Ten minutes (and one change of clothes later), he was back.

Back with a new goal and a new motivation.

Those Black Mesa bastards wouldn't stand a chance.

He grinned to himself as he whipped by first the solid grey and blue buildings of his base, and then past the pale wood and flaking red paint of their enemies, all behind the cyclone fence that separated them from the rest of the world.

And then that was left behind, leaving the Scout alone on the silent dirt road that was the base's only connection to the outside world.

He continued on.

According to the administrator's notes, the black mesa operatives were probably hiding out in one of the old maps - a small abandoned settlement about five miles out from Teufort - a three minute bike for the Scout.

The Scout might've been fast on foot, but even he would have trouble running that distance without assistance. So he'd taken his bike - a green and scratched thing with dents caused by too many years of extreme use. It certainly didn't have the almost primal thrill of roaring through the plains in the team's car – or even better, a motorbike, but the Administrator had said that the mission was a stealth one and that (unfortunately) meant he was confined to this.

Mumbling something to himself, he peddled on. As great as it was to have a chance to shine in the team, he couldn't help why the Admin had chosen him, and not the class actually meant for sneaky operations like this one. He'd been happily asle–

Zzhct

The Scout was jerked out of his thoughts as a sharp sting of static suddenly sounded in his left ear, causing to start and nearly lose his balance on the bike. Still heading forwards, he craned his head around, searching for what of could of caused the noise, but–

Zzhct!

The noise came again, this time louder and the Scout managed to finally locate it's source.

Stopping the bike so hard it threatened to send him flying over the handlebars, he took off the yellow headset covering his left ear and inspected it.

Seeing nothing wrong with the outside, he twisted off the yellow cover and looked blankly at the mess of wires and light and knobs that made up the interior of the device.

Frankly, he had no idea what he was looking at. Both the Engineer and his brother Cecil – an amateur radio host – had tried to explain the finer details of radio communication to him, but it had all but been lost on the runner. It all looked fine to him, but for all he knew, it could've been permanently broken.

Putting the headset back together, he put it back on and gave it a tap, activating it.

"Yo, this thing still working?"

"Receiving you loud and clear Scout." The reply came, slightly distorted but still recognisable as miss Pauling's voice. "What's wrong?"

"I dunno. Getting static over here an' I dunno why."

"Static?" There was the faint sound of a keys from the other side of the headset as the assistant typed something.

"Yeah, like iner...iner...that thing the TV does when Sol knocks out the 'dish."

"Interference." She corrected. "Are you still in the respawn zone?"

"Eh…" The Scout looked around the deserted road "think so. But I'm like, on the edge or something." The Scout straightened his headset and kicked the bike into motion, pedaling slowly as he continued the conversation.

"Ok then. I think I know what the issue is."

"Oh man...did I break the thing again? Hardhat's gonna be pissed if he has ta fix my head-thing again..."

"Its respawn."

"Respawn?!" The Scout suddenly squeaked in fear, slamming on the breaks again. "Is–"

"Its fine." Miss Pauling interrupted, stopping Scout before he could dissolve into another panic attack. "It's just a security measure we've asked Dell to put on since the incident at sawmill."

"A what?"

"A safety measure. I don't know exactly how it works, but when you leave the respawn zone, either through an emergency shutdown or by simply leaving the area, you get a signal strong enough to temporarily scramble any devices you have on your person."

"Dude, why? I mean, what if we're like in the middle of doing something?"

"Look, as I said, I don't know. I didn't come up with this system. Dell did."

"So, it's all fine down there?"

"Scout," The assistant sighed, a confusion of static and breath to the Scout. "Everything is fine over here. You just focus on your mission."

"But–"

"Scout, focus. Or else the Administrator will be considering your replacement."

Suddenly faced with the fear of losing his job, the Scout shut up and cycled on.

Loading ctf_flagrun

The base wasn't hard to find.

It loomed up out of the desert twilight, its cream coloured brick walls casting a crumbling silhouette against the dark sky above, with the full glory of the heavens above splayed out behind it like some sort of astral map. Smaller buildings were clustered around the map, all of them crumbling of disuse and disrepair, their days of glory long gone.

Slowing down, the Scout stopped in front of the biggest structure, a cream brick wall that made up most of the compound, with blue detailing on one half and red on the other.

Flagrun.

Propping his bike up against the wall, the Scout walked around it until he found a door, it's rusted blue coating coming off in large flakes as he pushed it open with a grunt of effort.

If those operatives were hiding anywhere, it was probably here.

Pausing only to pull out a flashlight from his bag (after the blackout at sawmill, Soldier had seen it as his sworn duty to make sure everyone had a flashlight and a small medikit on them at all times), he walked down the dusty steps that lead into the base.

He had never seen this place before, but miss Pauling had given him an old map detailing the layout of the base. The stairwell should take him to the BLU respawn room, where he would then sweep the place for any sign of the enemy.

Standard procedure.

