A wrench, a rolled-up blueprint, and an old sixshooter flew out of the pilfered toolbox and landed in the dew-drenched grass. It was early morning, and one very curious person had gotten an unbelievably fun idea, as the rubber glove was removed from the bottom of the blue, metal box.
With a snap, the elastic handpiece was closed around the top of arsonist's Optical brand mask.
"Mphuhphu!" Pyro cheered, holding his arms out like wings and running off, laughing gleefully, the warm sun shining off of his red fire suit as he went.
BANG!
Suddenly, the middle finger of the glove blew off, and the frightened Pyro made tracks towards the forests from whence he had mysteriously emerged, while half a mile away, the slim end of an Australian-made rifle barrel retracted as its owner loaded a round.
"Nyah, just a bit high on that one." The bushman mumbled under his breath, taking a draw on the smoke dramatically wafting from the breech of his rifle before closing the bolt and slapping it down. He'd spent his vacation time recently, and now, it showed. "I've been out of the game for too long..."
He rubbed the patch on his blue polo shirt, the gold crosshair that denoted his job. Sniping really was the best line of work in the Builders' League, and the pay was certainly worth working alongside idiots like the delusional Jane Doe, the 'manly man' soldier and, by the same token, fighting against such characters as 'The Spy.' Speaking of which...
In a flash, the sharpshooter's machete was in his hand, and he whirled around to precisely cross blades with his snazzily-dressed French nemesis. A few sparks jumped from the blades as they contacted, but strangely enough, both men had frozen in place.
"Pardon me, moite," With an accented, almost mocking Australian accent, "but I believe I've been too long on vacation." The red-suited Frenchman apologized, retracting his knife and flipping it closed.
"You're not the only one, ya bloody spook." Dismissively sheathing his Kukri, the Sniper held out a hand. "How 'bout we call a truce today, mate?"
"Fair enough, my good man." A firm handshake.
The bar...
"Cheers!" The sniper laughed drunkenly, flailing his entire body to clink glasses with the equally-hammered spy. "And t'believe my dad wanted me to be a doctor! That bloody wanker! Ahaha!"
"You have no idea! My parents were artists!" Attempting to take a chug of the stout only spilled most of it on the spy's suit. "They painted fruit and bridges and all sorts of ridiculous things like that! They think I'm dead now!"
"Lucky bastard, if only good 'ol POP thought I was dead! Then I wouldn't have to deal with his smelly carcass every time I tried to call mum!"
"Last call's in five minutes, boys." The bartender sighed. "Dear God, you two've been drinking like Australians..."
"I AM AUSTRALIAN YOU BLOODY HEADSTACK!" His speech slurred from around a keg's worth of beer, the smashed sharpshooter's head slammed into the bar, and he fell unconscious.
When the Australian came to the next morning, he discovered three things. First, he couldn't remember last night. Second, he had the absolute largest hangover known to man. Third, his wallet was gone.
Remember, enemies stay enemies.