CHAPTER ELEVEN

NO LET TO ME

Scout took a long drink from the Blue Streak beer he held. Normally he wouldn't drink, but Solder had insisted. It was a party, after all. Nobody minded if Scout drank a little now and then, as long as he didn't get totally shit-faced. Medic had protested at first, but Scout didn't care. It wasn't like he was a baby, or anything.

"...And then, that freakin' RED Spy tried to stab me! So I broke his arm. He cried like a little bitch baby and ran away," Scout said with a glance at his own Spy, who was standing across the room, looking innocent. Medic was yelling at him in German, as usual. Nearby, Engineer was chatting with Soldier. As he watched, however, Engineer's radio, which hung from his belt, crackled, interrupting his conversation. He listened to it for a moment, then said something to Soldier and left the room.

"And then?" prompted Heavy, snapping Scout back to his story.

"Then it was just me an' that poser, the RED pig. He tried to run away, but I blew out his kneecaps-like this-and blew his head off. Then I met Sniper. He told me about Spy, so I volunteered to decoy. But then when I got down there, that freakin' RED Medic held me up! He tried to shoot me with that stupid excuse for a gun, but I got away, easy."

"Easy. Right," said Pyro.

Scout ignored him. "Then I ran into the RED poser again. Boy, he'll never learn! In five seconds flat I had him in a headlock on the ground, like you see in cop shows, y'know, before they cuff 'em. I was about to blow his brains out again but I saw Spy was in trouble, so I ran to the rescue. That lardass RED Heavy tried to get the Intel, but I was way faster, and snatched it up before he even knew I was there. Then I killed him, of course. His skull was like clay, man! It was almost too easy, y'know what I'm sayin'? Then I slammed down the briefcase so hard, like nobody's business. Man, I bet those REDs are still cryin' about it!"

Scout's audience, which consisted of Heavy, Demoman, Sniper, Pyro, and now Soldier, exchanged glances. Scout had a knack for exaggerating, and everyone knew it. Even as he told the story of his victory, they were trying to decipher which parts had really happened, and which parts were just food for his already overgrown ego.

Demoman grinned. "Tha's good on ye," he slurred, leaning towards Scout. "Ah alwaes ken ye were a good'n. Them RED devils were daen no good, ah ken ye wiz goon tae win us'n."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Scout said, leaning away. A drunk Demoman could very easily morph into a clingy, grabby, handsy Demoman, something Scout never wanted to experience again.

"So Scout," Sniper said after a moment. "Saw you bein' chased boi a RED Heavy, early on. Managed to get away, I gather?"

"Oh, what, that skid?" Scout scoffed. "Man, it was cake!"

"Speakin'a cake," said a familiar Texan accent from behind Scout. They all looked up, and saw Engineer standing in the doorway with a wooden crate in his arms. It was identical to the one they'd received with their update gear, back at Thunder Mountain, right down to the note, typed in purple ink. It was nailed to the side, and, after a moment, Pyro jumped up from where he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor and ripped off the sheet of paper, reading it aloud.

BLU team, congratulations

on your latest victory. Please

accept this cake as a reward.

Sincerely, Admin.

Pyro read the note three times, then calmly scrunched it up into a little ball and threw it over his shoulder. He glanced at Scout as he did so, assessing the boy's reaction. But Scout barely even looked up, having chosen that very moment to zone out. He was staring straight ahead, eyes glazed, as though he'd just realized something everyone else had known for months. That happened a lot.

"Cake? For us?" Heavy asked, truly perplexed. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Sounds like someone really wants us to eat this cake," Engineer said, weighing it in his hands. "Who'd send us two cakes? The REDs?"

Soldier made an explosive noise, snapping straight to attention. "Maggot! Do you really believe those RED-team ladies know how to cook? Clearly this is the work of someone FAR more sophisticated!"

"Engineer," Medic said curtly, having come over to investigate. "Perhaps ve should assess zhis one. Ve can dissect it for clues on its origin."

"I shall help," Spy volunteered. "I may recognize something you don't."

"Right," Engineer nodded, then glanced at Pyro, who looked a little crestfallen. "If we don't find anything, and it turns out to be just a plain 'ol mystery cake, y'all can burn it, okay?"

Pyro shrugged grudgingly, and stood aside, letting the man pass.

When the cake had gone, Scout blinked and snapped into an upright position, looking stricken.

"Is leetle Scout alright?" Heavy asked. Scout opened his mouth, but Soldier answered for him.

"Of COURSE he's alright! This man has just won a WAR, maggot! In fact, he's in the best shape of his life!" he laughed heartily, downing an entire beer, and Demoman laughed along, though he looked so drunk by then that the others were surprised he was even conscious.

Scout stood up and left very suddenly, with barely a muttered word as a farewell. Pyro watched him go, but did not follow.

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When Scout reached his class room, his legs were shaking. He'd gone all day without realizing it, but now that he had time to slow down and think it through, he had suddenly realized what that nagging, you're-forgetting-something feeling that had plagued him all day was about.

He'd just fought-and won-a battle against RED 11. RED 11 was Julian's team. Scout had come face-to-face with Julian today, on the battlefield!

Weakly, Scout collapsed onto his bed, which was still damp from that morning's wake-up call. He had hoped Julian might be dead, or on another team, by now. But now that he looked back, he knew the truth; Julian was very much alive, and Scout had met him. He had looked directly at Julian, and had not recognized him.

