"This ain't fuuuun," Scout whined, tone of his voice belonging more to that of a mosquito. He brought his swinging legs forward to kick at the underside of the space for his legs in the van's seat. "This is boringer than a bank line at Bailey Buildin' and Loan. You said this would be fun. You lied."

"Hush," snapped the Sniper who had dealt with about forty minutes of the childlike babbling in his shotgun seat. He eyed the soccer cleats batting in his already shabby van's inner gears. "Don't kick it. You're gonna break it."

Due to the repetitive drumming on the cabin air filter with the soccer cleats, Sniper's wish did not appear to be granted. "Go ahead an' make me, bonehead."

Sniper growled, clenching the van's wheel and wringing it as if it were Scout's neck in a show of very impulsive anger reactions. "Oi bloody said don't!"

"Jeez!" The Bostonian shuffled around behind his seat belt, eyes rolling up to the shabby ceiling in an attempt to hide how scary Sniper's voice may or may not have sounded. "Ya don't gotta get all ovah-protective ovah it! Wow, the van ain't yer freakin' baby. Chillax."

An eyebrow shot up, unamused. Sniper did not respond and raised up a hand to whack at the Civilian bobble-head yet again, keeping his eyes on the road like a normal driver should.

"Oh, now yer gonna give me da silent treatment. Seriously? You serious?" Scout raised up his chin in disagreement. "Yeah, okay, have it your way. Ya dick. I don't wanna talk to you. I don't even like you. You're a perv. You live in a van. I'm sitting in your house. Your house is a dump. It looks like a cockroach. Hell, YOU look like a cockroach with – "

"Shut up," Sniper commanded with an equilibrium of politeness and efficiency under his snappy tongue. The Civilian's head shook dangerously to a point in which Scout was sure it was going to fly off its wiry neck and crash through the windshield for a wild ride through the ionosphere.

"Why are we even getting ammo?" Scout prompted for the twelfth time.

His response was not met with glee. "Stop asking that, ya stupid cunt."

Scout found a perfect moment to annoy the crap out of his counterpart. "Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why are we getting ammo?"

Shutting one's eyes for stretches of time is highly not recommended when driving a car but one cannot deal otherwise with such a horrid excuse for a Scout. "Because," came the very forced reply, "the train does not work and we have to drive to the ammunition provider."

"Why can't da Announcer do it?" The new question eased Sniper's nerves a bit.

Sniper sniffed. "Because she's an old yobbo warthog and she likes to annoy the living shit out of us because the sadist ain't got nothin' better ta do then wotch us rot loike a band a' drowning horses swimmin' in th' waves of eternal agony and despair."

"Oh!" piped Scout cheerfully. "Okay."

After this friendly agreement, they drove like that in silence for a while until Scout's lack of activeness brought him at the edge of his sanity. He flipped on the radio.

Bye-bye, miss American pie, sang the badly transmitted AM.

"Hey, I know dis song!" Scout clapped his hands and hopping in his seat as an overdose of selfish joy. "My bruddas and me used ta sing dis song ALL the TI – "

A flick of a button reduced the notes to silence. "Oi hate music whoile Oi drove."

Scout huffed. "C'mon, y'old dust mop. Get with the tunes." He poked the radio back on.

"NO!" The radio was off again.

"C'MOOOOON!" whined Scout at an increasing pitch, pressing the song back on again.

Them good ol' boys drinkin' whisky and rye, continued the AM.

"TURN IT OFF! OI CAN'T STAND IT!" Sniper hollered in a fit of his own rage. "OI HATE TH' BLOODY MUSIC INDUSTRY!"

"TOO BAD, BOZO!" retorted Scout, slapping Sniper's hand when it neared the off button.

"THIS IS MY CAR!" Sniper insisted, recklessly honking the horn in anger. "THIS IS MY CAR AND OI CAN DO WHOTEVER THE HELL OI WONT IN MY CAR!"

A pause fell upon the younger due to the man's reasonable outburst. "It's sorta a van, though," Scout whimpered, crossing his arms and falling into wordless depression due to lack of logic.

This will be the day that I die, sobbed the AM.

"Fuckin' hell," bickered Sniper under his breath, jabbing a finger into the off button.

Scout deepened his grimace as the Australian failed to notice how hard he was pouting his lip and making puppy-dog eyes.

Without even looking at him, Sniper sniffed, "That face won't change anything."

"Fucking damnit," Scout murmured through his pout.

