Mick Mundy. That was a name for teasing. Honestly, what were his mum and dad thinking? Making his name a…a…two-words-that-begin-with-the-same-letter deal! How embarrassing. It was bad enough that he lived with teasing such a name since his childhood, but as an adult? Honestly, this spy has no problem of teasing everything, no matter how small! Including his name!

Backing up.

He was on a bus now to his new home, the RED Teufort base.

Buses were not horrible. They were like bigger versions of cars, except with very little space to yourself. Or at least, that was what was happening now. Sure, he had an entire two seats to himself, but that did not change the fact that the spook made it a goal to sit right behind him. Sniper pointedly ignored him, hating the very cologne that the damned man wore.

Alright, hate was a strong word. Loathe was better. It was strong-er and more extreme. Despise was perfect.

Aw hell, who was he kidding, there were no words to describe his abhorrence to the man behind him.

The spy.

Now, Mick was a man who liked keeping to himself, but it was obvious the French baguette didn't share that sentiment, and didn't realize from the Australian's aura he wanted to be left alone. Or perhaps Spy didn't care. It really could've been either.

"Mon ami, are you still angry about the lobby incident? Or was it the elevator?" He asked in fake concern. Yep, didn't care.

"Shut up ya big head!" Mick growled, pulling his hat further down his face, almost touching his eyebrows.

"Ah, Michel-"

"Don't call me that stupid French name!" He interrupted. How many times did he have to tell him that? The Frenchman blew smoke into the Aussie's neck and leaned back in his seat.

"It sounds beautiful, like my language, mon ami. Unlike your face." The man simpered, sounding like he was flirting, but the dastardly smirk gave away the true intent: impulsive insulting.

Ignore him. Always ignore the bullies. All they are after is a reaction. Mick told himself, counting to ten.

1…2…3…4…5…6…7-

"Struck a nerve, did I?" The Frenchman continued.

1…2…3…4…5-

"I do not see how. You care not about it. Otherwise you may actually shower."

1….2….3-

"Of course, a shower wouldn't fix that face. It would help it, however."

1-

"Perhaps I should get rid of your clothes as well. The amount of plaid that you are wearing is atrociously abominable!"

"Oi! I'm only wearing a plaid shirt!" Mick exploded, turning around to yell at the infernal male who was smugly grinning he entire time, a tell tale sign that Mick fell into his trap.

"One shirt in an entire wardrobe is fine, but I am guessing that you hold more than just one?" He said placidly.

"Go to hell, ya bloody pooftah!" Mick snapped, leaning against the window and putting his legs up across the seats, his feet all the way in the aisle and almost reaching the other window seat across the way.

"Mon dieu! That must be why you are such an oaf!" The Frenchman exclaimed, grinning in delight at the long lower appendages. Mick crossed his arms and grumbled to himself, sinking lower into his seat. He ignored the spook, thinking to himself that he must be in hell. The added noise of the supposed soldier and the Scottish Demoman fighting, the boyish Bostonian talking the ear off Miss Pauling, the engineer trying to calm everyone down without bothering the pyro, who latched him…her…it (Or was it they?)-self to the slightly short and chubby Texan.

The only ones who were silent was the bus driver, the heavy in the back of the bus (who seemed to be very interested in the German who chatted away about God knows what), and miss Pauling. So far, those people were the only ones on good light in the Australian's eyes.

He just wanted to be left alone. Why did he ever wish to be social? It was better to be alone. No one to worry about other than yourself and no one to annoy you with constant chit chat. This constant colloquial loquaciousness was getting on his case, and was but three seconds to exploding and killing someone. To his utter delight, the spook was closest to him.

Promise me, sweetheart. Promise me you'll never start a fist fight.

That voice in his head…it was his mum. He remembered that promise. It was shortly after he came home from being slammed by several kids twice his size and strength. Mick was cut and bruised, for the reason of being the odd one out. Even his name was considered something to laugh at. He promised his mother that he wouldn't start fights, and only fight to defend himself or others. The offending party must throw the first punch, however.

