ’ere,” he said, and Scout started cursing, jerking his shirt out of Sniper’s grip and bolting to the window he’d almost been shot through. Sniper stepped up beside him with a sigh, looking out across the field at the RED base, as Scout started bellowing threats and swears at the top of his lungs.
The RED Sniper was making no attempt to hide himself; he stood in the window of the battlements directly across the field from theirs, rifle raised. The red dot of his sight returned, making Scout hit the deck with another yell as it passed over him, and Sniper crossed his arms over his chest when the little red light drifted there.
“Yeah, we see ya. Wanker.” There was another crack, and he felt the wind of the shot as it passed his cheek. He didn’t flinch.
“Fuckin’- He knows we ain’t fightin’ yet, right?” Scout said, peeking up over the windowsill.
“Of course he does. He’s just bein’ a bloody dipstick,” Sniper said, glowering when his RED counterpart waved, and offering a rude two-fingered gesture in return. He glanced at Spy, who was leaning against the wall beside the window. “Y’know he won’t actually shoot ya. Not yet.”
“While your trust in that filthy convict is encouraging, I’d rather avoid the risk,” Spy said, blowing a plume of smoke toward the window. Another bullet cut through it, making it curl into two distinct, swirling clouds. Spy rolled his eyes. “Ouais, I’ll stay ’ere, out of sight, merci beaucoup.”
Second finished "Tales of Well" short (third chronologically). Still shorter than I'd like, but I'm happier with this one than "First Day", even if not much really happens.
Again, warning for unnecessary amounts of profanity, courtesy of Scout.
Summary: Scout was told to go get Pyro for dinner.
——
“Yo firebug! S’dinner time! Getcha ass out here!”
Scout’s fist hammered out a staccato beat on Pyro’s door, and he leant against it waiting for an answer. His foot tapped impatiently, and he waited all of three seconds before he gave the door a few hard whacks with his palm.
“Pyro! C’mon, man, I ain’t standin’ here all fuckin’ night!” he yelled, more than loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wood panel. “It’s steak night, man, come the fuck on!”
He didn’t hear even the slightest rustle of movement coming from the other side of the door. He sighed and drummed his fingers.
He was torn. Dinner had started a couple minutes ago, long enough for Scout to get in one bite of mashed potatoes before Sniper had told him to go fetch Pyro. He’d argued, naturally—it wasn’t his fault if Pyro couldn’t get off his ass for steak night—but Sniper had given him that Look. The “do what I fuckin’ say or you will regret it” Look. Scout hated that Look. It was what had separated him from the delicious slab of beef that was now growing cold on his plate, if Demo or Soldier hadn’t pilfered it already.
However, in opposition to Sniper’s Look, Pyro had a very strict “stay the fuck out of my room or I will fry you like an ant under a magnifying glass” policy. The firestarter was serious about his privacy. As far as Scout knew, no one else had entered that room for even a second since Pyro had taken up residence, not even Spy. Scout was definitely curious—he’d spent more than a fair space of time since the move standing outside this door, trying to work up the nerve to go inside—but he wasn’t stupid, no matter what Medic all-too-frequently implied (or said outright). Satisfying his curiosity wasn’t worth getting barbequed.
But tonight, his steak was waiting for him. Pyro still hadn’t answered the door and the one bite of mashed potatoes he’d managed to scoop taunted Scout like a fading dream. Engie made the best steak and potatoes he’d ever tasted, and having only sampled one bite of one part of his meal, he was more than anxious to return to the table to finish stuffing his face. But he couldn’t go back without Pyro, or Sniper would be pissed. But Pyro wasn’t opening the door, and if he tried to go in to get him, he’d probably end up fried. He groaned in frustration and pounded his fist against the door.
“PYRO! Fuck man! I wanna go eat my fuckin’ steak!” He kicked the door and huffed. Fuck it, he thought. He took a deep breath, and gripped the doorknob. “I’m givin’ ya three seconds, then I’m comin’ to drag yer skinny ass out! One! Two! Threeee-eee… Whoa…”
Scout turned the knob and pushed. The door wasn’t locked—only Spy’s room had a lock, and that was because he’d bought and had it installed it himself—so it swung open easily. And revealed a brilliant sanctuary.
Plastic model planes hung from near-invisible strings pinned to the ceiling, which had been painted to look like a clear midday sky with a few wispy, scudding clouds. A globe-like fixture had been set over the overhead bulb, making it look like the Sun poking out to light the room. Large stretches of the walls were vibrantly painted with desert scenery—sand and broad red plateaus, hoodoos and prickly-looking cacti—and Scout saw a painted jackrabbit poking its head out from behind a tall wooden dresser pushed up against the wall.
