There is no way.

There is absolutely no fucking way this is happening.

"Heavy has written spiel about Sascha. Would Doktor like to hear?"

The mirthful baritone of Heavy's voice is more petrifying than a Demoknight's charge approaching from behind.

"Ah," is all the BLU can make out, and Scout notices that he's started trembling. He swallows thickly and rasps out the calmest voice he can manage. "I vill be zhere in ein moment, mein friend…"

It is laced with an alarmed vibrato, 'mein friend' trailing off into a frightened abyss, as if the BLU considered it a crime to call the Heavy his comrade. The Scout's got his heart lodged in his throat. Heavy leers them down for what feels like an eternity. Whatever drunken, rotting nonsense is going on in his head right now, Scout soon expects to blink and suddenly find the room slathered in the BLU Medic's insides.

Better yet, blink, and wake up in bed, delusional with the reality that tonight was all but a dream.

…And yet.

Somehow, yet—

Heavy doesn't spare them a blink as he jovially replies:

"Very well. Heavy will wait for Doktor."

…

What…?

Both mercs don't dare move. Heavy merely strolls away to return to the madness up at the bar, ultimately abandoning the Scout and the Medic quaking in their boots. The air itself is numb. They're on pins and needles, hearts pounding like cannonballs. The BLU's dreaded knife-like stare pierces the Scout, countless ambiguous messages being telepathically sent but the latter being too horrified and stupid to give him honest answer.

Ist er weg?!

I dunno what dat means!

What just happened?

"...Is he gone?"

Never in his life did Scout think he would hear a Medic sound so awfully horrified because of Heavy. They've always had an amicable friendship ever since the doc installed those über hearts. Engineer once told Scout there's a first time for everything, but hearing this phrase echo in his head right here and now is like listening to the Engineer's pathetic and unfunny jokes. This is the farthest from a joke he can possibly get.

But then again, what happened just now certainly feels like a joke!

"Yeah," Scout peers beyond the man and observes how his Heavy doesn't even seem to give this occurrence a second opinion. "He's—he's gone, alright..."

"Vhat just happened?! How—?!"

"I don't think he recognized ya…"

For once, the Scout is utterly speechless. He had been stunned by the BLU spontaneously deciding to help him, had been stunned at just how drunk Engineer could possibly get in one night, and had even been stunned the millisecond he stepped out of that bathroom and unceremoniously found out his fun night was torn to shreds and given the Phlog Treatment. But watching Heavy, his Heavy, burly, Russian, RED Heavy, stroll up to the opposite team and tell them he'll wait for them makes him rethink his life choices and wonder if tonight's events were a fever dream, or if he had drunk too much ethanol himself and the last twenty minutes were nothing but hallucinations.

But the genius hiding within the runner pops out like the weasel. A metaphorical lightbulb materializes above his head; the pieces of the puzzle are assembled.

There is only one explanation for this!

"He didn't recognize ya!"

"I heard you," the BLU spits, flabbergasted beyond comprehension. "But how—"

"De alcohol."

…

…!

That's it…!

The German whirls to the runner with no attempt to conceal any form of bewilderment. He processes this statement with visible wonder, eyes flickering back and forth as if this is a breakthrough in a scientific discovery.

In a way, it is.

"Dey drank straight ethanol," Scout explains, "dat's why da hardhat was actin' like he didn't know his ABCs! And—and dat's why Soldier was thinkin' he was Canadian! Dat stuff messes wit' ya head! Turns things topsy-turvy!"

A light explodes in the doctor's eyes.

"Fatso prob'ly ain't recognizin' ya cuz dat ethanol ain't lettin' him know da difference between red an' blue!"

"Heilige scheiße."

Holy shit indeed.

How to even begin with this is beyond him, because—

Ethanol—actually saved BLU Medic's life, ironic as it is! It altered the Heavy's propriety and rendered him useless to the color spectrum! If what the Scout is saying is true, then this discovery opens a new door. This changes everything!

With a wicked chuckle the BLU allows the grin to spread like a disease.

Yes… this is a very engrossing discovery!

"Herr Scout, you may be correct. Zhis theory is incredibly schtupid, but from vhat I have seen from zhe Engineer und Soldier, plus zhe ghastly zhings I have seen on Halloween zhis year und past years, I am hereby convinced."

"Yeah, I'm da genius here, I know it."

"I have heard zhat schuperfluous intakes of alcohol can damage zhe retinas und cause temporal color blindness, but mein Gott, I have never seen it myself! Vhat luck!"

He erupts a celebratory whoop and the Scout grins like a cheshire cat. "So ya still thinkin' 'bout leavin'?"

"Ach, nein! Ve must investigate zhis furzher!" the BLU abrasively grabs the runner by his clavicle and briskly advances to the bar, "Raus! Raus!"

"Whoa whoa whoa—ow! Okay! I'm comin'!"

And he does so ungainly, barging into every other person in their way as he's pulled further in, nearly conking out the instant a waft of fruity gasoline clouds his nostrils. The German's still got him by the shoulder with no hint of slowing down.

"Nicht ärgern! Ve vill get you out of here in no time!"

"I thought you were da one who was tryin' to leave a second ago!"

"Zhe situation has changed!"

"And why's dat?"

…

For a split second, the BLU bears the look of someone who has said too much. "Hahah! Keine ursache! I am merely having fun! Zhis has never happened before!"

Honestly, Scout would have put more endeavor into translating, but the second harsh yank more or less dislocates his shoulder as it drives him further towards the cacophony. He's practically thrown into the madness as the doctor navigates.

"Hold it!"

"Ach, vhat?"

Scout forces himself from the BLU's grip. "Look—I ain't tryin' to defend ya here, but lemme do da talkin' first. Dis was kinda part of my plan."

