CHAPTER FOUR

IN THINE EYE

Scout opened his eyes and was blinded by the florescent lights in the resupply room before growing accustomed to the yellow glow. As per usual, the Respawn had left him lying flat on his back, and he slowly climbed to his feet. To his right, the doors leading to the battlefield were securely shut, and he knew the battle was over, and that his team had lost.

He turned to leave by the only door, leading into the depths of the base, and saw the last few of his teammates streaming through it, shoulders drooping and feet trailing. Scout hurried over to join them, but none of them looked at him. Even Heavy, who always had a positive word for everyone, even in defeat, kept his eyes on the ground.

They reached the base, and Scout started to head to his class room. Respawn had taken care of the hole in his head, as well as all that the RED Spy had done, but the bruises and soreness from earlier were still there, and side effects from the Respawn itself had left his head aching worse than ever.

Before he could reach the hallway that led to his class room, however, he found the way blocked by Sniper and Soldier.

"Fellas..." he said warily, but his greeting was cut short by Soldier barking, "Son, you're a disgrace! You've disappointed me and your entire country!"

"Me!?" Scout yelped. "What did I do?"

"Yes, you! You're the reason we lost the bleedin' match, ya spastic little gremlin!" Sniper yelled. "If ya would've let up on dominatin' that bloomin' Spy for a second, ya would've noticed we needed yer speed!"

"I, uh... I-" Scout backed away, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of his team for help. But Engineer was looking away, expression troubled, and Medic was watching the confrontation nervously a short distance away. And Pyro, his best friend in the whole wide world, couldn't seem to meet his eye. The others were nowhere to be seen.

"I-it was a freakin' Spy, guys! He would've backstabbed us all if it weren't for me!"

Soldier growled. "What have I told you, maggot? Have you forgotten everything I've ever told you about Payload strategy?"

Scout blinked, blushing in embarrassment. At the beginning of each month, Soldier always insisted on sitting the rest of BLU team down like a gaggle of geese and explaining the rules of the season, going over good tactics for each class, and making a team-wide battle plan. If there was one thing he always stressed more than any other thing during Payload season, it was that nothing, nothing was as important as pushing the bomb.

"That Spy would've slowed us down, true, but not with your combined speed! Wot th' bloody hell were you thinking?" Sniper spat angrily on the ground, clenching and unclenching his fists in fury at the loss.

Then, miraculously, Medic stepped forward, his arms crossed sternly at the three angry men as he stood at Scout's side. "Leave zhe boy alone," the German man said, putting a reassuring hand on Scout's shoulder. "He has had a long day. Ve all have."

The others backed down, muttering half-baked curses and dark obscenities, and Scout was confused. Why was Medic standing up for him? He was mad about Scout's costing them the match, too, wasn't he?

"Uh... thanks, doc," he muttered, eager to get back to his class room for some rest, but Medic tightened his grip, this time on Scout'd upper arm, causing the younger boy to yelp in pain as the bruised muscles from hours before were pinched.

"I zhink you had better come to my office," the bespectacled man said, already pulling Scout away.

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The door snapped shut with an official-sounding click, and Medic said, "Zo tell me."

"Uh... what?" Scout gave the doctor a confused look as he peered about the place. It was in a rather disheveled state, with papers scattered here and there on the floor and bottles of this and that stacked up in no particular order on the many shelves. The drawers and the tops of the mysterious machinery set up about the room seemed to be covered with bits and pieces of feathers, straw, ribbons, hair, and other malleable objects in the form of nests, some with little feathery white heads peeping curiously out.

Medic led Scout over to two chairs in a secluded corner that Scout had never noticed before, and gestured that he should sit. "Was is the reason for going after zhat enemy Spy so much?"

Scout paused, considering telling the man anything. He didn't want to, afraid of what his mouth might betray. He had so much to hide, and so many things he was loathe to remember. But he was tired, and knew the man wouldn't let him leave without proper healing. So, grudgingly, he unceremoniously dumped a small pile of papers onto the floor before plopping down into the chair, glad to finally rest. Medic did the same, all the while watching Scout intently.

"I uh... I already told ya," Scout muttered, uneasy under the man's gaze, careful of his words. "I was tryin' ta keep th' team from bein' freakin' backstabbed!"

Medic said nothing. Scout nervously drummed a rhythm on his knee, glancing anywhere but at the older man. He felt twitchy, like he might say something he'd regret at any time.

