Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Through the think haze of steam spraying from a broken pipe came two dark forms, hunched over in a way that said they had seen better days. One figure, a man who was using an old plank of wood as a makeshift crutch, was dressed in a smart-looking red pinstriped suit that was ripped and tattered in many places. One of the man's pant legs was torn open at the knee and blood was pouring from the wound beneath; the result of a gunshot from a man who liked to play with his food before eating it. Both men paused in the middle of the steam-filled hallway, and the other man leaned against the wall, a bare arm pressed over his naked torso in an attempt to staunch the steady leaking of blood from the sutures of what appeared to have been an extremely extensive surgery.

"I wonder where the others are..." The Sniper said quietly, looking over his shoulder as if hoping to see one of his teammates strutting heroically towards them.

"Yes, I was wondering the same thing," the Spy said, aiming his view at the wall closest to him as he stepped over the remains of one of his robotic counterparts. "Except about your pants. And when you'll be putting some on."

"It's nothin' but robots and rubble here, mate," The Sniper said reasonably. The steam from the pipe was drifting over his lower abdomen, partially obscuring his pelvic area. "We're not exactly sneakin' through a pants store..."

"I still don't see why you couldn't have stolen pants off the dead man."

Sniper aimed a look at at the back of his teammate's head before speaking. "Y'do know what people do in their pants when they die, right?"

"Yes, I am aware," The Spy said evenly. "It would still be preferable."

"'ere I've an idea" The Sniper pushed himself off the wall, still holding his left hand tightly over his midsection, and held his right hand out to the Spy. "Give us your coat."

For a moment, Spy didn't move. He held his cigarette tightly between his lips, hoping against hope that the bushman did not just say what he definitely didn't hear.

"I said, give us y-'"

Merde.

"I heard... exactly... What you said." The Spy's expression darkened as he removed the cigarette from his lips, and he whipped around to face the Sniper, being careful not to unbalance himself. "Bushman, this is a $10,000 custom-tailored Louis Crabbemarchè jacket. The cloth is from silkworms raised at a suit microfarm in Tuscany, from a secret pattern passed down from monk tailors since the seventh century." He tossed the butt over his shoulder and adjusted his crutch to continue walking. "I will let you use it as an adult diaper when you pry it off of my cold, dead..."

The world stopped. Everything in his brain froze, and all the reasons he was, and could be, annoyed with the Sniper disappeared in the fraction of a second that it took to process the sight lying on the ground before him.

"...body." His voice cracked at this last word, and he stared with a vacantly shocked expression at the scout, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by the mangled and sparking remains of an entire league of Spy-Bots.

"Oh, hey guys." The Scout's voice was weak and shaky, and the entire lower portion of his shirt was shredded and soaked in blood. The boy raised a hand in a halfhearted wave, the leaned his head against the wall he had propped himself up on. "See all these robots? That's me. I did that." He let his hand fall so that it was draped over the gaping wound below his shirt.

From behind the Spy, Sniper's blank eyes swept the floor, feeling just as shocked as Spy looked.

"Last one got a couple lucky swings in, though. How'm I lookin'? Does it look bad?" Scout's face was quickly paling, and there were two large blue bruises starting to bloom over his eyes. "It looks good, right? Yeah, I'll probably be okay." His voice became softer still, and in barely a whisper, the Scout added, "Man, am I tired, by the way."

Very gently, the Sniper nudged Spy's shoulder, and in a voice almost as quiet as the Scouts, said only one word: "Mate." The marksman's expression was one of pure concern, and the Spy pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh.

In the steadiest voice that Spy could orchestrate, he said, "Yes, I know. Give us a moment."

As Sniper retreated around the corner, Spy knelt down at the young man's side. There was so much blood, and even now it was slowly spreading across the floor. The Scout's gaze was unfocused, but he still fixed the Spy with one of those lopsided grins.

"Scout," the Spy started. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Yeah? Okey doke. Make it quick, though. I am real tired for some reason."

Spy's mind was suddenly kicked into overdrive. Where do I start? How do I say it? Say something you bumbling idiot! The Spy raised his eyes to the ceiling but the lump in his throat that would not go away only let him get out one syllable. "I..." He couldn't stand to see that expectant look on the kid's face any longer. He stood and walked away, only saying, "I'll be right back."