The thought of his mother and his vow made him sober from the anger and tension, and he relaxed in his seat, feeling one emotion gnawing at his stomach:

Regret.

God, he hated that. Regret and guilt went hand in hand. He regretted leaving on such bad terms with his parents and felt guilty he had hurt them. Bad terms or not, they were his family, and he knew to keep that in mind. It was as the saying goes; honor thy mother and father, and ye shall have long life. He was sure he had broken that one multiple times over since he first heard that in the Presbyterian church his mother dragged him to every Sunday. And the thou shalt not kill? Nah, he wasn't even going there.

"Tell me bushman, why Michael? Your name is beyond simplistic, nothing too interesting. I heard that one who has an ordinary name can have ordinary expectations of a person." The spy murmured into his ear. Mick shoved the masked man's face away with a hand and made sure he was an arm's length away.

The bus stopped at the base in no time (though it was nearly an eternity and a half to the reclusive Australian), and after yet another argument with the spook, all Mick wanted to do was get to the camper van, which he was told was parked in the back. However, before he could even think of going there, there was a sickening crack, a yell of pain, and a half drunken laugh. The Australian dared himself to look, and promptly shook his head.

It seemed the scout had decided to go and injure himself on a stupid whim to prove his balls had dropped. Typical ankle biter.

"It is quite sick for a company to hire children." A French voice said beside him, the familiar cologne and cigarette smell wafting to the Aussie's nose. Mick didn't spare a glance.

"Not sure if he is a kid, but sure acts and sounds like one." Mick muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Do you suppose we should file a complaint?" The Frenchman asked, a small tone of bitterness at the end. Now this time Mick did look over at the Frenchman. He seemed very irked and grey blue eyes were staring at the Bostonian (currently yelling for a medic or someone to carry him to the infirmary) with obvious contempt.

"Under what charges? Don't like his voice or age?" Mick asked. "I say leave him be. He'll grow some here. And if he don't, then I'll consider it."

"Odd for a bushman to think such things." The spy said, flicking his lighter open and starting to smoke.

"I'm not the one to dive into things. I prefer to let people's own stupidity be their downfall, rather than my complaining." The sniper said, walking away to find his beloved camper van.

He found it in less time than normal and had to give it a loving pat on the hood. It was an old thing, a hand me down from his cousin. But that didn't matter to Mick. He had many adventures in the van, and he loved how it was perfect for just him. Of course, he had a house and everything, but that was just so his parents could come over.

He was happy to be in his camper van otherwise. He opened the back door to the van where his living quarters were and his jaw dropped.

"No, no no no. This will not do!" He said resolutely, getting in. Everything was in bloody cardboard boxes! Those were the first to go!

He took them out into the desert heat one by one and began unpacking, sorting through his things to different areas in his camper.

Everything made it ok, with the exception of one thing.

The coffee machine. Curse his luck of the damned thing! The one thing he prayed wouldn't break on the way over, and it broke! He lived off coffee. He needed coffee!

"Son of a bitch." Mick muttered, tossing the infernal machine into the garbage bin that was nearby. He was shocked when a head poked out. A very familiar helmeted head.

"WHATCH WHERE YOUR THROWING THINGS, PRIVATE!" Soldier screeched. "YOU ALMOST HURT LIEUTENANT BITES!"

"Lieutenant who?"

"LIEUTENANT BITES!" Soldier repeated, holding up a baby raccoon. Mick felt himself become stunned into silence and had a few options.

Firstly, he could tell soldier that raccoons were highly protective of their young, and probably would be searching for the little thing later. Secondly, he could tell soldier just how many diseases raccoons can carry other than rabies. Thirdly, he could mention that the coffee pot had every purpose in the world to be in a trashcan, but the soldier did not.

However, seeing as how the solder seemed perfectly content in one with the strange choice of pet, Mick said nothing and walked away. Soldier saluted and dove back into the silver can, slamming the circular lid down on top so it looked like an innocent aluminum garbage bin.