The respawn room was pitch black, the lights meant to illuminate the place dead after decades of neglect. A resupply closet was against one wall, its dusty shelves devoid of the ammo and health packs that should of been there. On one wall, an old logo had been spray painted, depicting a blue building - the old emblem for BLU.

Nothing had been disturbed here, not for the last three decades or so since the 'Classic' team had disbanded. If they were here, they hadn't gotten in through this way.

The rest of the base was in a similar condition, with dust forming a thick, undisturbed layer over everything and piles of rubble from where the roof had caved in, showing the indigo sky littered with stars. The crumbling walls and roof soon gave way however, to a courtyard.

The sand beneath his feet was dry and fine, a pale shade of yellow mixed with what appeared to be ash and shrapnel from countless battles fought here that gave way beneath the soles of his trainers. The walls around him were patterned with bullet holes and burn marks, sand collecting in the holes and imprints from the countless sandstorms that has graced the desert plains.

Any other day, he would of paused. He would've stopped to take in the place, to take feeling of awe and remembrance that would inevitably follow.

But not today.

He walked through the courtyard, back into the ruined buildings of the map. Through here should be the main ya–

"Bloody 'ell…"

Scout froze.

Turning off his flashlight, he crept through the remains until finally, he caught sight of the main courtyard.

A fire was burning in the centre of the yard, contained by blackened oil drum, with three figures sitting before it. Another figure lay beside them, asleep in a black sleeping bag. Just to the Scout's left, a black and orange vehicle with the black mesa logo was parked,

The three figures had their faces turned to the fire, their frames silhouetted by the flames before them.

Stealthily leaving the cover of the building, he darted over to the truck, diving behind it before anyone could see him. He waited with bated breath for the shout as someone saw him, but no such call came.

Removing his headset so he could hear better (there wasn't much use for it out here anyways – he had lost the wavelength for the Administrator about a mile ago), he peered around the truck at the three intruders.

The one closest to him, the one still asleep, seemed to be the Biohazard, judging by the shock of blond hair that was just visible in the firelight. The youth was sound asleep, oblivious to the Bostonian mere feet away from him. His weapons were nowhere to be seen, but a book of some sort lay open beside him, the page showing some sort of diagram along with a horrific picture of a diseased man that really wouldn't look out of place in Medic's lab.

Several more feet away, his face portraited by the flickering fire, sat the speaker. He was a weathered man, his face tanned and leathered from years in the sun. he wore a black slouch hat, its brim flat and unbent and a dull checkered orange shirt not unlike Sniper's own uniform. Blackish curled hair covered his chin, not thick enough to be considered a beard but yet too dense to just be a shadow. A black band with an orange emblem was visible on his arm, but Scout couldn't make out what it was. By his outfit and the unmistakable accent in his voice, the runner assumed the man to be an Australian, or at least someone who had spent a decent amount of time in that sunburnt and deadly continent.

Sitting next to him, his face to the fire and to the hidden Scout, was the second person. He was clad from head to toe in black armour that after years of living in the volatile backstreets of Boston, the Scout instantly recognised as riot gear. The person (Scout could only guess at their gender from this distance) had their face obscured by a large mirrored visor, reflecting the flickering fire before it. The only other colour on its person was the orange of its emblem and undershirt, his protection lacking any of the standard markings that the Scout was used to seeing on such a person. A large transparent riot sheild was at his feet, it's smooth, reflective surface lacking any sort of stains or blemishes at all.

The fourth and final person sat opposite the Australian, a bar of something in his hands. The man looked like he had just stepped straight out of one of soldier's sickeningly patriotic war films, with huge muscles that seemed to rival even the Heavy's. He had short blond hair in a military crew cut and a large scar running down his face, cutting through his nose and just below his right eye.

"...When's that little wanker going ta wake up?"

The other two men sighed, obviously used to their companion's behavior.

"It's four in the morning Irwin. Give tha kid a break pal." The man in the riot gear muttered, its voice unmistakably male and tinged with an accent that sounded nearly identical to the RED Scout's new yorker one.

"Kid'd be dead by now in the bush mate." He spat, a wad of something hitting the ground beside him with a sharp thunk. "Look, back me up 'ere Jack. Kid would be dead in any war 'fore sleepin' like that."

"This isn't a war." The blond haired man said, his deep and rough voice only furthering the Scout's belief that the man had just stepped out of the frames of an action film. "You can call the gravel wars a lot of things, but a proper fucking war ain't one of 'em." crumpling up the wrapper of his bar in one hand, he tossed it into the fire. "'Sides, what do you expect? 'E's a terrorist, not a damn soldier."

"A terrorist." Irwin echoed. "That's a bloody weird way of putting it."

"Look, I don't give a damn 'bout what you call him." Jack said, pulling what looked like a cigar from a pouch on his belt.

The two dissolved into an argument, but the Scout's attention was suddenly wrenched from them as the youth in the sleeping bag before him shifted. His form rolled over and faced the Scout, his watery blue eyes half open and unfocused as he awoke.

