~Author's Notes~

I've read a good few origin stories for TF2 on how the Team was recruited/commissioned/etc... But I haven't found too many origin stories that try to explain the mysteries behind how the mercenaries came to be who they are. These little gems, I think, are the most interesting things about them. So, I decided to start my own little Origin series.

As you may know, one of the Spy's domination lines against Scout is, "May I borrow your earpiece? 'This is Scout; Rainbows make me cry! Over!'" Which naturally made me wonder. If Spy wasn't making it up, and rainbows really did make Scout cry... then why? No better man to tell the story than the man himself, right?

I hope you enjoy this, and if you like it, then please comment. I always love hearing what people think of my stories, and I also appreciate and listen to any critiques I get. (Comments also motivate me to write, so if you want to help me to finish sooner...!) Thank you again, and enjoy!

~Author's Notes~


The fire crackled and licked at the air, throwing soft, heated light across the mercenaries' faces. The men sat together 'round the campfire, smoking and joking and swapping stories without a worry in the world. The night was young, and tomorrow held new adventures and gruesome battles for the whole team, so they figured, why the hell not enjoy a little old fashioned time together?

Pyro and Scout had a couple of metal pokers over the flames, roasting tender hot dogs and fluffy marshmallows for s'mores and a casual dinner. Engineer had his acoustic guitar in hand, heartily strumming a southern melody whilst Sniper played to the beat with his lap drum, making very pleasant, laid-back campfire music. Medic listened to the rhythm with a sort of reverence, and let it carry him away with content eyes shut. Demoman, Heavy, and Soldier were comparing war stories, trying to prove who had endured through the worst circumstances, who had escaped death by the thinnest hair. Spy was sitting by himself, dress coat off, white sleeves of his undershirt rolled up to his elbows, staring into the fire as if it were a code he couldn't quite decipher.

Scout pulled his skewers out of the flames, finding a strange little joy in blowing out the blackened, crispy marshmallows. "Alright Pyro, I'd uh, I'd say these bad boys're done."

"Mm, vrry nrrce! Hrrr," Pyro extracted buns, graham crackers, and chocolate bars from behind the log they sat on. The two set about preparing their snacks.

"Ah wus craddlin' me eyeball, Ah sey! Like this!" Demoman held his hand up to his face. "Tha' bloodeh thing wus still attached buy a few nerves, and ah'll tell yah now, ah don't think ah've felt a pain stronger than tha' of yer own eyeball lollopin' aboot in the open."

Heavy tapped his chin. "Perhaps pain of thousand bullets piercing flesh? Is very bad. Pain runs deep, strikes soul. Worse if have to see teammates taking bullets as well."

"You cupcakes think you know pain! You know NOTHING of pain until you've had to shovel your own intestines back into your own—!"

"It never happened, Soldier," Spy muttered, not even bothering to glance at the self-proclaimed sergeant. "So please, stop telling ze story as if it did."

Solder looked like a furious balloon on the brink of popping before Sniper off-handedly intervened. "Aw, quit knockin' 'im, Spy. Digger want's to tell his story, let 'im. It's a good listen."

Spy snorted, but didn't retort.

Scout held up the hot dog plates. "Yo, who's hungry?"

Engineer paused in his strumming. "Ooh. Pass a couple o' those doggies my way, son."

"I'll have one, too," Sniper chimed, placing his drum beside him.

Scout sent the plates around. "Try em. I think Pyro's onto som'n with these."

"Hrrr, thrrrks Scrrrt. Rr trry," Pyro waved off. Sure, he knew how a flame worked on food, but the skill wasn't anything special. Pyro didn't think so, at least.

Heavy caught himself eyeing the dogs as they moved around the circle. His stomach voiced it's own personal opinion on the luscious-looking food.

"Could leetle man pass three?"

"Yeah, sure thing, big guy."

Scout didn't mind Heavy calling him 'Leetle man' off the battlefield. It was almost — though Scout would never dream of admitting it to anyone — nice that the not-so-gentle giant had a nickname for him. It meant that Heavy respected him a little, right? At least, respected what Scout did as a member of the team. As long as Heavy didn't do anything stupid, like pat him on the head or something, Scout didn't mind.