That fact alone sent cold shivers crawling up Scout's spine, and made him nauseous. How could he have possibly not recognized him? Julian's face had haunted him for years-twelve, to be exact. He'd grown up thinking about this day, dreaming about it. He'd fantasized over and over all the different scenarios, and exactly what he would say.

"Julian," he tried, just to himself. "I hate you."

No, that was no good. Besides, Scout wasn't even sure if he did hate Julian. They hadn't seen each other in so long, it was impossible to figure out how he felt. Did he hate him? Love him? Something in between, maybe? The real question, however, was weather or not Julian still loved him.

'Of course not,' Scout chided himself. 'If he did, he wouldn't have left.'

He collapsed into a heap on his bed, head spinning faster than his thoughts. He had to know how Julian felt. It was killing him, just knowing that the very person he had once trusted, looked up to, told everything to, was now his enemy. A dangerous one, that would kill him in a second. Even with that knowledge, however, Scout knew he would never be able to kill Julian. He did love him, even if he didn't want to admit it. After what Julian had done to him, Scout knew he had every right to hate him, loathe him, wish all manner of misfortune on him. But he couldn't. All these years, and all he wanted was for Julian to love him back.

Not that that was possible, now, given the circumstances.

Confused and utterly heartbroken, Scout got up, stumbled to the bathroom, and threw up.

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Things at the RED base were a little different. There was no cake, no mysterious note, and no post-battle celebration. The men went through their daily motions of preparing for the next day, and there was no drinking. Well, there was a little, but it was the conservative beer-at-the-end-of-a-long-day sort.

Scout was sitting in his room, at his desk, staring at the cracked concrete wall as he chewed on a pencil for no particular reason. All the desks at every base came fully stocked with papers, pens and pencils, envelopes, stamps, and everything else a person could ever need to write a letter. But the Scout of RED 11 had no letters to write, no one to write to, and nothing to say. Even if he had wanted to write something, he wouldn't have been able to. Scout had never entered public schooling, save for a brief two-year stint in second and third grade. But that had been mostly learning addition and telling time, and, as a result, he had never learned to write, or to read.

So he sat, and he chewed. He was bored, and the latest failure had left him frustrated. How could they have possibly lost, he wondered, when he and Spy had had a foolproof plan?

The next moment, he answered himself. 'It was Spy's stupid fucking fault,' he thought with a particularly angry munch on the soggy wood and graphite in his mouth. 'He fucked everything over, this time, not me.'

With a sigh, Scout threw down his pencil and kicked out his feet against the concrete floor, causing the chair he was in to tip over backwards. It landed with an impressive bang, as his head and elbows hit against the dusty, cold concrete floor.

He didn't cry out, but only waited for his vision to turn from black to bright spots to normal, very slowly, before picking himself up, and then the chair. He was just about to do it again when he heard it. The softest sound from a floor below-a voice, softly calling for him. It was barely there, but it was there, and that was all that mattered.

Like a silenced gunshot, Scout darted out of his class room and down the hall, around the corner, down the stairs, through the doors and around two more corners before arriving right in front of the Infirmary doors, skidding a little in his socked feet. Medic was there, waiting, and when Scout appeared, he quickly ushered him inside.

As soon as the door was securely shut, Scout shucked off his clothes, leaving them in a pile under the examination table. He climbed up, onto the cold steel, and laid down on his back, buck naked. He tucked his hands under his head and stared up at the bright lights on the ceiling, waiting patiently, excitedly.

Wordlessly, Medic arranged a few metal instruments on a steel tray before picking one up. It was a scalpel, with a long blade that flashed briefly before Scout's eyes before he felt it slice, quickly and with precision, through the skin over his abdomen. It hurt a lot; Nathan had been given no numbing solutions, and no anesthesia. But the boy barely reacted; only his fists, clenched tightly, fingernails cutting half-moons into the skin on his palms, moved.

Medic worked quickly. He positioned gauze all around the incision to soak up the blood, and poked silver things around, looking for something or maybe implanting something. Scout didn't know, and really didn't care. It was the pain he was there for-the smooth, knifeblade of white in the corners of his vision, and the searing sting with every breath. He loved it, lived for it, wanted it, needed it.

Soon, he could feel the pulling, tugging, pinpricking heat that meant Medic was done, and stitching him up. Medic was good with a needle; Scout was covered with scars, but they were very faint, and could only be seen in good light. On either side of each and every one were tiny, pale, scar-colored dots, indicating long-ago stitches.

When Medic had finished, and had cleared away all the blood, he turned away, to sterilize his instruments and record his findings, and Scout sat up, experimentally running his fingers over the fresh row of thick black thread, woven tightly into the skin at his side. It hurt. Good.

Then Medic was back. He held a syringe in his hand, with a very long needle. Inside it was a bluish liquid that, when disturbed, sloshed with a slow, sluggish quality. Scout held out his left arm, wrist up, and Medic, with eyes narrowed in concentration, found the injection site in the crook of his elbow, clearly marked by a nice big bruise.

Scout shivered as he watched the silver needle slide into his skin, and the cold fluid enter his blood stream. It felt weird, like there was a snake sliding very slowly up his arm, tightening as it went. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation envelope him. When he looked up again, Medic had gone.

Silently, Scout climbed down, off the table, pulled on his clothes, and headed back to his class room. His legs felt heavy with the alien in his blood, and he stumbled a few times on the stairs. When at last he reached the landing, he hesitated a moment, disoriented. His head felt oh, so heavy, and he couldn't really see straight. He stumbled to the bathroom, stuck a finger down his throat, and threw up.