"It's all your fault, you little fag."
A lot can happen in six months. Six months in a white room with cushioned walls, being told that girls were good and boys were bad. Six months of being told that everything you felt that was good and right was sinful and wrong. Six months of electrodes to the temples and lightning to the brain. One visitor in those six months, Steve, and only to bring him bad news, and a set of dog tags. James was dead. Now Michael was dead. Six months of isolation, of trying so hard to fight it off and eventually being too worn to keep going.
And then he was sent home. His brothers had all moved out, moved on. His father lost his job not even a day after Tucker had come home. Then everything was his fault. Everything was wrong because he was home. His father started to drink more, and his mother took the worst of it.
"Stop protectin' him! The little queer fucked everything over!"
On a full moon night at the start of October, Tucker took a backpack of his stuff, and his bat, and ran away from…
The ringing bell snapped the Scout out of his little daydream. The game had begun. The Medic had warned him to be careful. Keeping a firm hand on his scattergun, he started down into the tunnels. He tried not to land too hard on his bad leg, and so far things had gone well. He could hear gunfire up above him, the distinctive rocket fire from the Engineer's sentries, followed by the explosions of them hitting their mark.
The Scout smirked and rounded the corner at a slow jog. The intel room was not too far away. This would be a piece of cake.
Get your ass moving, fag-boy
He quickly shook off his father's voice and turned into the intel room, then slammed on the brakes, feezing in terror.
Three rottweilers were sitting right in front of the intel.
How the fuck did REDs get dogs?!
Ha! Not so strong now, are ya, queer!
The Scout took a few steps back, the dogs advancing, teeth bared and growling. No way, no goddamn way. Before he knew it, he was pressed against the wall, and the dogs were nearly surrounding him. His mind was in a panic and without thinking, he shot at them. It missed, and they leapt at him, all fangs and mad eyes.
He improvised.
The bat swung. It wasn't enough to kill them when he swung, but it gave him time. When the coast was clear, he ran for the intel. In a flash, he swung it over his shoulder and raced for the exit. The alarms had started to ring, and the RED team was returning to their base, to try cornering and murdering the Scout. It was all adrenaline for him now. He'd beat the dogs, who were starting to recover and chase.
Run you little fag! Haha! Run away!
Shut up!
The tunnel ahead became lit with fire. The Scout stopped in his tracks, starting to step back. The fire shut off, the RED Pyro moving towards him. The Scout aimed his scattergun and fired, and again, and again, and again until his gun was empty. And the Pyro was still advancing, close enough that the Scout could have touched his flamethrower. The Scout bit his lip, and then felt himself hit a wall. Or rather, a person.
The RED Spy.
"Grab him."
The Pyro reached out and grabbed the Scout, pinning his arms behind his back, making him face the masked smoking man. The Spy flicked open his knife and lit another cigarette, putting the old one out on the Scout's temple, causing him to squirm. Without warning, the blade flicked across his chest, then down in a sweeping curve.
He screamed.
The knife continued on without stopping, an elegant design being scratched into the Scout's skin.
Without warning, the Pyro let go of the Scout and crumpled. There was a cloud, and a whish-ing sound, the BLU Spy having come down to the Scout's rescue. The RED Spy narrowed his eyes.
"Beaumont…"
"…Jaquimo."
The Scout slid to the ground, his shirt staining with blood. The Spies were at a standoff, though the RED seemed to be content to let the BLU return the bleeding Scout to their base. He dragged the Pyro back to his own, and the day's match ended.
Hey, queer, wake up you fag.
Shut up… don't…
There was not a scratch on his body when he woke up, finding himself curled up and clinging to the Engineer. The Scout looked up and smiled, holding him tighter.
…but he smelled… smoke…
"HE—"
A piece of tape was slapped over his mouth before he could scream for help.