The Russian accepted his plate graciously.

Scout glanced over his shoulder at Spy. When he called to the older man his eyes were joking, but his tone was earnest.

"Yo, Frenchie, you want anything?"

"I do not eat hot dogs, boy."

There was tinge of venom in his voice, which Scout recognized as deep annoyance. Dude was clearly pissed about something that had happened on the battlefield that day. Something that, perhaps, had happened multiple times in succession.

Scout wasn't the comforting type when it came down to how his teammates felt about this or that. He did, however, hold as much respect for Spy as he felt for everyone else on the team, and didn't enjoy seeing him carry nasty vibes on his shoulder hours after the fight was over and done with. He figured he could make an exception this once.

Scout sat himself back down, grabbed a plate from the plastic sleeve by Pyro, bunned a hot dog, gave it a thin line of ketchup, and then put together a fresh s'more with a little extra chocolate. He then took the plate to Spy and parked himself right beside the Frenchman, plate offered openly. Spy flicked his eyes to the food, then back at the fire, shaking his head.

"C'mon man. Eat som'n. You know what Doc says about skippin' meals." He nudged the plate a little closer.

"I do not care what ze doctor says, Scout."

"C'mon... Can't go backstabbin' Snipers on an empty tank, right?"

From across the fire, Medic snorted. It was weak humor, but Scout was trying. Still, no reply, no glance.

"A'ight, a'ight, I'll bite. What happened; Pyros got ya down—"

"NO, Scout!" Spy shouted abruptly and shot up. All heads turned his way.

"Ze Pyros do not 'got me down'; it is you! It was zat fucking Scout! Every time I pulled out a mask, he's zere; every time I cloaked and snuck through zeir base, he is zere; every time I go to sap ze dispensers, he is fucking ZERE! Ugh, I wanted to murder him; I wanted to wring zat little, scrawny neck of his!"

Scout put his hands up. "Whoa, whoa, hey now—"

"But I could not do it! Because everywhere I turn, I was met wiz a metal bat. I did not even get ze time to react! It was as if zat annoying twit was after me, personally!"

"'Ey! I resent that!"

"Mon dieu," Spy finally fell back into his seat, head in hands. "Dominated by a twelve-year-old rabbit. Who cries every time he zees a rainbow! I was dominated by a fruit cup!"

Demoman knew that now wasn't the time, he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He tried stifling his laughter unsuccessfully, which wound up egging Soldier into laughing too, then Sniper, then Pyro, and pretty soon everyone was laughing their asses off.

Except Scout.

They were all laughing at him. Oh, they wouldn't say it, they'd slap him on the back, tell him to loosen up, grab a drink, quit havin' such a stick up his ass. They'd make it out to be Spy's wording they were laughing at, the whole predicament in general, of just how stupid it was that a Scout, of all classes, had dominated Spy.

His lips never even twitched upwards.

The laughter began to die down. Oh, man, the things running through Scout's head. Oh, the things he could say, the obscenities that waited on the tip of his tongue, the venom he so desperately wished he could spit into their eyes. He'd tried to be nice to Spy, tried to be the pal everyone knew he wasn't, and this was the thanks he got.

"Fuck you, Spy."

The Frenchman looked at the man with amused, semi-interested eyes.

"It ain't fuckin' funny, so quit fuckin' laughin' about it — you don' know what happened."

"Oh ho ho? You mean to say zat zere is a story behind zis rainbow-phobia?"

Scout leered into the fire, trying to tune out the chuckles that seemed to surround him. In those bitter blue eyes, Spy suddenly saw a flicker of an emotion he'd never seen in the man before. A small voice within him genuinely wondered if something traumatic had happened. But honestly, how bad could it have been? They were talking about rainbows, for heaven's sake.

As pissed as Scout was, as bad as he wanted to bash Spy's head in for making light of his gut-jerk reaction to the organic spectacles, he kept himself in check. He wasn't a kid; he could be reasonable if the situation really called for it. And besides, it was about time they knew. He was sick of being thought of as a teenager. A pussy of a teenager. He was fucking twenty-two, for God's sake.

He looked up from the fire and began his story.