Everyone always called me Scout. I don't quite know why, but my dad started it. He'd always smile, pat me on the head, ruffle my hair, and tell me I was his little scout. I loved it. I loved my dad.
But then he was killed by the BLUs. And me and my seven brothers got angry. We bottled it up and let it out in fights. Ma always told us not to, but we didn't want to take it out on her. Ma was all we boys had left, so we took our tantrums to the streets.
I was young and small, and my older brothers always beat me to the punch. I was the angriest. I just wanted to hit something, and so I learned to run.
I ran and ran. Right past the old man on the corner, right past that fat kid everyone made fun of, right in to my 5th oldest brother, kicking the shit outta some worthless sap. I beat his ass, and I smiled for the first time in years.
Walking home, I passed the park and it's sandbox where Engie was always playing with his Tonka trucks. He looked up at me under his plastic yellow hard hat, peering at that grin plastered on my face.
"What's into you, Arthur?" he asked me, standing up and wiping his hands on his overalls. I crossed my arms over my chest and stopped walking. I almost didn't notice he was talking to me. All anyone ever called me was Scout, except him.
"Richard," I simply addressed him, nodded and tried to walk off. He stumbled from his sandbox and placed a hand on my chest, blocking my path. I scowled, but it found it's way back into a boyish grin.
"Scout! What did you do?" he demanded, his hand lowering. I slipped my hands into my pockets. I couldn't look Rich in the eyes.
"That freak who plays with the costumes. That one from the BLU sidea' town. Beat 'im up." Oddly, I found my grin slipping. I felt a little guilty, but I swallowed it and forced that smile into place.
"BLU..." He nodded lightly and tipped back his hat. He took some sunglasses from his pockets and fumbled with them in hands piled high with Transformers band-aids. He pushed them onto his face and nodded. "BLU,"
"I'll take that as your approval," I chuckled in my Bostonian accent. And then I walked away.
The next day, Mikhail was at my door. I don't remember the morning, or why I specifically answered my door. I just remembered him standing there and looking sad while holding a single toothpick. I lifted a brow, crossing my arms.
"Sc-Scout! De BLU boys! Dey take my sandvich!"
"Who the hell cares, tubbo?" I groaned. I hated this kid's broken English. And Russians creeped me the hell out. But then it hit me, and I smirked. "Wait, wait. Why don't I help you get your damned sandwhich?"
"Is what I hope!" Heavy, as he came to be known, rolled his eyes which were shiny with tears. He wasn't a tough kid.
I remembered grabbing my bat from beside the door, finishing wrapping my hands for my upcoming baseball game, and taking off with a wild grin.
I ran up to the BLU neighborhood's boundaries to the RED neighborhood and tapped my bat on the ground.
"Pitcher, pitcher! What a butt itch!" I hollered, locking my knees and swinging in my bat above my head like I was waiting for a pitch. As the BLU boys edged around their sky colored houses, I placed my bat on my shoulder and turned my ball cap all the way around.
And when the nearest boy got close enough
I cracked him in the head.
If his head was a ball, I would have got a home run.
As time dragged on, our Father's disputes became our own. Weather it was little gang fist fights, or when we got older and took their places in their armadas... I always rushed in and kicked ass.
My bat became a trademark, but I came to also enjoy my scattergun. I'd just rush in, shoot some dicks, and rush out with the intel. I was damn efficient and I loved my job. Out of all 8 of us, I was the one who'd take dad's place as the RED's Scout. No wonder he called me that. I was so proud.
But today, I'm slightly less proud of myself.
Bat in hand, I stormed 2Fort with a grin. I ran in, shot down that fat lard of a Weapon's Guy dressed in that horrible shade of blue. I shouted at his corpse as I ran past. I should have paied more attention. I should have.
But I didn't, and I ended up at a dead end. I turned my back to start running out the other way, and then I felt it. There was a knife in my back, and the stench of cigarette smoke behind me. I coughed. A flow of blood came from my throat and onto my shoes. I grunted and slid to my knees, the knife pulling upward into my shoulder. Whoever had stabbed me still was holding on.
"Who is zee costumed freak now?" The knife slid from my back, swished closed, and a suited man stood before me. My eyes fluttered open and closed. I coughed again. The BLU Spy from all thoese years ago. I knew I was already dead.
My fingers scrambled into the blood and dirt at my side. I rolled and started scratching letters into it.
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-M-A.
The Spy's foot rubbed into my lettering, making it illegibal. He sinisterly grinned at me, and all I could do was narrow my eyes. I felt a more burning hate for the BLUS than I ever had. And it was still for my father's sake. I know how he felt, dying and thinking about his family. I tried to speak, but instead I spluttered blood. I felt a few tears burn into my eyes. I let them spill to my cheeks. Who cares, I couldn't call Medic. My words, if they could come out, would be weak and hoarse. And that Spy would kill him as well as me.
As my eyes closed, I saw him turn his back to me. I saw him become me.
As I laid dying, my biggest regret was that I could never tell my team that I wasn't myself.
The red Scout is the Spy.