Tall racks and shelves also scattered along the wall held a massive collection of sleeved records, cassette tapes, and CDs. A few smaller shelves held several well-worn paperback novels, some of which bore titles in what Scout thought was Spanish on their battered spines, and a huge number of magazines. A stereo cabinet sat next to a small cot in the corner, the former littered with discarded cassettes, pencils, scraps of paper, and a few near-empty water glasses that had yet to make their way back to the kitchen, while the latter was heaped with fluffy pillows and thick blankets. And Pyro.
It still shocked Scout to see Pyro out of his protective suit, even months after he’d first… encouraged the younger man to peel back the mask. He said he was only a few years younger than Scout, but he still looked too young for mercenary work. Without his suit, he was more scrawny than simply thin, and pale despite his Latino heritage. He needed a haircut—his shaggy black hair was almost to his shoulders, and his bangs flopped freely in front of his eyes—and his narrow frame made him seem far more adolescent than he claimed to be. The only thing that spoiled the effect somewhat was the livid burn scar covering his left cheek almost as far as his eye, and disappearing down under his t-shirt collar, reappearing from under his left sleeve to cover the back of his arm past the elbow; Scout didn’t want to imagine what had happened to cause a scar like that.
Pyro seemed content for the time being, though he hadn’t yet noticed Scout’s intrusion. He was stretched out on the cot, eyes closed and arms folded behind his head, a thick black cord connecting the massive headphones he was wearing to the stereo beside him. He was nodding his head and wiggling his feet in time to whatever he was listening to, and Scout heard the occasional hummed note float across the room. He also noticed that Pyro’s gear was piled in a heap at the end of the cot—flamethrower, axe, and fire-proof suit—occasionally being tapped by his bobbing feet.
Some part of Scout’s mind (a part that sounded suspiciously like Spy) told him to get out while he was still unscorched, but his curiosity won out over caution, as it so often did. He wandered over to a painted stretch of wall, admiring the detail in the desert scenery masking the grotty concrete. While he didn’t consider himself an “artist” by any means, Scout liked to draw and occasionally paint, and he could appreciate the subtle shading on the sand and cacti, and the curiously bright eyes of the rabbit that, he now saw, crouched behind a small patch of painted scrub hidden by the dresser.
Hasty shuffling from the corner drew Scout’s attention, and he straightened when he saw Pyro scrambling from the cot, fumbling the headphones off and staring with an expression not far from outright horror. Pyro didn’t speak—Scout had often wondered about Pyro’s silence on the rare occasions when he wasn’t wearing his mask—but he flapped his hands frantically at Scout, trying to shoo him toward the door. Emboldened by the lack of immediate violence, however, Scout ignored him and sauntered over to one of the racks of vinyl, flipping idly through. He recognized many of the bands and artists, but there were several others he didn’t know, many of which seemed to be in Spanish, like the books. He was impressed by what he was familiar with, though.
“Fuck, Py, this is amazing. Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Skynard, Floyd, Sabbath, Styx, Queen… Shit, is that fuckin’ Boston? I had no idea anyone else liked- Whoa!”
Scout whirled at a sudden flash of intense heat against his back, hands leaping away from the records as he spun. He found the gaping maw of a flamethrower only inches from his face, the pilot light flickering uncomfortably close to his chin. He staggered a few steps, tripping over a pile of what certainly smelled like dirty laundry even if had amalgamated into some sort of amorphous cotton blob, and he held his hands out defensively as he backed in what he hoped was the direction of the door.
Before him stood Pyro, lips pulled back to reveal his teeth in a feral snarl. He hissed, a purely animalistic sound. It might have been funny, the oversized weapon being supported by Pyro’s scrawny—if whipcord-muscled—arms, and him hissing and bristling like an irate cat. The small plumes of flame that fwoofed into and out of existence at the flamethrower’s muzzle killed any sense of hilarity, though.
“Whoa, Py, c’mon,” Scout said, bumping up against the wall and sliding toward the door with his hands raised in surrender. The flamethrower still followed him, way too close. “I-I just had t’come getcha for dinner. Y’weren’t answerin’ when I knocked so I just opened the door and- Aaah!”
A longer tongue of flame jetted out of the flamethrower, and Scout felt his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms singeing. He bolted for the door with a yelp, hearing Pyro growl. He made it into the hallway and the door slammed shut behind him, but he didn’t stop running until he barrelled into the kitchen. Incredulous and disapproving stares fixed on him from around the table, but he ignored them as he hastily slid back into his seat. Without a word, he started in on his steak.
He could feel Sniper’s Look, even if he didn’t look up to catch it. “Scout, we said t’go get Pyro.”
Scout shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and glowered at Sniper as he chewed. After the light roasting he’d just received, the Look wasn’t quite so intimidating. At least not compared to the current alternative to the punishment it promised.