The Scout started and ducked back behind the truck, praying that the Biohazard hadn't seen him. There was a groan and something muttered in accented german followed by a sudden lull in the argument.

"'Ad a nice nap there sleeping beauty?" The Australian snarked, and Scout swore that the man was smirking.

"How long haff you been up?" The Swiss asked, sleep still dulling his voice as the Scout heard him get up and walk over to the fire.

"Too long." The New Yorker muttered.

"Last hour mate. Loik you should'a been."

"But...vhy? The Commander should not be back for another…" He paused and Scout poked his head around to see him pull out a watch from his pocket. He didn't have his suit, instead wearing a getup similar to the Medic's, minus a vest and boots. "Scheiße!" The Biohazard spun around and the Scout ducked back just in time to avoid detection. There was the sound of panicked rustling and more german profanity, but the Scout didn't dare look to see what he was doing. His mind was preoccupied by more important things.

Of course the Commander would be here. Why wouldn't he?

He tried to calm his racing mind, but all he could think of was how stupid he had been. Why the hell had he taken this mission? He was out here all alone, with no way of contacting the rest of his team and the only people who knew where he was certainly weren't the most trustworthy bunch he'd ever met.

Because he wanted them to stop teasing him. Because he wanted them to stop mocking him.

Well, coming back dead wouldn't help anything.

He was so deep into his thoughts that when another noise sounded, he had ignored it.

To be fair, it was one he had heard pretty much every day for the last five or so years, but he still should've caught it.

The noise of a teleporter.

The moment he realised what he was hearing, he jerked his head around the parked vehicle just in time to see a bright flash of white light emanate from the other side of the courtyard, illuminating a very familiar orange and black device, along with a tall figure.

For a moment, the Scout was torn between fear and utter shock.

A teleporter.

Teleporters like that were used for getting the team closer to the front line. So where was the entrance? Black Mesa? Did they have any others?

Was there one in their base?

And how the fucking hell did they get it?

He ducked back behind the truck, fear slowly clouding his thoughts. He knew the fear of the enemy having teleporter in your own base all too well, but this was different. These men weren't limited by the Administrator's rules about only one pair of teleporters online at a time, or the one about no two way teleporters.

That thought in itself scared him nearly as much as the man who had stepped off the device.

There was silence.

The Scout waited for someone to say something, for someone to break the quiet, but no further noise was made. What was going on? He didn't dare check again.

The silence played havoc on his frayed nerves. Why hadn't anyone said anything? Had they seen him? Where they simply waiting for him to crack, for him to scream at the excruciating silence with the desire to fill it with something that wasn't suspense?

And then finally…

"Sir?"

The Biohazards voice cracked a little as he spoke, suddenly tinted with fear. The silence was broken, but Scout's heart and mind still raced so fast that it made his head light.

He had to focus.

Trying to take a deep breath as quietly as he could, he turned around and leaned against the truck as he tried to push down a fear that he had tried everything to smother, but yet had not disappeared.

He was fine. They hadn't seen him. Of course they hadn't. He was great at stealth – he'd said so himself. And they wouldn't see him.

Swallowing hard, he turned his attention back to the people behind him.

"...all set up. Operation Overwatch is a go. Best of luck men." The Commander finished, stepping back onto the teleporter, along with the Australian. There was a flash of light and the two men disappeared.

The remaining three instantly busied themselves, grabbing weaponry and checking ammo before hurrying back to the recharged teleporter.

The three of them were all armed now: the Biohazard in the white contamination suit the Scout had first seen him in, the riot gear clad man holding an assault rifle with a clear riot shield strapped to his back, and the final man holding a large black gun of some sort, both hands gripping it in a way reminiscent of the heavy and his own mini-guns.

"Well then." The Biohazard said, his voice low and steady, his previous fear not quite gone, but certainly hidden from plain sight. "Tau? Assault?"

The two men muttered a reply at their respective call signs – the buff American to the former and the shield wielding man to the latter.

They stepped onto the teleporter.

There was an all too familiar whir and then with a flash, they were gone.

The Scout waited a full minute before leaving his hiding spot, walking over to the device, Its arms whirling as it charged up again.

What to do now.

He needed to go back. That was obvious. He couldn't do anything more here.

Or could he?

As he stared down at the teleporter, a plan began to form in his mind. If they were going to attack something, it would be them, right? The other end of that teleporter was probably somewhere on a base or outside of one.

Or, within communication range with the base.

And within respawn range.

He might not be able to stop them, but if they were within respawn range, he could certainly try. Buy his team a few minutes perhaps.

Taking out his pistol from his pocket, he loaded and, making sure the safety was off, stepped into the glowing disk.

And the, with a nauseating flash, he was gone.

so...new people! and the plot came back! hooray! finaly things are getting intersting.

...I think

also, before I confuse you any more, ctf_flagrun isn't a tf2 map. its a tfc map. (well, officaly anyways)