I would like to preface this by saying, yes, I completely own TF2 and everything in this story is completely canon. All things TF2 are property of myself and I am the sole owner and proprietor of this game. That's right Valve I just said that, what are you going to do to to me? It's not like you even update TF2 anymore…. Anyway, without further ado, or snarky preface, I bring you the shittiest story known to man(or whatever pyro is) : Scout's Day Out
The first thing Scout felt when he woke up was something sharp poking at his side. He hoped it was something that someone else left there so that he could complain about it or even better, whine about it. The second thing he felt was an emotion his father and, to a lesser extent, himself were very familiar with: disappointment. The object had the gall to be neither a dangerous weapon left by an all-male cast of multiracial murders, nor some sort of beneficiary gift bestowed upon him by a person who had the misfortune of liking Scout, instead it impudently assumed the form of a large metal bat. This annoyed the Scout because that's an unsatisfying way to end what will most likely be the most interesting and intellectually stimulating thing to happen to him all day, and the author because he wasted 100 words and like, 3 SAT vocab words on the most mundane possible way to start a story. He, of which I am referring to the author because Scout is not a real man, would delete the previous passage to make room for a more interesting one, but that would require a mild effort in both typing and not sounding like a pretentious jerk. Both of which are tasks he does not excel at, a statement which can be applied to both Scout and the author.
Scout, realizing the task of progressing the story fell upon him (or perhaps being a vaguely functional human being) realized he should get out of his bed and get ready. After brushing his teeth for less than he should, showering but not really cleaning himself, and pooping, he was ready to start the day. He put on his favorite (only) clothes and walked to the dining hall with the other mercenaries. There he was met with a sickening site: Spy being alive and not dead, eating some stupid French breakfast thing. Scout attempted to shoot Spy dirty look, but, being unfamiliar with general human etiquette, contracted all the muscles in his face. As he opened his first bottle of soda for the day, he realized with great smugness that the Spy, a regular chain smoker and avid consumer of wine, would most likely die far before Scout himself. Scout allowed himself a slight chuckle, and finding his soda empty, opened two more. "Ey, Frenchie, enjoying yer bread tumor… thing? Cuz that's what it looks like."
Spy glanced at Scout, and, much to the relief of his well smoked lungs, put down his cigarette. "Zis is a croissant," the Spy said condescendingly, "and it is far more healthy than zat… sugar water you so joyfully partake in."
Scout was having none of this. Not only did Spy insult him daily with his general existence, reminder that France is something that exists, and cigarette smoke that strangely reminded Scout of his baby crib, Spy was now also insulting Scout and his 5 cans of soda. "Listen here pal," Scout shouted, while pointing a jittering finger at Spy. Scout paused, not for the dramatic effect he accidentally caused, but because he realized he couldn't stop his finger from shaking. He decided to act like he was shaking with anger, although if he had been more perspective, he would have noticed his extremities were devoid of feeling. As the table of characters I did not explain where there drew to a hush, he realized, much like the author, that he hadn't planned what he was going to do after confronting Spy.
Scout scoured his brain for a good zinger to hit Spy with, to get back at the baguette eating European (or was France in Africa? Scout's knowledge of geography was a testament of the ineffectiveness of the Boston school system towards failures of human beings like Scout), so that he could finally cement himself as the intellectual giant the rest of the team knew him not to be. Neurons and Synapses that had laid dormant since Scout's schooling days began firing off more than they ever had before, for now Scout had a purpose, a direction, a reason to express his intellect. Scout began the herculean task of putting his thoughts into words, and ever so slowly and not quite surely, belted out, "Well you, uh, you lick, uh…", Scout pushed his mind to the limit, straining himself, and devoted his entire essence into the proclamation of the harshest insult Scout had ever uttered. "You suck dick Spy!", exclaimed Scout. Breathing hard, Scout clenched his muscles, daring not to look around, in fear of breaking the spell that lay enchanted around the table.
"Oh really?", muttered the Spy, glancing down at Scout, a task many are able to do, in both a physical and intellectual sense. "If I, as you so crudely put it, fellate the genitals of men, than am I.. your mother?"
Scout was completely devastated. Why did this have to happen to him? What did a gun for hire mercenary with a complete disregard for human life do to deserve this. He tried to stop the tears from running, but touching a hand to his face, he found they were already running. Running, like he used to run through the rain, with a smile on his face, free of the Spy's taunts, free from the teasing.
Maybe now he could run, run away crying from the other mercenaries, Scout thought, with sobs already escaping his lips. He got up from his seat hastily though, and spilled over 9 soda empty cans and a half finished one onto his head, all while falling to the floor. Wailing, he laid there, enduring the insults of his cruel teammates. "Dummkopf!" "Idiot!" "Banana Bender!" "Mhmmmpphh!"
Scout wrapped his arms around himself, as if to shield himself from their striking words. Stumbling to his feet, he dashed out the door, leaving behind a trail of salty tears, and the cruel laughter of a group of surprisingly diverse men. Bursting out of the fort and into the cool outside air, Scout realized what he needed. A day to himself, without the cruelty of his friends, away from the endless battles. What he needed, was a day out.
Did you know that the first paragragh and a half was done over two hours nearly a year ago, and the rest of the story was done in less than an hour this night? You can see the quality drop, but eh, whatever I guess. The one thing I regret most is that I talked about tears and didn't make a single Blade Runner reference. I made this because my girlfriend had a story called "Feeding Strays", and I promised to make a story of my own if she updated hers. AND SHE ACTUALLY UPDATED. I'll probably update this story pretty quickly I guess, like maybe in a month or two?