A collection of random chronicles, documenting the lives of the nine mercenaries when off the battlements.

Sniper: "Doesn't make much sense, when you get right down to it."

Indeed.

TeuFort was seldom peaceful, even during ceasefire. When the farm animals weren't awake and raising a stint, the Engineers were busy together modifying their blueprints, the Scouts were playing some one-on-one variation of baseball, and there was often a good deal of poker being played in one base or another.

Upon the rooftops of the RED Battlements, stolen away from all the usual post-sunset hullabaloo, The RED Sniper and the BLU Spy lay side-by-side, relaxing under the cool evening sky, just chatting. It was not an unusual thing to see; despite all the propaganda, all the blind hatred each team was meant to feel towards the opposite, towards the 'enemy', no one sincerely hated anyone. The Administrator had only found out about the RED Demoman and the BLU Soldier because it had been the first public display of friendship between any of them. Both teams had learned from their mistake, and kept their friendly interactions narrowed to whenever their Administrator could not observe.

Ceasefire was one of those times, and so there they were, laughing like the best of friends.

"A'roight, there was this one toime," Sniper said, gesturing with his beer bottle. "I was at a bar with a couple of me best mates. We'd meet up together every few weeks or so to swap stories, roight? So I head up, grab a couple beers, an' when I come back my seat's gone. This guy at a nearby table apparently took it for himself, didn't bother askin'. I hand off the beers, tap the bloke on the shoulder, ask him if I could please have me seat back. He brushes me off an' turns back to his mates. I'm thinkin', not the best start, so I try again. He scoffs at me an' stands up. He's not giving back the seat though. Damnit, he's gotta be about the size'a Heavy in muscle, and he's got a whole broom under his nose."

Spy chuckled at the image; Sniper standing before some brutish, burly Australian, the epitome of everything Sniper knew he wasn't. The Frenchman took a shallow swig from his wine glass.

Sniper continued, "I'm bailed up, an' I can smell the drink on him, but I got a plan. When he tells me to bugger off, I politely imply that his dad's a dropkick. Well, hell if he gets–"

"Quoi?" Spy raised an eyebrow. "You called 'is fazzer a what?"

Sniper furrowed his brows, then understanding hit him. He sometimes forgot when he was using vernacular exclusive to his home country.

"I basically called his dad a dumbass."

"Ah. Go on."

A baseball slammed against the RED Battlement's sheet-metal. One of their Scouts shouted something at the other, anger mixed with utter delight. The other shouted some muffled apology at the two upon seeing them. The apology was well-recieved, and the two young men returned to their dodge-ball rough housing.

"Roight. So, he gets all red-eyed, but," Sniper held up a finger around his bottle. "I'm the sober one. He made to swing at me, but the bloke's bloody drunk; he can't hardly swing for the life of him.

"So what I do is," Sniper demonstrated the motion as he described it, "I swoop down, palm bared, swing up as he comes forward to strike, an' ram him roight on the tip of his nose."

Spy's brows flew up, and he smiled. "Really! You planted ze cartilage in 'is brain, did you?"

"More'r less, yeah." Sniper nodded, and took a swig. "I think he doied. Can't quite remember. Could'a just been brain damage, for all I know."

Spy smirked, snickered. "Even zen, in front of an entire pub, you did not care. Honhon! 'Ow marvelous, Tireur isolé."

Sniper rolled his eyes, albeit smiling. Only Spy was allowed to address him as such. And since it was only them, Sniper felt no inhibitions in playing along.

"Dans un pub, dans le secret ... la mort est la mort," Sniper took another drink. "Nous savons tous."

It only partially hurt Spy's ears to hear Sniper speak in his own tongue. The man was fairly fluent, which Spy loved and was grateful for, but Sniper's accent was terrible. That Sniper even indulged him, however, meant so much to Spy in an almost unmanly way.

"Alors..." Sniper continued, "Toi?"

"Moi?" Spy gazed up at the stars. It was a beautiful night. "Je n'ai pas fait beaucoup de peine d'en parler."

"C'mon Spy. I know yeh got something. Yeh've always got something."

The BLU rolled his wine glass between his fingers, admiring the gleam of moonlight as it bounced through the glass. "I'm afraid not. My travels 'ave been limited as of late. Ze most I 'ave been able to manage is a brief trip 'ome. I revisited a few old lovers, and acquired a few fresh ones."

Sniper was fascinated with how Spy talked about women the way Sniper might about guns, or Scout about baseball cards, or Medic about his surgical instruments (although Medic often spoke of his instruments as if they were lovers, so...). Sniper didn't fault him for it, but it did strike him as strange.

"Oh, Spy, that reminds me. I asked our own about this after hearing about how he shagged Scout's mum, but he never did answer me straight."

Spy took a long drag from his cigarette. Delicious nicotine, it was. "Allez-y."

"Do yeh two... do Spoies, I mean... do yeh ever take off yer..." he gestured to his face. "Yer, ah... yer doovalacky..."

"My balaclava?"

"Yeah, yeah. Do yeh ever take that thing off?"

"I do, but only when it must be washed, in which case I have many more to chose from."

"But our Spy wore it whoile shaggin' Scout's mum. Yeh don't even take it off for that?"

"Mais, non. I cannot let anyone know my true identity. Not even my closest lovers have seen beneath my balaclava."

"Don't it get in the way, though? Or at least a bit hot? I mean, why worry about some sheila knowin' what you look loike when yer shaggin' her brains out?" Sniper took another sip. "Doesn't make much sense, when you get roight down to it."

Spy shook his head, smirking. "Per'aps one day, when you find yourself running from ze government, you will see."

"'When,'" Sniper chuckled. "Roight."

A bang shook the sheeted metal around them, followed by some rather loud barking downstairs. Sniper and Spy smiled.

"Sounds like yer Soldier lost another hand to our Demoman," The bushman mused.

"'E is 'orrible at poker. I do not know why he insists on playing."

"W'll, because it's fun," Sniper said. "I mean, take Scoot and Scooter down there. They'd both play their baseball game even if they kept loosin', just because they both have fun rough housin'. I'd bet yeh my croc skins that Soldier an' Demo actually enjoy yellin' themselves hoarse at each other. It's just another way to hang out, for them."

Spy rolled his eyes and sipped his wine, smirking. "It makes sense, at least."

The same baseball from before zoomed at Sniper's head, but the man caught it in the nick of time.

"The Hell!"

"Sorry, Snipes!" The RED Scout shouted, and had the decency to look it.

"Eh, no worries!" The bushman shouted, and lobbed the ball back down. To Spy's surprise, it bonked RED right on the forehead and knocked him flat. BLU burst out laughing, and Sniper started laughing with him.

"Was zat intentional?"

"Was what intentional?"

"Zat!"

"I dunno what yer talkin' about, Spy."