Scout was bored.
Correction, saying that he was bored would be a massive understatement. Boredom is an emotional state experienced when an individual is left without anything in particular to do, and not interested in his surroundings. What Scout was experiencing was a strong pain, ripping through his skull as he laid on his bed, too glum to continue laying on it a minute longer, yet too mentally exhausted to look for something else to do. He puffed as he tossed his white leather baseball against the wall, which made an unsatisfying thump before it returned into the palm of his hand. He would repeat the seemingly endless process over and over again.
Thump... thump… thump…
"Man, dis shit sucks bawls."
After a tiring day of fighting at Nightfall, our beloved mercenaries have found themselves in a rather comatose state when the clock struck midnight. Our Scout, however, was not lucky enough to be shrouded in a calming, blissful state of slumber. It was quite a shame that the Scout wasn't able to do as his colleagues did, simply because he had 2000 milligrams of caffeine rushing through his bloodstream. Deep inside, he knew that it was a mistake to drink seven cans of BONK! during the mission, but he ignored his subconscious, much like he ignored Spy when he ordered him to stop eating his breakfast cereal with a ladle.
And now, though the caffeine rush had stopped, the insomnia stayed, and boredom soon joined it. This boredom was biting through his sanity like a rodent, and he desperately tried to make it go away by throwing a small leather baseball against the cracking red wall repeatedly.
Thump... thump… thump…
Cursing once more, he tossed the leather ball in a corner, anticipating its impact as it returned to him. But the ball refused to return, almost as if it was bored of this repetitive game itself. The Scout hopelessly looked at the big white clock on the wall of his room. It showed that it was exactly 1: 17 a.m. This irritated the young Bostonian, and he began flipping on his squeaky bed like a seal, hoping that, by the time he makes a complete flip, the sun will rise, and he will be able to run around the base freely, without having to quiet down for the sake of his comatose teammates.
Much to his despair, after he made the flip and continued to lie on his bed, his shoulders and knees on his mattress and leaving his hips to stick up in the air awkwardly, the damned clock still showed the same time.
"Fuck dis shit, I'm bored!"
With that thought, he sat up on his bed and hopelessly rubbed his face. He squinted as he looked around his dark room, only making out basic shapes and silhouettes of his furniture. He never really liked the dark too much. As a Scout, his job was to search the area, see everything before anyone else. The darkness seemed to conceal those important things he had to look out for. For that exact reason, he always hated the darkness.
And there was this one other time concerning the boogeyman when he was four, but that is a whole other story.
The young Bostonian tapped his foot against the floor. It made a strange squeaky sound as the rubber of his sneakers made contact with the cold concrete floor, but he didn't seem to mind it. Instead he wondered; what could he do to entertain himself at one o'clock in the morning?
A few ideas popped into mind, but he felt like doing none of them.
Suddenly, his face lit up, as if an imaginary light bulb popped up over his head. He snapped his fingers for good measure, and a small smile crept over his face, as our Scout was facing yet another Eureka moment.
If all else failed, he could always pester the friendly neighborhood Nazi.
The Medic's office was a smaller one. It consisted of a number of bookshelves, filled with many old, dusty medical books that he most likely never even opened. A large oak desk was in the centre of the room, along with a plain black leather office chair. This extremely simple office was decorated with a tall pearly white skeleton in the corner, and a simple red Persian rug, which made the office look sort of pleasant. The Medic was crawling on this thick comfortable carpet; squinting and he looked for something under his desk. He moved around his office on all fours, sometimes reaching out his right arm and touching the smooth surface of the floor. He muttered something under his breath. He suddenly heard footsteps echoing in the hall. The insomniac doctor shut his eyes tightly. He recognized the swift, impatient footsteps of a certain obnoxious Bostonian.
Not today. Please, not today of all days…
The metal mechanical door opened sideways with a loud swish as the motion detector sensed the Bostonian's presence. The young man walked into the room, with a big stupid smile on his face.
"Hey, doc, how's it goin'?"
"Halt!" the doctor commanded, making the confused Bostonian freeze almost instantly, his foot lingering in the air as he was about to step forward.
"Be careful, bitte. I'm looking for somezing."
"Sorry, doc," apologized the Scout as he began walking across the carpet slowly. He walked slowly, but not necessarily carefully. He sat on a short brown stool, reserved for the German doctor's patients. He spread his legs and placed his hands on his knees.
"Whatcha lookin' for, anyways?"
"Iff you must know, Dummkopf, I am looking for my glasses," the doctor squinted at the boy.
