Author's Proud Note; This is my first serious multichapter tale.
Review what you think, because I am quite certain this story needs a bit of help.
It's like a special needs story, okay? It's a bit...uh, challenged.
Leaving Scout alone in a room with a mechanical object is always a bad idea.
Here is a narrative that describes how exactly that idea can turn into a catastrophe that brings the team apart; thus meaning I have a legible excuse to write a failed dramatic story and squeeze in sexual innuendo or intellectual vocabulary words where I see fit.
I see fit all over the place.
Hey! Look!
A fit!
And there's another fit!
And there's my readers throwing fits when they read this piece of fit!
Fit, fit, fit, fit, fit!
In all of your well-educated faces!
Also, readers, please don't empathize with Sniper because you will soon realize that basically all I do in this story is torture the poor man.
The room was dimly lit but filled with a subtle hum of the power generators, and an abundance of Mann Co. Crates, stacked in sloppy heaps in the dark corner, did little to complete the emptiness that floated within the gray walls. Power cords lay by the a large humming power generator in an inextricable pile that everyone had seemed to be too lazy to untangle. There was one thing that caught Scout's attention, though; a huge metallic structure in the center of the metallic floor that was coated with rust - a boiler - and a bubbling sound that was quite apparent as he got closer to the water mill. He'd spotted the door creaking open and, worried it could have been an ideal hiding spot of a furnace monster, peeked in just in case. The Bostonian had crept through the doorway, and as soon as he scanned the room, he got a small idea when he saw the boiler. It was, as Scout saw it, the perfect opportunity to practice for tomorrow's battle.
"Wha'd ya just say about MY Ma?" A squeaky prepubescent voice suddenly taunted the boiler as the Bostonian hopped between his worn black sneakers as if he were stepping on hot coals. He spun his clenched fists in a threatening spiral, a technique most cheerleaders would die to emulate. "Yeah, you think you special, huh?" He batted his gauzed-up knuckles in the air to show the boiler who was boss. Holding it in the air for a second to scare it, he jeered, "Wanna piece a' THIS?" The boiler looked as if he was feeling fresh.
"Batter up!"
A clang sounded as the sneakers that were massive on the adolescent foot swung at the metal.
"Ow!" Scout squeaked, leg jerking back to the floor.
He sniffed curtly and regained his composure. Jutting out his chest, he gulped and bellowed, "BONK!" Scout brought up a throaty laugh from deep in his stomach that resembled that of a true man; "Haw, haw, haw! Oh ho ho ho! Ha ha haw! Eat it, fatty! I mean, seriously!
"Jus' look at yer damn metal. It's all scratchy an' old lookin'! Wow. Who built you, a fuckin' oompa-loompa? Dude, you're reta'ded.
"An' would'ja just look at yer freakin' wide-ness! You are so damn fat because yer a tin man fatty! How d'ya like THAT, ya fat assho'OLE?" With horror, he winced when his voice cracked at the climax of his insult.
Scout coughed and tried again. "I said asshole!" he shouted accusingly at the metal that would be undoubtedly shivering in fear by now, due to the Scout baring his teeth like a dog and pulling his young bony shoulders up to his ears to appear taller. "Yeah! Eat it!"
He then brought his foot back and then let it propel towards the bottom pipes of the boiler with all the force he could muster. His foot ricocheted back as the pipes clunked hollowly against him and made a crackling sound followed by a short hiss. Scout was unsure if the crack was caused by the boiler or his toe, but due to 3 good inches of sneaker padding around his thick knee socks the answer was quite obvious.
"AAAAUGH! OH GOD, OW! OW! OW!" Scout bawled as he brought his knee up to his chest to hug his newly injured foot. Bouncing on his other heel, he cried out in pain; "GOD DAMN, OW! SHIT, DUDE! Aw god, aw jeez, aw law'dy, aw SHIT! MA!"
The whining that accompanied the sob-story was interrupted by a flustered Medic that threw open the door of the boiler room with a stern, "Herr Scout!"
Scout whirled his head around and quickly let his foot drop back to his side as he saw the doctor flicking a few other light switches up with the red rubber gloves. "Dinnah is ready. Come on, hurry up." Medic scanned his eyes around the derelict room, not understanding why Scout is clutching his foot in such a darkened place without either of the boy's obvious interests – TVs or baseball, according to what Medic saw him talk about all day long – in sight. "Vhat ah you doing in heah anyvay, hm? Zhere's appearing to be nos'hing of yah interest in heah. Only a bunches of boilahs and boxes, nein?"
Scout hurriedly proppelled into a startled Medic like a doctor-magnet. The young man drew his arms apart and stuck his chest out just as he rehearsed. "Yo, is dere a probl'm? Ya gotta probl'm wit' me? Yeah, come at me, bro! Y'wanna come at me? Wanna fight?"
"Go to dinnah," Medic responded absently.
Scout shoved past Medic with all the sovereignty of a twitchy five-year-old.
"Well, y-yer jus' hatin', man!" the Bostonian yelled as he backed away into the hallway, still facing the Medic's confused smirk and one greying raised brow. "Yeah, yeah, jus' standin' there! Stand 'round dere like a frickin' tree, y'are! Ooh, hoo, real scary, candyass! Come at me, brudda, I said come at me!"
"Next time I simply von't inform you of dinnah," Medic sighed quietly, most likely a mental note, as he closed the door without even looking back towards the boiler. Clapping twice to enforce hurry, he commanded, "Now, let's go. Bitte. Our team is avaiting."
Maybe if Medic noticed just one tiny little thing, he could have made life easier for the whole of RED. One tiny little thing; emphasis on the word 'tiny' because I am currently being dramatic.
However, Medic won't contradict the plot because, well, if he did, then there really wouldn't be any meaning to this story, would there?