It was oddly quiet as the van tore through the highway with a low hum.

Sniper felt a finger poke deep into his elbow that nearly peeved him to the point in which he nearly growled, "Whot is it?"

"Can I puh-leeeease turn on the music?"

"No," he snapped.

"Why?"

Sniper raised one side of his face in a most irritable smirk. "It distracts me."

"From what?"

"Driving."

"So?"

"So, you wanna crash? You wanna crash?" Sarcastic meanness showed to be the scariest one of all considering the fact that his passenger began melting shamefully into his seat. "You wanna crash my van? You wanna die? You wanna die, is that it?"

Scout aimed his gaze to his feet. "No."

"Yeah, okay. Oi didn't think so."

Silence for a long while induced a constant whacking of the Civilian's jaw.

"Please?"

The Civilian produced a nearly comical twang. "NO!"

"'Kay." Scout raised a finger to make outlines in the dust that was ridden on the window after all those years of uncleaned solitude, for the boy had a sudden intention to make his mark on society by drawing something on the glass of a camper van.

"Get your hand off my window."

Scout whirled his head around to display an angered wince. "How come I can't even do dat?"

"Alroight, go ahead. If it'll shut you up."

Blessed silence one more other than the occasional window squeak. The Civilian faced continuous pain.

"I'm done!" Scout announced proudly moments later.

"Done?" questioned Sniper absently, hunched over and eyes set on the misbehaving red Chevy speeding front of them. The van screeched and rocked in a manner that would concern any auto insurance salesman as Sniper attempted to show the other driver that he could drive fast too.

Scout looked over at Sniper, whose concentrated glance beyond the windshield made him feel as if the Australian was not listening all to intently. "Yeah, I'm done. Because I finished my drawing."

A curious brow shot up at the statement and the Chevy was forgotten with a glance at the young man. "You draw? Oi had no idea."

"I draw real, real good," gushed a not-very-modest Scout in response.

Sniper rolled his eyes over to the window to see a multitude of scribbles in all different directions. "Whot in God's name is that?"

"Guess!" Scout commanded.

A groan and an eye-shutting that led to seconds of escapism showed that Sniper was not into guessing games. "An explosion."

"No!" Scout giggled.

"A horse."

"Well, dat's closer, sorta!"

"A cowboy."

"No!"

"Oi give up."

Scout furrowed his brows in disbelief. "What are ya, a pussy?"

"I'm not a pussy, ya cunt. Oi just can't figure out whot the hell it is."

Scout slugged him on the shoulder. "C'mon, c'mon, keep guessin'!"

"Piss off."

"Uh...I don't even know how to draw that."

Sniper sighed at the young man's stupidity. "Can I have a hint?"

"Pussy, pussy, puuuu-ssy!" sang Scout, swaying side to side with every sickening high-pitched squeal. "Sniper is a puuuu-ssy!"

"Fuck you. Forfeit round."

"Yeah, only you can't."

"This is my van."

"Fine." Scout pointed to the drawing and announced with excessive pride, "It's a zebra having sex wit a elephant."

"Erase that."

"How come?"

He turned his wheel until the van steered onto a secluded road. "It looks like a shit strudel a' chicken scratch and it's gonna streak th' windows."

Scout brought the palm of his gauze-enshrouded hand to smear the drawing off the dust. "Yer a douchebag."

Sniper grunted. "'Preciate it."

"Guess what?" Scout hopped up and down in excitement as he changed the subject.

"Whot?"

"I'm real hungry."

"Great. Eat your own shit."

Scout looked horrified judging by the eyeballs that almost burst out of his sockets. "NO WAY."

"Deal with it, then."

"I would, but I also have to number one."

Sniper turned his head towards the Bostonian with a cackle. "Number one? Whot are you, in third grade?"

"Fine, dumbass. I have to pee-pee."

"Climb out the seat, crawl to th' back, and go in a jar."

Scout went into a spasm. "EE-EE-EE-EEW! EE-EE-EE-EW! URGH! YER GONNA WATCH ME PEE-PEE?"

Sniper reddened at the thought. "N-NO! WHY TH' BLOODY HELL WOULD I WANNA WATCH YOU PISS?"

"BECAUSE YOU LIKE WATCHING PEOPLE PEE-PEE!" retorted Scout with face looking as if he were about to burst into tears.

"WHO IN THE BLOODY HELL SAID THAT?"