At last, Medic reached into his pocket and drew out a small white pill bottle. "Take two. Zhat should take care of zhe pain," he said as he tossed it to Scout. "But please do feel free to come by anytime. Anyzhing you tell me vill not be repeated, I assure you."

Scout nodded, easily downing the pills dry. He sprang up from his seat, stretching out his arms like a cat. "Yeah, sure, doc, whatev," he said, throwing the words, along with the bottle, over his shoulder like grenades as he darted out the door, carefully nonchalant.

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Scout zipped down the hallway, happier than he had been all day. The pills had taken effect almost instantly; his headache was completely gone, and he'd somehow managed to escape Medic's prying questions. The loss had even seemed to erase everyone's memory of his extra set of tags! He stretched, sticking his right arm out ahead of him as he ran and flexing his fingers. he met no resistance and no pain, indicating that the troublesome bruises had disappeared completely.

He skidded to a halt and tried out the karate kick he had been unable to use during battle. Oh yeah! Now he was ready to bash some Spies!

Suddenly, a ball of paper smacked the wall beside him, interrupting his shadowboxing match. He looked up and saw Pyro standing several yards away, glaring at him, still poised with one arm outstretched, as though the paper had only just left his hand. His cheeks were flushed more than usual, his narrow, steel-grey eyes the barest slits, and his mouth a thin, hard line.

Scout blinked. He'd almost forgotten the whole team was mad at him, even his best friend.

The older man turned away, stalking in the opposite direction, and Scout curiously retrieved the paper ball from the floor. Knowing Pyro, the paper likely was a note of some sort; Pyro's favorite way of communicating.

Indeed, it was an official announcement that Payload season had ended, and that Capture the Flag was due to begin in two days. It clearly stated that Scout's team, BLU 44, was to be completely cleared from the base and set up in the BLU base at Well by the next day. The new opponent would be RED 11.

"Merveilleux," Scout moaned, then gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth, glancing back down the hall he stood in in horror. Had anyone heard?

He waited in silence for several seconds, but when no alarm went off, no FBI agents poured in to arrest him and no Hellfire pit opened up to swallow him up into an eternal damnation, he dropped the notice back on the floor and darted off at top speed to his room, slamming the door tightly behind him when he finally, finally reached it.

RED 11. Julian's team. Scout moaned and flopped face first onto the dingy cot that served as his bed. What had he done to deserve this? He didn't want to face Julian. Not now, not ever. And Capture the Flag was the worst season to face him in. With every class focused on a different task, it was always easy to simply slip away for a few minutes without anyone noticing.

Scout didn't want Julian to have that kind of advantage.

But then again... Maybe he wasn't on RED 11 anymore. After all, he'd never written since It happened. Maybe he'd been moved to a different RED team since, or maybe he'd been killed once and for all.

Good riddance, Scout decided with finality as he jumped up and retrieved his bag from under the bed. The FortrExpress usually left around midnight, and Scout didn't want to make his team hate him even more by being late.

He threw in the old RED tags first. He didn't usually go anywhere without them on his person, but he didn't want to have to endure another Spycheck if they were found in his pocket, either. They were closely followed by every set of his class uniform he owned, save for the ones he wore, all his hats, and a few extra items from around the room, leaving plenty of extra space in the bag.

Soon the room was bare. All that remained were the few sparse furnishings found in every class room, a few blankets, a Scout recruit poster or two, and the Update Crate, still sitting like a stubborn duck in the middle of the room. He pried the top off and peered inside. There were two sacks of colorful Eggrenades, a bunny-themed accessory or two, and a new hat nestled in the packing straw within.

He pulled out the hat and looked it over. It was a basket filled with colorful squares of tissue paper. Pulling it on, the paper fell over his eyes, turning everything a muted blue color. Eyes obscured, he imagined he looked a little something like a Soldier.

Pulling the hat off with disgust, Scout shoved it and his new items away in his bag, and gave the empty crate a kick as he went to the closet to retrieve his two most precious possessions from the top shelf, near the back, where no one would ever find them unless they knew they were there.

The first was a hat, old and worn and fraying in places. It wasn't black, like the standard Scout hat, but instead brown, and in a paperboy style, rather than a baseball cap. It had once been very crisp and brand-new and nearly too big for him, but now it was soft, and it fit nicely. He carefully switched it out for his own, but not before removing the second secret item from the aging interior.