Scout's whispered "okay" went unheard by the Spy, who had already rounded the corner and, without making any kind of eye contact with the Sniper, pulled out his disguise kit and carefully selected the "custom" button. The silver tool Spy held in his hand had the ability to allow him to be seen through his disguise by his teammates... Or not. This time, he elected not to be seen. A thick cloud of smoke spread over his body as he finished customizing his disguise, and for a final touch, the Spy cleared his throat to allow his voice to change.

When the Spy returned to Scout, the boy had slid down the wall and was now almost completely lying down on the floor. The incessant lump in the Spy's throat returned, but this time, he fought it down. It's now or never he told himself.

"What's new, Pussycat?"

The Scout's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of his idol, and a faint "Oh my god" escaped the boy's lips. The lopsided smile he had given the Spy earlier widened, and he let his head fall backwards against the wall, his eyes closed in content. "I knew you'd come, Tom Jones," he said, his smile only growing wider as the disguised Spy crouched once again, and this time, placed his hand on the Scout's shoulder.

"Scout... Do you know my hit song, Sex Bomb?" Tom asked Scout gently.

"Psh. I'm an alive human on Earth, ain't I? Check this crap out." Scout waved the question away and raised his shirt, revealing not only an enormous gash that was overflowing with blood, but also a very tribute-esque tattoo of Tom Jones, with a banner curled around it that read "SEX BOM".

Stunned by what he was seeing, Tom could only say, "It's a Sex Bomb tattoo."

Gushing with pride (among other things), the Scout said, "Yeah it is."

"Spelled incorrectly," Tom added slowly, trying his hardest not to let his eyes wander to the gaping wound at the kid's side.

"Yeah, it is." The Scout said again, more faintly. Then, his smile faltered. "Wait, is it?"

Not wanting to waste any more of what precious time he might have left to say everything he wanted to, Tom abandoned all pretense and spoke: "Scout, 27 years ago I dropped a 'Sex Bomb' on your mother. I was young then, and I ran from the explosion. But now the fallout of that Sex Bomb has caught up with me..." He drew a blank. He wasn't sure how to continue. "This is where the analogy starts to break down, so if it's alright with you I'll retire the Sex Bomb metaphor now."

"Yeah, sure."

"Thank you."

Tom tightened his grip on Scout's shoulder. He could see that time was very rapidly running out. "You're stronger than you'll ever know, Jeremy." Spy said softly. "I'm proud of you. I've always been proud of you..." Say it! Say it, bon Dieu! "...Son."

As the last dregs of energy drained from Scout's body, a couple of tears seeped up from the corners of his eyes. "Frickin'... Awesome..." And with those last two words, the Scout closed his eyes, the ghost of that smile still lingering on his face.

This is it. It's all over. He's gone. Those three sentences kept replaying over and over in Spy's head. With very measured and robotic movements, Spy, still hidden behind the facade of Tom Jones, lifted Scout from the ground and draped his son across his knees. The boy, his boy's head lolled hopelessly as his shoulders were propped up by the Spy's surprisingly steady hand. There was nothing he could do for Scout, now. As he bowed his head over his son's body and against the oncoming wave of grief, his disguise broke, as did his composure.

The Sniper leaned back against the wall, watching silently. He didn't feel exposed per se, just indecent. Without a word, Spy rose to his feet and retrieved his plank of wood. Feeling as though he ought to say something, the Sniper asked gingerly, "Should we bury 'im?"

Spy wasted no time in formulating his retort. "If you're hiding a shovel, rinse it off and give it to me. I could use a weapon."

Together they began to make their way to the end of the hall, but they faltered in their steps as a faint cough came from behind them. Snipers long sallow face split into a tired smile, while spy's face contorted into a strange grimace.

"Well I'll be..." Said the Aussie, turning to fully face the Scout who had his hand raised pathetically into the air, reaching out towards the only two people who could help him.

The Spy turned, too, but with a low and somewhat confused, "You have got to be #$%ing kidding me."

Astonishingly, the color had returned in full to Scout's face, and while the gash in his side was still so obviously there, it was no longer bleeding. After a moment of stunned hesitation, the Spy moved forward and help the Scout to his feet and return to the front lines to find the Medic.