"Und, was in Himmel, iff I may ask, are you doing here?"
"I was bored," the Bostonian shrugged; "So I came around. I knew that you wasn't sleepin' or nuttin'. You mind if I hang ahound hiyeh?"
The Medic looked at the man with disgust, never caring much about his irritating Boston accent.
"Na gut, but be quiet."
It took Scout barely twenty seconds to start tapping his feet against the floor nervously. The tapping soon turned into beat, and he was soon flapping his palms against his knees, incorporating an occasional whistle. The rhythm became faster and louder, much to Medic's despair. He hopelessly stood up straight and frowned at the annoying young man.
"Do you mind?" Medic asked, his arms crossed on his chest. The Scout became quiet. His attention was captured by something on Medic's table. It was an ordinary framed picture. The Bostonian found it intriguing, and he soon found himself examining the picture. Little things like this often grabbed his attention, as he had the attention span of a retarded goldfish with ADHD. Well, if only…
"Yo, doc, who's dis cow?" the young man gestured to the woman in the picture, a slightly overweight girl with big sparkling eyes. The Medic's frown turned into a bright, slightly nostalgic smile.
"Zat, Scout, ist Natasha. Izn't she ze most fascinating woman you haff ever seen?" he ticked his head to the side, clasping his palms together.
"Yuck!" exclaimed Scout; "You sure know how to pick 'em, doc." The Bostonian left the picture back on the great oak desk.
"Oh, don't be so crude. Look at her! Aren't her eyes just… vanderfull?"
The Scout looked into the slightly blurry picture. Though it was black and white, the woman's eyes shined brightly through it, like two flaming suns. It was almost as if she were looking straight into the Bostonian's soul. He gulped and dropped the picture down to the surface of the desk, never wanting to see that creepy look from her again. Suddenly, he saw something absolutely amazing, standing in the corner. Scout's eyes widened with glee.
"Holy shit bawls! A freakin' skeleton!"
The Scout ran up to the skeleton, looking at it in admiration.
"Ja, ja, Scout. It is very impressive. Und now, if you could kindly leave…"
The Scout ignored the irritated doctor and continued to ogle the ivory bones.
"'Ey, doc, your friend hiyeh ain't lookin' so lively. Heh. Get it? Lively?"
The doctor rolled his eyes, not being able to believe Scout's inability to produce a good joke.
"It's funny, 'cuz he ain't alive no more, right?" was Scout's response to the uncomfortable silence. Some crickets chirped in the distance loudly while the Medic looked around the room for his glasses, not being able to see anything in greater detail.
"OOH! I gawt anutha' one!" Scout exclaimed enthusiastically. He coughed loudly in a preparing manner, standing a bit straighter than before.
"Okay, umm…" the Bostonian started; "Now," he turned to the skeleton; "You know who you remind me of? Pelvis Presley."
He subtly looked up to the uninterested doctor, who was too busy searching around his desk. He shook his head disapprovingly. The Scout considered this an invitation to try out some new material. He picked up the skull in his right hand while the Medic wasn't looking, and started to do some strange prop comedy.
"Okay, um, uh…" he cleared his throat and looked dramatically at the skull;
"To be… or not to be… that is da… question and shit. And, umm…" he tried to recall his old English classes at high school, but all he could remember was how Stella Donaldson was sitting next to him in that class, and man was she hot! Still, he made up for his lack of knowledge when it came to Shakespearean dialogue with an excess of dramatic expressions.
"'Tis nobler and shit, to suffer and sling, and…a-and… Aw, screw it. Spoilah alert, they all die in da end, and dat Ophelia bitch drowns herself. Dumb slut."
The Medic looked back at the Scout, who was currently throwing the skull like a baseball in the palm of his hand. He gasped.
"Nein!" he snatched it from the Scout quickly; "You do not throw it like zhat!" he carefully placed it on its stand, after failing to do so the first couple of times, due to his poor depth perception. The Scout grinned at the skeletal figure.
"Yo, doc, how come you's gawt a skeleton hiyah? Whose skelly is it? Who was the guy? If it was a guy…"
The last comment gave Scout an idea, and he leaned over to the white bony structure, flexing his biceps.
"Ey gurl," he said to it; "You look fine today. You lost some weight? You're all like bare bones and shit," he put his hand around the skeleton, making the Medic slap his own forehead in disbelief.
"You know, you would look so hawt if you got yaself some titties. You'd give me a…boner." Scout began making some spastic movements, trying not to burst out laughing. The Medic crossed his arms and looked at the Bostonian judgmentally.