"Great. Just what I need. Now all I see is Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street*." A Bostonian voice proclaimed. Mick turned around and saw the scout, tossing a ball from hand to hand. He was leaning against the building and seemed to be in thought. Wait, wasn't he injured? Mick supposed the doc was better than he thought.

"Who?" Mick asked again. Same question, different person.

"Oscar. You know, green monster that lives in a trashcan like that? Jim Henson?" Scout offered. He rolled his eyes at the sniper's dumb look.

"Figures. It's a stinking kids show that's educational."

"How is a green monster in a trashcan educational?" Mick asked incredulously.

"I don't know, how did Heavy get here from the Soviet Union?" Scout asked, straightening and getting off the side of the building.

A silence.

"Is that what you came here to ask?" Mick questioned, heading inside base to see if there was a coffee machine. The rec room consisted of a broken TV, a lumpy and spring filled couch, two armchairs, a kitchen area, and a poker table. Everything was either chipped, worn, or both. Mick wasn't bothered. He searched the cabinets in the kitchen for the coffee machine that should be there. Scout followed him and continued to talk.

"I mean, it's pretty obvious Russians are, like, banned from leaving their home. Hell they can't even smile or else they get shot."

"You ever think that maybe what your saying is offensive?" Mick asked, not looking at the kid.

"To who? The fatass ain't here." Said child countered, hopping onto the stool.

"Doesn't matter. Don't insult someone unless you know something about them. You don't know the bloke, and it isn't right to say thinks like that."

Mick found the coffee pot and smiled in victory before deciding to test it out.

"That makes you a hypocrite. You judge spy all the time, calling him a faggot and such."

Mick paused in getting the water. The words stung, and they hit him like a sledgehammer.

Was that true?

The scout scoffed and walked away, calling him no fun and claiming to go play some baseball. Mick vaguely recalled it required a team of players, and where on earth was he going to get said people? Certainly not here.

Mick watched the machine slowly trickle out some coffee and his thoughts wandered to his parents and away from the Spook.

Were they past the sad stage and now to the angry part? Did they despise him? He certainly hoped not. Family was family. You can't let go of that. Even if his father cursed him till the day he died, he would still keep in contact.

Or on the flip side, they could just ignore him. He could write one, two, nay, three letters a day and they wouldn't respond to him. He refused to allow himself to be disheartened by that prospect. If they gave up on him, he was going to be the bigger man and still be the devoted son, regardless of his parents' possible cold expression of abandonment.

A familiar smell of vanilla and chemicals wafted to the Australians nose and he scowled.

"Spook, I'm not in the mood." He muttered.

"Come now, mon ami, we just arrived here." Spy said, appearing out of thin air to his left. "Have you not explored this place at all? What on earth have you been doing?"

"I've been moving in." Mick responded, pointedly looking away from him and half holding his breath. "What have you been doing, taking a cigarette bath while chain smoking?"

The spy waved a hand.

"Alas, though Team Fortress Industries has millions running through, they cannot afford such luxury as a bathtub or private restrooms."

"Haha, very funny." Mick said humorlessly.

"You believe me to be joking. I am not." The Frenchman said, his serious face coming back. Mick turned to the spy and saw that he was being serious.

"Oh…great. Just fantastic." Mick sighed, leaning against the counter as coffee slowly trickled into the pot.

"Honestly, privacy was not among the aspects the architects and builders considered when they made this fort." Spy said, lighting another cigarette. Mick grit his teeth.

"Ok, that's it." He said, snatching the cancer stick from him before he could take a proper breath. The Aussie threw it into the sink and turned on the water.

"I don't care what you do with your lungs, but I care about mine! So quit smoking your durries right next to me!" He snapped. The spy stared at him dubiously before shaking his head.

"You are by far one of the most touchiest people I know. I light a smoke and you throw it in the sink." He said, turning the running water off. "I bet in your mind, when I tease you, you believe I am bullying you."

"And you're not?" He shot back.

"Non. I am not."

"Fooled me. Congratulations."

"On any normal occasion, I'd say that wouldn't be hard, but considering the circumstances, I'll refrain."