His second most precious possession was once a very lovely photograph; a white square of paper with sharp edges. But now, like the hat, it was old and dusty and well worn. The sepia tone image was rubbed off the paper at the edges, and it had long since lost its laminated shine. You could only make out the details in good light, but Scout loved it all the same.

It was a family portrait. That much was easily discernible, from the identical noses and hair and lopsided smiles, one side always higher than the other. A woman with short dark hair stood to the right, smiling pleasantly. Next to her, according to height, were seven boys, all very nearly identical, though each was a different age. They all had dark hair and rosy cheeks and big, bright eyes and there was something about the nose... you could just tell they were all related to the woman.

On the right was a tall man with lighter hair and a perfectly symmetrical smile, if you ignored the one dimple on the right side. He was dressed in a simple suit and tie, as all the boys were, and in his arms was a young child with the bright eyes of the woman, but everything else resembled the man, right down to the dimple.

Scout's family. His mother and father and Cameron and Dustin and Jacob and Jonah and Keith and Sammy and Spencer and him.

He glared at it and tucked it back into his hat, for safekeeping during the trip. He hated to look at it, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing it, much like the tags. And he wouldn't dare go anywhere away from the base without the old hat. Suddenly, he couldn't bear to think about times past any longer. He'd rather be Spychecked a thousand times.

He left the door open when he left, to air out the memories.

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The night air was cold and sent its victims shuddering and shivering with every cool breeze it blew their way. They stamped their feet on the hard cement, hugging themselves for warmth, pulling hats and coats and scarves closer. They even huddled close together, sharing body heat, waiting in a shivering group for the train. It was still early spring, and the last dregs of winter were still upon them.

Scout was left on the outskirts of the group, sitting, huddled, on the stack of luggage. The entire team, it seemed, had decided to ignore him altogether, which was fine by him. The last thing he wanted was more trouble.

He was pretty cold, though. Pyro was a good friend to have around when you were cold; he owned a lot of warm coats.

But Pyro wasn't speaking to him, now, nor was anyone else. It shouldn't have bothered him so much, but he wasn't used to being ignored. He liked telling stories and jokes and laughing and making fun and teasing and mocking and at least being around other people.

They weren't so bad to talk to, when you needed to forget things.

Like now, for instance.

Scout stared straight ahead, wondering if it could get any colder. He strained his numb ears to catch the wisps of conversation from his team, standing a few yards away, and he balled and unballed his bandaged fists, next to naked in the bitter wind. Anything to distract himself.

But it wasn't working. Around him was the Thunder Mountain station, a shabby little building painted all white and blue, with maps and notices and recruit posters galore on the inside, and benches and a deck alongside the train tracks outside, where only BLU team stood.

But in his mind's eye, Scout saw a red-painted station, the deck crowded with people; men, women and children, on a warm summer's evening. It was the Granary station, and the train, big, shining and huffing steam, sat on the tracks before him, waiting to receive its passengers. Even now, he could still smell the ripe peaches in the air, feel the golden sun on his head, and hear the excited chatter of people all around him.

And he could hear himself crying.

Julian was there. He was tucking a white square into his bowler hat for safekeeping, and he was hugging Scout tightly. His fingers were in his hair, smoothing down the curls. He said something, but Scout balled his fists over his ears, blocking his voice out. The Julian was in front of Scout, and he clutched the man's jacket tightly in his fists as they hugged tightly. Julian let go, then, and dropped the two heavy discs of silver on a chain that were his Scout tags into Scout's hands, saying something about keeping them with him at all times. He was tugging his favorite old hat onto Scout's head, over the dirty blond mess. He smiled a brave smile, the kind you put on for your loved ones when you'd rather be sobbing your heart out, and Scout was crying. He hugged Julian tightly and didn't let go, bawling into the man's jacket collar, until the train whistle blew and his hands were gently pulled away. Julian spoke to someone else, then. Scout didn't watch. He buried his head in his hands. When he looked up, Julian was on the train, looking out with a frown as the doors drew shut and the locomotive slowly pulled away, leaving Scout behind...

The memory drew away, and Scout blinked back into reality, all the bitter cold, both physical and emotional, crashing into him at once just as the real FortrExpress pulled up, looking small and filthy and run-down. Before he could stop it, a single tear rolled off his eyelashes and onto his cheek, then it fell down, down, down, to paint a tiny darkened circle on the cloth covering the heel of his hand.

Hastily, he passed the back of his hand over his eyes, then stood, grabbed his bag from the pile, and followed his team onto the train.