"Scout, stop that. Your pathetic jokes are neither clever nor…" the doctor forced away a grin; "nor humerus," he ended with a smirk. Sadly, the Scout failed to understand this joke.
"Aw, come on, doc. Don't be such a pain in da ass. Toss me a bone once in a while. Heh-heh. See what I did there?"
The Medic groaned and plummeted into his black leather chair, clutching his head. Suddenly, he got a brilliant idea. It involved two of his favorite things; death, and the possibility of getting a young irritating Bostonian as far away from him as possible. As he looked up at the blurry Scout, he smiled cunningly.
"Do you vant to know who zhose bones are from?" he grinned. He didn't need perfect 20/20 eyesight to see that the young man's face light up as he sat on the stool hastily and looked at him, eagerly awaiting the explanation.
"Yes," was his simple answer. The Medic looked at the boy leaning over to the doctor in a manner of a small child. The doctor sighed as he looked upwards to the gray ceiling. He turned on a small lamp on his desk, and it illuminated the room with a soft, golden glow.
"Very vell. I shall now tell a story about…"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" the Scout protested; "Don't go callin' it a story! Stories are for kids! I ain't a kid! I'm a grown ass man!"
"Vell, vhat do you vant me to call it, zhen?" the Medic asked, leaning on his desk with his left elbow and propping his head against it.
"Umm… call it a…call it a…" the Scout suddenly raised his hand and made a half circle across the air, mesmerized by the movement.
"Something."
The doctor sighed as he looked at this worthless human being. Still, he promised the boy a story…ahem, a something, and he was a man of his word.
"Alright. I shall tell you a… a narrative concerning zhat skeleton."
"Narrative. Kick ass."
Scout propped his head on his palms, in a childish fashion. The Medic snickered as he clapped twice; making the chandelier illuminating the room turn itself off. The table lamp let out a glow on the older doctor's face, and in this light, it seemed more grim than before. His pupils widened, and he smiled fiendishly as he clasped his hands together, trying to find the right words to start the story with.
"Now, young Scout," he chirped; "Zhis narrative is a ghastly story of death, vengeance, lunacy und…ghosts."
The Scout squealed with delight.
"It was a dark, horrendous night when the Builders League United mercenaries stepped forth into battle. It rained all day, and thunder struck in the night, but the mercenaries had a job to do. They all grabbed their weapons, determined to make that day their victims' last. One man was more determined than the rest of his crew. It was the brilliant Doctor Dement of Berlin, the most infamous doctor of their time.
The healing rays we use today didn't exist in the year 1918, so the Berliner used his special form of treatment. He used two large electricity conductors, made from aluminum. They looked like larger drum sticks, attached to his bulky knapsack, containing the electricity generator. With electric shocks, he healed his allies, giving them a jumpstart when their hearts stopped beating in the heat of battle, and destroyed his enemies. Doctor Dement was perhaps the most notorious Medic in the history of BLU. Everybody was frightened of him. No Spy or Pyro could reach that level of inhumane evil and utter madness. Where this man set foot, chaos and mayhem reigned. That is, until that dreadful day…
It was difficult, fighting at that time. Once you were dead, you wouldn't be coming back. A man couldn't rely on his weapons more than he could rely on his skill and slyness. There was no God to protect you, only Doctor Dement and his faithful shockwaves to bring you out of Death's reach, just barely. And, getting piss in your face was a thing to look forward to. And at that time, and in those harsh conditions, only one man could compete with Doctor Dement.
His nave was Harvey. He was the RED Scout. Cocky little prick. Much like you. He ran through the battlefield, a metal crowbar in his hands. Mud stained his shoes, and his face was soaked with the blood of his enemies, and the rain, slowly washing it off. He could smell the coppery scent of death in the air. To him, this was a game. The war between two greedy brothers was like a simple game of chess to him. He didn't care for his life, he only cared for victory. And he only cared for murder. And he was running through the field, thunder striking in the distance. He wanted to murder Doctor Dement.
Harvey and the Medic stood opposing each other, hot, white fury surging through their nerves. They both smiled, the child and the sadistic maniac. The Medic clicked his two lightning sticks together, and they were charged; blue electricity zapped around them, buzzing. The child slammed the crowbar against the palm of his hand. Without thinking, they rushed towards each other.
You know Scout, being electrocuted is a terrible thing, indeed. Voltage levels of 500 can cause severe burns. The person begins to twitch as he loses control over his body. A red lightning shaped line forms on the place of impact, marking him forever. It's a relatively quick, painful death. The higher the voltage is, the faster the death comes. Dement knew this, so he raised the voltage to maximum level. Sadly, he couldn't calculate the boy's speed and determination, nor his force of impact.
