I wanted to show a more mature side of Scout. I know he's the youngest on the team, but some works I've seen have portrayed him as acting like a child. Scout is at least in his late teens, and at most, somewhere in his twenties. I believe that there is a darker, more cynical side to him due to his chronological age. The idea for the placing of the beer came from when I visited my grandparents' graves. I was clearing away some fallen branches, and happened to look up to notice someone placing a can of beer for his deceased friend on the plaque set in the ground.

The can of beer felt cold in the RED Scout's pocket. He was thankful for that, given it provided at least a small sense of relief during such a hot day in Boston. Not that he was complaining, of course. At least it wasn't as bad as the desert. Still, he wished he had his hat to block out the sun. It was getting in its eyes. He knew better than to go back for it. The heat had already forced him to dress down for this occasion, and even though Scout disliked doing otherwise, he wished it could have been different this time. The removal of his hat at least made him look a little formal. So, he put up with the Sun by walking through splashes of treetop shadows on the sidewalk.

Boston hadn't changed much. The harbor was still lively, baseball was still played, and urban renewal was still in full swing. Scout frowned as he turned the corner toward the local cemetery. Well, at least those things hadn't changed. It felt so odd to walk through the town that he had grown up in, and to know that he wasn't a complete part of it anymore. Sure, his parents were still there, as were most of his brothers and friends, but he didn't live there. His home was with his team.

He stifled the sarcastic laugh that was building in his throat. He felt most at home with eight strangers. Yeah, he'd forged bonds with them that spoke volumes on the battlefield. He'd saved some of their lives, and some of them had saved his. The problem was, they didn't know who he really was. It was nice to make small talk with Sniper in his nest while watching the sunset, or to shoot bottle caps at Spy, and watch him accurately place a bullet hole through each and every one, but they knew only his battle-ready persona. He'd mentioned all the sweat, blood, and tears he'd shed in order to better himself in baseball, and although he had been met with approval from Soldier from devoting himself to such a positively American sport, Solly neither knew of, nor understood the times when Scout had to practically drag himself to practice with a shiner on his face. Being fast didn't always mean he won all the fights.

Of course, a lot of the fights were in defense of his family name. Demoman held that similarity with him. Scout's kin were proud people, but that didn't mean they were necessarily clean. His father continued to battle an addiction to morphine. He'd gotten hooked on the stuff during the War. Scout's cuckold eldest brother was nearing the end of his rope with his wife. It irked Scout whenever someone whispered that the two-faced bitch's bruises had been from her jealous husband. That was complete and utter bullshit. Scout knew his brother well. Tom fought as hard as pit bull, but he never hit any of his family members. Even when Scout busted his prized bike, the most Tom did was scream at him over his toolbox. It reminded him of Engineer, now that he thought back. No, it was the whore's lover who had given her those bruises. The rumor mill refused to listen.

Those were nothing more than memories, but they had shaped him as a person. Sometimes he caught himself wishing to go back and relive a few of those. Especially times like now. There very few people in the cemetery, just as he had expected. It was the middle of the week, during the time that most were at work. Scout liked it that way. He was a tough guy, and he didn't want others to see this softer side of him.

His footfalls thudded softly on the ground. It felt odd to not be wearing his cleats. It was calming, since he usually wore them while in battle, but unsettling as well because it felt so different. Scout didn't want to admit it, but he felt his heart ache as the small plot, decorated by a wooden cross with white flowers on it, came into view. There wasn't a tombstone yet; the grave still needed time to settle. He knew it was the right one due to Murphy giving him the directions.

He knelt soundlessly before the grave, lowering his head. His hand went to his pocket to withdraw the beer and place it on the earth before him. In a choked-up voice, he murmured, "Promised you we'd grab a drink next time." He couldn't help it; tears slid down his face as he stared at the grave of his childhood friend, one of those who truly did know him as not the energetic, steadfast Scout, but John Scott, the aspiring, loose-cannon baseball player of Boston. He used to go by Johnny, but he ditched the name as he got older. It seemed immature to him. This dear friend of his had picked up on that right away. It killed Scout to know that he hadn't been able to see Leonard Rice one last time before this had happened. Then again, who would've known? It had been an accident in the first place.

XXXXXX

Rice came from a blue collar family, much like Scout. They played catch together as kids, and spent time on the docks as they grew older. Scout liked the companionship he found in his friend. He enjoyed having a group of brothers that helped aid and raise him, but he had wanted to have someone who had liked him and put up with him without a bloodline forcing him or her to. Rice was that person. Sometimes, it was hard to keep that bond intact. As Scout advanced in age, he became more and more frustrated. He had wanted to become a famous player, and there was absolutely no disputing his talent, but the problem was, he didn't have the right connections to make Major League.