"Piss off! Why should I believe anything you say?" Mick tuned around and glared at him. "All you've done is poke, mock, and heckle me!" The sniper exploded. He gave out a large sigh and let his anger subside.

"You know what, forget it. I don't have to talk to you." He said, waving a hand in a dismissing manner before shoving the appendages into his pockets and walking back outdoors, leaving the now ready coffee behind. He went back to his camper and slammed the door shut behind him, deciding to reorganize.

What actually happened, however, was a feeble attempt at it before placing everything back where he originally put it and instead was taken to reading an old copy of Saxon Hale's comic issue # 2, where Saxon Hale wrestles four saltwater crocs at once in a wildlife reserve center while dodging the plague that was hippy protesters and their sissy music.

He had read it many times, and practically memorized every line, every picture, and every action the thin comic book had to offer. He did so because it was the one that spoke most to him. It wasn't the manliness or the girls who swooned for the hero, neither was it hippies. It was the crocs. Mick had fallen into a billabong about seven miles away from his high school they year he dropped out and was nearly killed by four crocs that had swam upriver to the pond to breed. It was a nasty ordeal, and ended up with him having sixty four stitches across various bites on his body, and a very damaged pride that he couldn't get himself out of the mess by his little lonesome. As retribution, he came back to that pond a couple days later, with his kukri, a harpoon, his father's rifle, and jacked up high on painkillers and anger. His parents never asked where he got the skins, teeth, bones, and meat from.

He still had the items he made as prizes at his house.

There was a knock on the door of his camper and Mick closed his comic book, wondering just who it was. When he opened it, there was no one there. He stepped out to investigate, when he slipped on something and there was a crack. He managed to stop himself from falling by grabbing onto the door handle, resulting in a very awkward balancing act. When he straightened, he looked down and groaned.

Someone had placed a full mug of coffee at the foot of his camper van's door.

"Well shit!" He cursed, stepping over the mess and picking up the pieces of the mug.

"What the hell was that?" He wondered, heading back to the garbage can when he stopped. He recalled the last time he went towards a garbage can and shook his head. He decided not to risk going through that again and entered the base once more, carrying the pieces of the broken cup. The only person in the rec room was a scout, slouching and sleeping over the side of the lumpy furniture.

"Favorite mug, too…" Mick grumbled to himself as he threw the glass shards in the trash.

"How normal." The French dialect gave the true identity away as the scout on the couch vanished and was replaced with a very tangled spy. "I try to do a nice thing to show that I am not the villainous 'Wanker' you claim me to be, and what do you do? Be a complete oaf and ruin it."

"Piss off, you are such a-wait what?" He paused. And took a step towards the Frenchman. "You did that? Put a coffee mug on my doorstep?"

"Oui." The spy said, rolling over and sitting elegantly after breaking from character. Mick turned away to get another mug.

"Is that so hard for you to believe? That I can be nice every once in a while?" The suited male continued.

"Bloody well yes!" The sniped exploded, forgetting the mug and marching right back up to the spook, looming over his form. The spy, instead of feeling threatened, lit a cigarette.

"And that is because…?" The Frenchman inquired.

"Because you are a buggering, pompous, megalomaniac!" Mick exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air exasperatingly. The spy seemed to inspect the Aussie for a minute before standing.

"Your judgement of me is neither sound, nor adequate." He said stiffly, strolling away. Mick noticed how his feet seemed to lack the flighty and elegant air as he retreated to wherever spies go when they retreated to their dark nosy hole like a snake.

Mick watched him leave, but instead of pondering over the subtle changes in the spook, he simply got himself that cup of coffee and retreated to the sanctuary of his camper van. No doubt it wouldn't hurt to get some shut eye from the jet lag, and wake up for dinner.

As it turned out, despite him being so tired, the lethargy did nothing to help him sleep. One could argue that the coffee was keeping him awake, but that was decaf. It was more of the fact that his mind was full of thoughts. Thoughts of his parents. Thoughts of his family. Thoughts of his new teammates.

But most of all, thoughts of the Spy.


* Sesame Street was at its infimacy in the 1970's, so it probably want as well know back then.