With one swing, the boy sent the doctor flying through the air. A thin trail of blood rushed from his skull and fell onto the ground, splattering in unevenly. Just then, lightning struck once more. A beautiful white pillar of destruction captured the doctor in mid-air. He let out a primal shriek, and the blue electricity surged through his body. He was one with the power. For a brief second, he was the Übermensch. All mercenaries, both RED and BLU, stared in awe. And, just then, the doctor vanished. The electricity went into the power transmission lines, stretching high up in the sky. The doctor was nowhere to be found. A brilliant mind, gone in one of nature's greatest creations, and it was all Harvey's fault."
The Scout was clutching his knees, listening to the story carefully. The doctor's wrinkled face gave out no emotion as he told the tale.
"Some say zhat zhe spirit of Doctor Dement still roams zhe earth. Some say zhat it seeks revenge on the Scout who killed him. But one thing is for sure," he turned on the main light with a clap, making Scout close his eyes, irritated by the brightness;
"Doctor Dement is among us in some form. And he will come to seek his vengeance," he concluded with a grotesque grin. Scout waited for barely a second before commenting on what he had just heard.
"Dat… is da stoopidest thing I have evah heard!" he got up from his seat, ready to leave.
"I mean, if da guy disappeared, who's the skeleton from?"
"Zhat thing?" asked the Medic, casually looking over to it; "Oh, I don't know. Some guy."
"Yo, man, you can't tell a good narrative for shit!" The Scout marched out of the door, murmuring something about going to sleep. Still, the tale made him slightly uneasy, and he flinched as the mechanical door closed behind him with a loud whoosh.
It was around three a.m. when Scout managed to crawl into bed, cursing the Medic under his breath the entire time. The story was so incredibly stupid, and yet Scout couldn't bring himself to blink after hearing it. Trying to think about something else, he started to toss around in his bed. Thunder cracked outside the base, and it made him squirm. The mental image of a man getting engulfed into a surge of electricity haunted him. It was raining outside, and Scout found himself pondering the possibilities of hitting a man into a lightning bolt and killing him that way. That would be cool.
Suddenly, as yet another lightning struck, all the lights in the base turned themselves on. Shocked by this, the Scout covered his head with his thick red blanket. He reached his hand and began feeling around the base of his bed, looking for his baseball bat. The lights flickered and shut off once more. Scout could hear muffled cries and howls of protest. Not trying to think about this, he grasped his bat from under the bed, and clenched it firmly. He found himself alone in the dark again. After almost a minute, he heard footsteps approaching his room. He frowned as he saw a figure opening the door of his bedroom, holding a flashlight. It shined right into Scout's face, and he considered this an appropriate time to attack. He flew onto his target, bashing him once in the head. Just as he lifted the bat to strike him once more, he heard a familiar accent.
"Whoa, boy, ya can't just go bashin' people like that! It ain't right."
Scout got up from his Texan colleague, feeling more than slightly embarrassed about his outburst. He flicked the light switch on, and saw the Texan standing in front of him, barefoot, wearing his pajamas and, oddly, his hardhat.
"I gotta 'member to keep this thing on more often," he said, knocking against it. The boy backed away from him, still holding the baseball bat.
"Whatcha doin' here, hardhat?"
The Texan shook his head at the boy's accent, but still managed to answer the question.
"The storm's messing with the power. Just wanted to warn ya that you should expect some stuff to go on an' off occasionally. But, uh…" he scratched the back of his neck; "It also messed up some circuits. Includin' the ones sealing out entrance. Scout, we… we're locked in until further notice."
Scout jumped on his squeaky bed, protesting loudly.
"What? Locked in?! I can't be locked in! Locking me in is like a crime against nature!"
"I know it's too much fer ya to swallow right now…" the Texan tries to console the Bostonian.
"That's what he said," Scout muttered to himself quietly.
"…but I reckon I'll have this fixed in a jiffy. Just givin' you a heads up."
"Thanks," muttered Scout to the Texan leaving the room. As the door shut, the Scout clutched his head in agony. Locked until further notice. It had a certain horrid ring to it.
"Dis can't get any worse," Scout said to himself.
But, as yet another lightning bolt struck outside, and as the power shut down completely, Scout realized that it can and will only get worse from here on in.
"Freakin' fantastic," he muttered, grabbing his baseball bat and getting out in the hall.