His burnout dad had known a few, but they had abandoned him after the addiction had really gotten bad. There had been nights when Scout had come close to clubbing his father in the face with a baseball bat, but what had stopped him had been his own conscience. Once upon a time, he had looked up to this man. His mother had zero connections. Kind lady she was, she came from a working class family that unfortunately had very few associates with higher classes. His brothers had tried to assist him, but after what had happened with their father and oldest sibling, the name Scott was Mudd.

Scout, as a result, sometimes lost his temper. He'd broken a few mirrors and a window, knocked over some crates at the dock, and thrown rocks at seagulls. The damage was always kept away from the locker room and baseball field, as he didn't want to screw up what he already had. There were times when Rice had to intervene before serious harm could have been done, or if Scout had begun to drink too much. Scout's friend had believed in him, and hadn't wanted him to spoil his chances of fulfilling his dream, even if those chances were slim to none.

That changed when Scout was offered a position on the RED team. Reliable Excavation Demolition had seen his speed as an asset, and therefore had offered to use their connections to make him a Major League player in return for his service. That, and the fact that he would still be given a salary for his labor, sealed the deal. Scout's mother hadn't approved of it. She had worried over the fact that he would either be killed, or develop his own addiction like his father. It was his choice, however, since he was in his twenties. At least a few of his brothers and friends, including Rice, approved. The war took away time to see those he cared about. While Scout was off fighting, Rice followed in his own father's footsteps, and became a dock worker. The times Scout was on leave, the two would go out for a few drinks, and catch up on things.

It wasn't meant to go on forever. Scout had thought that surely he would be the one to die first. The respawn system kept him alive, but there were times when it didn't work. He thanked God for the Medic and Engineer, otherwise he would've been gone. There came hours when he sat in his quarters alone, and rather than sleeping, debated whether this was all worth it, this looking Death in the eye, and wondering when the Reaper would respond to his taunts by taking his life once and for all. Then the realization would dawn that is was worth it. He hadn't come all this way to give up. Scout couldn't help but wonder, however, when that epiphany would stop occurring. What then?

That made Rice's death all the more shocking. A storm had hit the harbor, causing a ship's cargo to break free. Against the orders of the foreman, Rice had tried to rescue the goods, knowing that its loss would bring a rather sizeable deficit to the harbor's profits. If there was one word Scout could use to describe his friend, it would be stubborn. Rice had been close to success when a hook from the ship's rope and pulley system had broken free, its blade effectively decapitating him. The other dock workers had managed to recover the shipment due to his sacrifice. His body had also been pulled from the water, but his head had never been found. When the Sun rose the next morning, a vibrant rainbow decorated the harbor, wiping away the cruelty of the night before. Rice wasn't the only casualty. Five sailors and two other dock workers had also lost their lives.

Scout had been stationed at Coldfront when he had gotten word of what had happened, and hadn't managed to attend the funeral. His service in battle was needed first and foremost. He didn't cry on the train back, but he did stay away from the others, strangely silent. Medic, worried about a latent injury, had asked him what was wrong. Scout had snapped that it hadn't been any of his business. The German hadn't allowed that to pass. After returning to 2Fort, he demanded Scout tell him. The Bostonian blatantly and emotionlessly stated that his closest friend had been killed in a storm, and asked in a snide voice if any other questions had been needed. Medic had allowed him to go. Scout cried the whole night.

It also didn't do that a week after, RED and BLU fought under rainy conditions. The companies had decided that as long as there wasn't lightning, the battle would proceed. Scout had fought much more brutally than ever during that battle, and walked away with the most kills. His stony exterior, however, broke when the Sun shined through the clouds, and cast a translucent rainbow. BLU Spy had thought the sounds of his sobs funny, and taunted him about them. He was bludgeoned about a dozen times by the vengeful Scout's bat, the first hit having broken his skull and killed him instantly.

When Scout finally returned home, he had felt numb, but knew he had to shake it off. Rice wouldn't have wanted to get in the way of him enjoying his time with his family; leave wasn't just about seeing his best friend. That was what made it matter all the more to him to pay his last respects.

XXXXXX

Scout rose slowly, composing himself and wiping away the last of his tears on his arm. Spy once told him that everything was always the hardest the first time, and he was right. The Bostonian knew that it would be a long time before the pain would truly go away, but it had to start. "We're in this together." He stated in a much stronger voice before turning to leave. More than ever, he had a reason to see this to the end. He wasn't just going to become a Major League player for himself anymore; he was becoming one for Leonard, as well.

Maybe he would be a little nicer to Medic, and try not to bother Engineer as much anymore while he was working. Scout knew his pride was his downfall, but at least those two served to halt the consequences to his unthinking actions for just a little longer. Only two and a half years to go before his reward would come. Could he survive that long? A self-confident smile formed on Scout's lips. He was up to the challenge.