Beginning notes:

A huge thank you to the users Ember Nova and KHGiggle for giving me a heads up to the fact I uploaded the completely, heavily coded wrong file last night. (I haven't worked on this site in ages)

One woman, her eight children and a too small home in Southern Boston- theirs was a happy family, albeit a dysfunctional one. Their house was a skinny little thing, just one sardine of the many tightly packed into the can that was the city block. What it lacked in width, it made up in height. Even with four floors to share, though, space was cramped.

It was only natural then that the children be banished to the streets during the day to run about and burn off energy. The mother- Alice- didn't care much what they got into so long as they were home in time for dinner. "If you're going to do it," She'd always say. "You'd better do it well."

And do it well they did.

With a pack of boys ranging in age from eight to twenty with each one just as spindly as the home they lived in, it was surprising that they managed to never get caught for their mishaps. It wasn't infrequent that one of them would get caught whilst pickpocketing, and the pack would set upon the poor fellow who called the culprit out for his crimes. Most of the time, however, they didn't need any motivation to tear a tourist to shreds. Many of their victims found themselves hospitalized. A few would even be found dead the next day.

So long as they made it home in time for dinner, Alice didn't care.

Whenever their father was home, it was just as much a special treat as it was rare. Holidays, birthdays, hell- even for their actual births it was never guaranteed he would make it home from work in time for any of the children to still be awake. If it wasn't a special occasion chances were he wouldn't come home at all. As the number of children increased, the time between his visits grew. The youngest of the group had only met the mysterious man he'd been instructed to call either "Papa" or "Père" twelve times (that he could remember) by the time it rolled around to his ninth birthday.

It was a steamy August day when the time for celebration rolled around, but the small backyard was provided with a generous amount shade by the tall houses surrounding it. With the air conditioner broken down for the third time this summer it was a thankful escape from the muggy interior.

Alice had left the oldest three boys in charge of decorating the fence enclosing the space and as a result the streamers and balloons were accompanied by a fair number of pin up posters- a detail which had earned each of them a solid flogging with a wooden spoon. At the request of the birthday boy she reluctantly left them taped to the fence, but not without covering anything inappropriate with an assortment of sports themed stickers that had been intended to be a birthday gift.

There weren't many guests in attendance outside of those who were required by mother to attend their brothers birthday party. Two of the older boys had invited girls to the festivities, hoping to use the females as an excuse to leave early- preferably as soon as everyone had a slice of cake, no doubt. One of these boys- the eighteen year old with a pretty brunette on his arm- was using this tactic shortly after presents were opened and dessert was sliced.

He and his giggling date were headed to the back door, having just bid farewell to the birthday boy and his mother with an eloquent "See ya, shortstop. Ma! I'm leaving!" shouted across the yard.

"I'm not short!" The little one immediately protested the nickname, earning him a flip of the bird from his parting sibling as well as a chorus of laughter from several others.

Not a second later, the offending hand is grabbed by the wrist by a newcomer- a man in a well pressed, pinstriped suit who had been making his own way through the door. This new guest gives the younger man whose arm he'd captured a stern frown and raises a brow. "Is this any way to behave in front of a woman?" The french accent stands out sharply in the bostonian air, causing the yard to go silent.

The teenager turns to the other, eyes wide, and they stare at eachother. Tension builds for a minute or so, the brothers watching with anxious concern until finally the suited man sighs and drags his captive into a warm hug. "Well don't just stand there," He says, looking over the teens shoulder at the remaining children in the yard. "Embrace your father!"

This was all the encouragement necessary to cause the lot of them to burst into smiles and rush forth, a chorus of "Papa," and "Père," and even a "Daddy," or two making its way into the mix. It was a rather tight squeeze for them all to fit on the steps near the screen door, but it was more of a struggle for the old man to make his way down the stairs. In the end it took Alice's meddling to separate the group of father and sons so she could slip in and steal a welcome kiss.

"I didn't know you were coming home." The words were whispered accusingly in his ear as soon as the children had resumed their romping and celebrating. A small roll of the eyes are the response she gets from this, accompanied by a peck on the cheek.

"I don't need permission to surprise my family." Another little kiss, this time to the forehead. "That includes you, my dear."

He turns his attention away from his wife and, after a quick scan of the yard to find his position, makes his way over to the birthday boy. The little tike saw him coming, of course- all of the brothers were keeping one eye on the elusive father figure they so rarely got to see- and was practically bouncing on his heels in excitement. There was a present waiting just for him, he could tell- his father wasn't doing a very good job hiding the long, gift wrapped package behind his back.

Indeed, there was a present for him, a cylindrical package that made him squeal in childish delight. Upon unwrapping it to find a pristine wooden baseball bat, beautifully branded and polished, The Sandman caused the youngster to squeal louder still. It was love at first sight.

After a brief yet enthusiastic thank you, the runt reaches for his father's hand and starts to tug him towards the cake table, only to stop mid stride. Looking to their entwined hands, then up at his parents face and back at their hands in awe, he suddenly exclaims, "Papa, your hands are huge!"

Indeed, the elder male's hand engulfed the child's. "When I'm older, will they be big like yours?" Smiling at this, he crouches down to be the same height as the other and nods.

"Listen here, boy- I daresay they may even be bigger than mine."

- 15 Years Later, to the Day -

There was a wet spot on his shirt, a small splatter of blood staining his BLU uniform just under his dog tags, near his heart. It didn't stop there of course- some had gotten on the wall, some on the floor, and plenty was leaking out through the fabric of that damned balaclava. Somehow, though, The Sandman, remained perfectly dry. No clumps of hair or fabric, nothing to betray the fact that he'd just hit the enemy spy clear across the head from behind, catching his skull between the wall and his favorite bat.

He shouldn't have taken the time to get a look at the stranger, shouldn't have crouched down near the RED cladden corpse to look closely at the face hidden by a mask.

If he hadn't, he could've gone through life never knowing he murdered his father.

Instead, here he was- being some sentimental idiot on a battlefield, remembering the day years ago when he'd first been in this position- hands pressed together, fingers entwined. He'd been right- spy had. Scouts hand now easily covered the other's spindly fingers.

Tears were welling up by now, and Scout was just about ready to double over when there's a sudden breeze behind him. A familiar voice drifts into his ear, just as the cold metal of a revolver barrel presses into the back of his neck.

"Happy birthday, boy."

A single shot rings through the air, and the RED Spy pockets his dead ringer as he walks away, leaving Scout with an expression of shock embedded on his lifeless face.