"SPY!"

"Oh, fuck." Sniper's shoulders sagged with a cough, turning back to the road. "When?"

"Yesterday when you left the dinner table early," Scout replied with all honesty.

"Bloody BOGAN!" bickered Sniper, bashing a fist on the dashboard in anger.

After a moment of awkward silence, Scout offered, "Yo, can we stop somewhere and I can pee-pee there, maybe?"

"Where? Loike a gas station?"

"No, I hate those places. Ma says da smell a' gas rots my brain like parasites." Scout thought about it for a moment. "I wanna pee-pee somewhere we can eat stuff."

Sniper turned to him with pursed lips. "On account a' you're payin' for your own grub, got it?"

The Bostonian nodded absently. "Mmhmm. Yeah."

"No, you promise!" snapped the furious Sniper. "You always say that you're not going to mooch anythin' off me, but at the end of the day guess whose cash is it?"

"Yeah, only I don't even have any cash," whined Scout.

"Fine," Sniper huffed, turning back to the road. "But just this once."

Scout grinned. "Okay."

After countless hours of searching around the highway for a suitable diner, Scout finally chose on going to a derelict Harlem-looking establishment parked on the side of town entitled Monk's Café in dimly-lit neon letters. It looked like a cardboard box fixed up with paint and enlarged to the size of a living room. Of course, this took a fair amount of convincing on Sniper's part and Scout had to swear on his dear life that he would not secretly order coffee and drink an entire cup like that one morning.

Sniper had doubts as soon as he walked up to see that the sign plastered onto the glass door read 'Employe's Needed.'

"That's the worst spellin' Oi ever seen!" ranted an Australian that refused to open the entrance door. "They're another one a' those bodgy drongo tucker-bars that lack proper education! That is some shonky business roight there. They ain't gonna serve me, oh no. Hell, they're probably ILLITERATE! THEY'RE PROBABLY INSANE! THEY AIN'T PROFESSIONALS! THEY'RE PROBABLY A BLOODY SCAM, BOI THE – "

Scout pressed his face against the glass and squinted while Sniper stomped around like an angered maniac. "Hey, dey got hot women waiters."

Sniper blinked. His voice grew quiet. "You're kidding?"

"No, dat one right there." Scout pointed a finger at a blonde with a figure that made Sniper wolf-whistle to Scout's confusion.

Sniper then pushed the door open, making Scout nearly flop onto the tile floor with an angered "YO!"

The blonde strutted over to the duo, beaming with shiny white teeth and eyelashes batting. "Hi, welcome to Monk's Café! Table for two?"

Sniper, not able to look into her eyes, aimed his gaze somewhere else and a quiet "Yeah" toppled out of his grin. This did not make for a great first impression for a professional assassin and instead made him appear as more of a pervert-by-day pedophile-by-night sort of man.

The waitress seemed completely oblivious to his awkward stare, however, as she chirped, "Right this way!"

She led them through the restaurant and to an empty booth that was not quite clean due to crumbs and splashes of liquid. "One second, sirs," she piped, reaching for a napkin and bending over to dry their table.

Sniper could not keep his eyes off of her bottom as she leaned over, and it took him one-hundred-and-ten percent of his strength not to throw a grubby hand forward to smack against the prettiest lady he had seen outside of printed paper.

Scout, in contrast, was too busy watching a moth dance around their lamplight.

"That's good!" She stepped back to allow the two men through to their seats. Sniper almost leaped up in front of her as he made his way over to his seat. Flashing her a grin and two very suggestive tilted eyebrows, he muttered, "Thanks a heap, sweetie." Sniper slipped into the sofa-like chair as slowly as he could, not getting his eyes off of her unchanging grinning expression.

Scout plunked down onto his seat and hopped on it as if it were on fire. "Yo, uh, miss! Where's da bathroom, please?"

With a furious frown, Sniper kicked Scout under the table to show that he was ruining the mood that he had just set. Scout yipped in pain.

The blonde giggled. "Oh, just take a right and you'll see the door, sweetie!"

Scout grinned at Sniper as the woman walked away from their table. "She called me sweetie," he boasted in pride as he leaped up to go to the bathroom.

"Shut it," bickered an envious Sniper whose shoulders were up to his ears in failure. The laughter and skipping to the restroom from the young man did not make matters better. He flipped the menu up to hide his reddening face. "Bloody undeservin' show pony, yabberin' loike a – "

"Sir?"