“Fuck that,” he said. “I knocked and knocked and he wouldn’t answer, so I went in t’get him ’n’ he tried to fuckin’ toast me. Nuh uh, if he wants to eat, he can come out whenev’r the fuck he wants.”
Shocked silence held around the table. Aside from Scout, everyone had stopped eating, some with utensils still hovering over their plates. Heavy had frozen mid-chew, his cheeks comically puffed as he turned to stare at Scout. Engineer looked horrified, and also somewhat amazed.
“Y’went into Pyro’s room?” he said, setting his fork down carefully and lifting his goggles to scrutinize Scout without the impediment of their tinted lenses. Scout looked back, finally taking note of the unusual stillness and everyone’s attention on him. He shrank down in his chair somewhat.
“I had to,” he mumbled, “t’get Pyro to come out.” When no one said anything, he threw up his hands. “What should I have done? Ya told me t’go get him!”
The silence persisted. Scout scowled around the table before returning to his food. Everyone else’s eyes were either fixed on him or the kitchen doorway, waiting for the inevitable.
It came fairly soon after Scout had started eating again. Engie, Spy, Sniper, and Demo all watched as Pyro strode into the room, fully geared up, and stepped up behind Scout. The other watching eyes drifted up to him. Scout remained oblivious, shoveling in more gravy-smothered potatoes, until he was grabbed by the back of the neck by a rubber-gloved hand. He yelped and started to flail, but froze when a well-honed axe blade pressed against his throat. Pyro pushed him down until his face was nearly in his potatoes, never letting up on the axe head’s pressure, keeping it pressed in just hard enough to make sure that Scout felt nervous about swallowing.
Pyro leaned down slowly, tightening his grip and growling softly beside Scout’s ear. Scout whimpered, but cut off with a choke when Pyro pressed the axe blade in just a little bit harder.
Then it was pulled away, and Pyro released Scout with a light shove that sent his face straight into his meal. Scout sat up, sputtering and wiping away globs of potatoes and gravy, as Pyro wandered over to the dishes on the stove, loading up a plate for himself. He slung his axe over his shoulder and started back out of the kitchen.
He paused by Scout’s chair. Scout looked up at him, cowering, potato still clinging to his nose and bill of his cap. Pyro watched Scout cower for a moment, breaths hissing ominously through his mask’s filters, and delivered a swift, sharp smack to the back of the Bostonian’s head. It nearly sent him pitching into his plate again. Nodding to himself, Pyro left the kitchen without a backward glance, humming softly.
There was total silence for another few seconds after he’d gone before Medic also gave Scout a sharp swat. “Zhat is vhat you get for being a nosy little schwein. And you should count yourself lucky it vasn’t vorse.”
“Okay, again, what exactly was I s’posed t’fuckin’ do!”
“Just about anythin’s smarter than bustin’ in on someone who explicitly toldja t’stay the Hell out,” Engineer said, replacing his goggles with a sigh and picking up his fork again.
“Aye, we all knoo the wee firebug disnae like us in his space.”
“Da. Little Pyro enjoys privacy.”
“Would it’ve killed ya to try a little patience, mate, wait an extra minute for him to come to the door?”
Scout huffed and pushed his chair back, snatching up his plate. “Fuck you guys, I’m gonna go eat in my room.”
“As long as you leave Pyro alone, Scout.”
Scout didn’t pause, though he did throw back a light, “Fuck you Doc!” over his shoulder as he headed off down the hall.
Medic rolled his eyes and returned to his food, scowling, though a smile broke through his disgruntlement when Heavy gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Demo engaged Soldier and Engie in a spirited, but friendly, debate about the strengths of Scottish whisky versus American whiskey once the speedster was out of sight, with Sniper throwing in his two cents if the conversation seemed to be devolving into an all-out argument. Order was always quick to reassert itself when the most rambunctious member of the team left the room.
Spy chuckled to himself and also pushed back from the table, gathering up his dishes and taking them to the sink. He’d finished eating quickly, as he did with every meal; he’d been in too many situations where food was scarce to shed the instinct easily in a non-civilian setting.
“Engineer, merci beaucoup. The meal was spectacular, as always,” he said, offering a small bow when Engie tipped his hardhat. “I believe I shall go ensure that Scout does not go out of ’is way to become char-broiled. Bonsoir, gentlemen.”
“Do not try too hard. Zhe boy could benefit from a sharply applied lesson or two,” Medic said, and Spy smirked as he lit a cigarette.
“Do not worry, Doctor, I truly only mean to stop ’im if ’e goes out of ’is way. ’Is usual reckless curiosity should offer the chance for lessons galore.”
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.
——
“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.”
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.
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!