The young woman's voice brought him back to his prime. He threw the menu across the table and balanced his face on his palm as dreamily as he could. Sniper grinned with a very flirtatious grumble of "Hello again." His eyebrows shot up twice.

She kept her grin glued to her face as she simply stated, "Hello! I'm here to take your drink orders, sir!"

Sniper rolled his sunglasses down his nose with a single hand. "Whot do you recommend?" he asked in a voice consisting almost only of breath, a wink making the waitress shuffle around a bit. One cannot overestimate how much sweat poured down Sniper's back at that moment.

"Well, we have really good Turkish coffee here," she offered quickly, friendly expression remaining untouched to assure her a tip.

"Turkish coffee it is." He raised his hat briefly in due respect. "They call me Richard. Say, whot might your name be, sheila?"

After she jot down his order, she looked up with an uneasy smile and began, "Nice to, uh, meet you, I'm – "

Scout dashed into the scene, hands wet with soap and squealing like a pig in mud; "THE SINK DON'T WORK!"

The anger on Sniper's face this time was unimaginable, for the Bostonian had interrupted the closest moment Sniper had ever had to intimacy.

"Oh, sorry, sweetie," giggled the waitress, forgetting all about Sniper. Scout plopped down into his seat, sniffling like a child with fingers encased in foam hovering about the table. The waitress bent to raise a paper napkin and wipe the remnants of the soapy material off his hands, all the while making eye contact and minuets composed solely of giggles.

Scout grinned after she straightened her posture. "Thanks, lady!"

"Oh, no problem, sugar," she chirped yet again, twirling a lock of her unquestionably bleached yellow hair.

Sniper's eyes felt as if they were going to melt out of his sockets and stream onto the floor. He sat frozen with a neutral line of a mouth.

"So, pumpkin, what can I get you?"

"Uh..." Scout looked at the ceiling as he continued the droning song of lack of intelligence. "...um...er...uhhh..."

"Turkish coffee here is really, really good here," she offered in the slowest way possible, nose wrinkling up on her freckles as she beamed.

Sniper simply gave up. He took off his sunglasses with wobbling hands, covered his face in his palms, and sighed for the world to hear.

The world did not hear him.

The world was too busy puffing her blonde hair at a bloody undeserving show pony yabbering like a train wreck on stilts.

"Yeah, only," Scout began in a near whimper, "I ain't allowed ta get a coffee." He pointed across the table in accusation. "This old man says so. He and me gotta go shoppin' so we stopped here to eat some food but the entire time we were in da car he was a big piece a' turd. He didn't even let me turn on da radio. Talk about ugh."

She laughed. "So, it was a father-son shopping trip, huh? To where?"

Sniper raised his face from his palms. "Excuse me?"

"Father-son?" echoed Scout stupidly.

The waitress looked past Scout and snickered to Sniper. "He's a real handful to take care of, isn't he?"

"Handful?" echoed Scout.

With all the ferocity of a kangaroo, Sniper leaped out of his chair and screamed, "WHOT DID YOU SAY?"

Nearly shivering in fear, the blonde yelped, "I'm sorry, sir! I'm sorry! What I meant is that your son is really – "

"YOUR SON?" echoed both teammates in unison.

Sniper grabbed Scout's arm. "OI AM NOT OLD! OI AM NOT HIS DAD! OI AM NOT MARRIED! OI DID NOT CREATE THIS SON OF A BITCH GODDAMNIT!"

Scout's much faster yells clashed at the same moment as Sniper's, thus making both of their screams completely unintelligible, even to each other; "MY MOM WOULD NEVAH SCREW SUCH AN UGLY GUY AND I CAN'T BUH-LIEVE YA WOULD EVEN THINK DAT HALF MY LOOKS ARE BASED ON DIS UGLY DOUCHE AND UGH IMAGINE IF WE WERE IN DA SAME FAMILY!"

The duo nearly flipped both the waitress and the table over as they stampeded out of the filthy restaurant and back into the parking lot in an angry blur.

The blonde still stood shivering with unblinking eyes, fainting to the floor unconsciously moments later.

It highly annoyed the Bostonian that the second Scout hopped into his seat by him in that stuffy camper van, Sniper reached into the glove compartment for a cigarette and plunged it between his frown as if smoking would make anything any better. The cool part about that, though, is how the match scratched against a small black rectangle on its box with a sizzle and suddenly burst into a tiny flame. Scout wouldn't tell anyone this in a trillion years, but Sniper sort of looked cool when he had a cigarette in his mouth because he reminded Scout of that movie where there was this really cool action guy who shot tons of people and didn't even look at explosions. He wondered if it was alright to reach back into the glove compartment and take a cigarette for himself due to the fact that there was a chance Scout was able to look as awesome as he. Sniper threw his head behind his shoulders as he backed out of the parking lot and made sure not to crash into any speeding car in the highway. Scout wanted a car, too. Maybe one day he could drive this van when Sniper was sleeping. Maybe one day Scout could even convince Engineer to hotwire Sniper's van so Scout could smoke while driving it.

"Whot the fuck are you bloody looking at?"

"Nothin'." Scout did not add any conclusion to his one-word reply for quite a while. This did not interfere with Sniper's stressful smoking time. "Can I have a cig?"

"Do you KNOW," screamed Sniper in a sudden burst of rage that nearly lit the entire cigarette on fire, "how much this COSTED? HELL, IN THIS ECONOMY, EVERYTHIN'S COSTIN' HEAPS JUST TA PISS THE PEOPLE OF OUR SEPPO-PRISON OFF! OI TELL YA, IF WE'D HAVE BETTER PEOPLE RUNNIN' THIS COUNTRY, YA'D HAVE A GANDER AT NORMAL PRICES FOR NORMAL DOOVALACKIES JUST LOIKE IN MY CHILDHOOD!"

There came no reply for this completely uncalled-for rant, so Sniper ended up just gnawing the tobacco off of his cigarette so it powdered down onto his lap in a scented brown dust-pile. The Civilian received such a merciless reprimand it undoubtedly was heard back at Monk's Café, even though the van tore through the road whilst exceeding the speed limit to no bounds.

"You do sorta sound old," realized a Scout after digesting the meaning of the anti-government propaganda a la Australian.

"WHAT!" A screech sounded as the van veered off the road at breakneck speed and thumped over a measly sidewalk to take a very sudden brake. Just as Scout had regretted everything he had ever done, Sniper grabbed the seam of his shirt that held Scout's neck in place and yanked him so near that foul breath encased Scout's face completely.

In a bloodthirsty hiss that would strongly remind one of a snake with a criminal record, Sniper made sure that the words cut directly into Scout's face. "You. Do. Not. Call. Me. Old."

It was the nearest to true fear any human has ever been. Scout squeaked.

He inched closer with every menacing syllable. "You. Do. Never. Call. Me. Old." They were at a point where Scout felt that if he were to breathe then Sniper would literally bite his nose off.

"Is that clear, WANKER?" The last word turned into a siren sounding from the worn-out rusty tubes of Sniper's vocal chords.

"YES!" screamed Scout in a response that was emitted just as loudly.

"OI CERTAINLY HOPE SO!"

"OKAY!"

"O-KAY!" echoed Sniper. Without another hate-driven word the Australian placed two hands to stir the wheel about on its hinge and the van steered back into the road as if nothing had happened at all.

Neither of them made any noise, other than Sniper eventually rolling down his window and spitting the cigarette out onto the road. It was not a sight Scout's eyes found potentially attractive so instead they drifted off onto the side of the road to allow him to finally be quiet for a while.

Let us make a hypothetical situation to describe Scout's feelings at the moment.

Suppose Medic wanted to be his own twisted version of Oswald Külpe, but instead of researching cognitive processes of humans preforming complex tasks he decided to seek out dove's cognitive processes when they get tortured in ways that are today considered animal abuse. He decides to nail Socrates's wings to a corkboard and let Archimedes fly free in front of him, pecking at seed while the lesser of two fowls watched with sad eyes. Medic laughed for hours as he watched this torturous show of inhumane pet practices! What joy!

Oh, wait.

This is hypothetical, by the way.

This situation is surely and utterly hypothetical, and not done last night in secret and thus being the reason why he locked the doors of his medical office. In fact, I ought to straighten this out a bit more so;

DISCLAIMER

All illegal doctor shenanigans appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real Medics, living or respawning, is purely coincidental.

There. That's better.

Anyway, the hypothetical results showed that Medic actually had no idea who Oswald Külpe even was and he just wanted to nail Socrates's wings to a corkboard for the fun of it.

Can one compare the dove's torture as it attempted to rip its wings from the rusted screws that held it to the wall? Can a reader even imagine the hell of Socrates's gut hurting not only from his merciless famine but from the humiliation of being string up on that wall like a marionette, cooing for death but death never coming? Could one bring themselves to feel the dainty pluck of the feathers fluttering one by one down onto the linoleum floor like petals from a decaying rose? Is it possible to nearly feel the heaves that elongated the seconds before death was to come?

The answer is yes.

Scout could.

Scout felt as if he were nailed to the corkboard of silence, and there before him was a radio yet he could not press its button. Next to him was a ticking time bomb, an Australian Archimedes, reaching into the glove compartment for another smoke that filled the graying air and muttering under his breath about how he'd been right all along that the café had been nothing but a hoax full of ugly women. Scout's hands were situated to his sides, nearly nailed onto those ripped old seats the color of snot and coffee cream. He attempted to lift his hands or open his mouth to let out his mind, but he was aware that the bomb would explode again and he had read somewhere that it was necessary to stay silent for a while after suffering deep mental trauma. Scout's eyes were the only part of him that felt comfortable to glare at every point of the Earth.

Would you just look at that stupid Sniper, gritting his teeth on his stupid cigarette like he owns the place? Who does he think he is? An assassin? A walrus? An egg man? A dictator? Look at his finger, smacking the Civilian square in the mustache. What does he think he's doing? Does he not understand that the constant whack, whack, whack annoyed Scout? Can he even see Scout? Why is he grunting at that pickup in front of them? Why did he just honk the horn for such a long while? Wow, Scout hated him. What a retard. What a skag. What a candy-ass scuzz-bucket whore piece of junk.

When Sniper left the bobblehead alone to spit the second cigarette out of the window, Scout grinned and flipped him off as quickly as possible and then shot his hand back to the nail on the seat.

Sniper turned back around, eyes glued on the windshield.

Scout almost snickered, but he kept his laughs to himself and this induced a spastic jitter that appeared as if he had just felt a cockroach patter down his back and had reacted in a very silent fashion.

Adults do not seem to appreciate such sights in the corner of their eyes. "Whot the fuck was that?"

Scout coughed the grin off of his mug. "Nothin'."

"You sick or somethin'?"

He shook his head. "No."

Something about the way Scout kept his eyes to himself and seemed afraid to speak really somehow seeped into the Australian's heart. Sniper cleared his throat as if he had something important to speak of. After a long while, he murmured something so quietly Scout had no idea what he had said.

"Yo, say what?"

"You're gonna make me say it again?"

"Dude, I didn't hear you."

"I said I'm sorry!" snapped Sniper.

"Oh." Scout looked away awkwardly, not used to accepting apologies. He racked his mind for the proper etiquette for resolving conflicts. The best he could offer was an uneasy, "Uh...you're welcome?"

For the first time in a while, Sniper smiled faintly and chuckled. "No, ya silly dag, yer supposed ta say that ya accept it."

Scout was not surprised that he had messed that one up. Sitting up straight, he grinned and declared with a comical salute, "Mr. Snipah-Sir, I accept your 'pology, with liberty and justice for all!"

Another lighthearted snicker and a shake of his head made Scout think, just for the tiniest moment that he...well, he really wouldn't mind having Sniper as a dad all that much.

"Sorry ta bring it up but, damn, ya gotta admit that woman was really hot," grumbled Sniper suddenly. "Damn, I'd bend that spunk over the table any day if it weren't fer that bloody comment she'd said, eh." He raised a happy hand to smack onto Scout's shoulder, patting it twice roughly as Sniper wheezed in a creepy attempt of a laugh. "Am I roight or am I roight?"

Okay, scratch that. Having Sniper as a dad has got to be horrible.

But as they eventually veered back to destination and both got out of the filthy camper van and hopped onto the black tar that was the parking lot behind the fort, both of them felt as if the trip had really made them bond. They laughed about the stupid blonde and how her implants outweighed her brain. Together they hopped into the living room to see the team in a very solemn game of poker.

"We're back!" yelled Scout, making an Engineer yelp and drop his cards on the floor as he broke his concentration. Everyone laughed at the blushing Engineer, and he had to retreat out of the game due to the fact that all of his cards had fluttered right in the center of the table.

Scout couldn't help feeling that Sniper was a really cool guy. Not father-and-son way, but...in a teammate to teammate way. RED to RED. Friend to frie –

"WHERE IS THE FUCKING AMMO?" shrieked Soldier.