"Vhat vas?"

"You know," he explains with a strained flourish, "talk to dem, try to convince 'em ya ain't wearin' blue… ya dig?"

"Zhat is one of zhe most schtupidest zhings I have heard out of anyvone I've met. I know vhat people vithout brains look like, und you—"

"I get it, I get it, it's a stupid idea. Jeez. Anyway, as I was sayin', I'll do da talkin' first. What otha options do we got?"

"...Fine. I vill speak to zhe big one."

"Da big—? Hold it," BLU Medic groans when Scout blocks him yet again, "only dat one. I'll take de otha two. Meet me out by da car, an' make sure dey don't know what color you're wearin'."

"Hooh, my mistake. I vas planning to tell zhem I shoot zhem vith needles on zhe daily—of course I vould not say vhat color I am wearing!"

"Okay, okay, shush! Jus' — don't get killed. I can't do dis shit on my own."

"You're schtupid if you zhink I can't handle myself."

"Ha ha, yeah, whatever, I ain't underestimatin' ya, blah blah blah."

To any other onlooker, they probably appeared to be friends having a petty argument. Scout can't help but feel a thorny twinge prickling his gut as BLU Medic courageously buffs out his chest and strides away. No shred of empathy should be given to the enemy. Zero. Nada. He's beaten in that man's skull too many times to count.

But Scout can't do this on his own! He'd be here all night long if he'd been the one dragging Heavy back to the base, or worse, die trying. Getting Engineer to the car with assistance was already a pain in the ass.

And as the runner directs his gaze to his drunken Soldier and Demo, he is abruptly struck with an old feeling of queasiness that hasn't shown its face in years. The last time it became this bad was when his oldest brother slugged him right in the diaphragm after he accidentally destroyed one of Ma's priceless porcelain vases. That did not feel good.

Comparing then to now, though, has Scout wondering if tonight's events had shaped him in the slightest.

…

…Nah.

He's got other business to attend to.

And that business is currently in a massive, uncoordinated conga line.

Operation Return to Sender (ingeniously dubbed by the genius himself) is a go.

The first of the two that Scout approached was Demo, who for some reason had his eyepatch on the wrong eye, but that didn't seem to be any hindrance to him. The conga line was a disaster. Nobody could keep themselves on their feet, and thanks to their inebriation, Scout almost got the short end of the stick.

In other words, he nearly got trampled four different fucking times just trying to maneuver his way over there. Marathons be damned; tonight has him winded left and right.

And for the record, Demo really isn't helping.

It took forever just to get a good hold on him to yank him out of the conga line.

"Scoot, laddie! Whear've ye beeeeeeeen?! Yer missin' out on tha fun!"

'Scoot' resists the urge to hurl. Demo's slurred speech is hard to understand, but that's just how he normally talks, so it doesn't take the Scout a ludicrous amount of time translating. Demo is sitting on an old creaky barstool, but even then he seems to be having a hard time figuring out how gravity works.

Unfortunately Scout also managed to lose sight of Soldier again in the process of garnering Demo's attention, so unless the lug's been secretly taking lessons from Spy, he must truly be slowly turning into a slippery snake. His vocabulary is already a lost cause.

Figuring he'll find Soldier sooner or later, Scout focuses on the task at hand; persuading the iron-shelled Demoman.

While drunk, Demo's a loose cannon when it comes to reason. Like the weapon itself, he can either be explosively incorrigible, or a reliable, good-hearted man with words of wisdom and understanding.

Hit or miss.

Now, usually, arguing with Demo ends with both parties clashing it out in a bloody brawl to see who's right or who's wrong, but with this new information about the ethanol's effects on the mind, Scout isn't 100% sure how smoothly this exchange will go. Frankly he mulled the thought of just dragging the Scotsman out by force, like he did with Engineer, but getting bashed over the head with a bottle didn't sound like a very pleasant evening.

Scout replies, "I've been kickin' my own ass all night, dat's where I've been."

"Wot?"

"Nevamind. I needja ta listen to me very carefully, alright? Demo, we need—"

"Hah, hope ye dinnae prepare a speech! Ay'm drunk! Ay' ken barely see!"

"You — you got ya eyepatch on wrong, but uh, anyway, look, we gotta leave, like, right now. Da hardhat's already in da car, an'—hey, are ya listenin'?"

"Ay cannae hear nothin' lad, ay'm like one of them weeeeee night-birdsies… tha ones that take yer feckin' money when yeee least expect it. Bloody bastards."

"I dunno what any of dat means and I honestly don't wanna, so stop talkin' crazy for a sec and listen to me, alright?"

To this Demo shifts his eyepatch to the correct eye and bestows a bright grin to his teammate. "Aye, there ye are… Dunnae worry aboot it. Ay would neva take yer money, lad. In fact, les jus' take over tha feckin' world, aye? Tame tha beasts and show 'em who tha real monsters are?"

"What beasts?"

"Tha night-birdsies! Laddie! Tha ones with theee ol' cat ears an' sleep inna cocoon! An' fly around with them devil wings!"

"…You mean bats?"

"AYE, BATS!"

This is getting them nowhere.

And Scout is 80% sure bats don't steal money, but who knows what kind of mythological nonsense they got going on down there in Scotland. The lochness monster asking for tree fiddy is more believable than cash-snatching bats.

Though Scout does know that bats are blind, not deaf, so unless Demo is tone-deaf and isn't catching on by now, he's going to need a better simile. And education.

Anyway—

"How about dis: you shut da hell up and listen, then we go an' rule da world or whateva."

"Och. Yer pinnin' me a gambler, ehhh? …Fine, ye got yeeerrself a deal. Wot's tha matter?"

Finally.

Endowed with the Scotsman's utmost attention, however much is actually directed toward Scout and not whichever ridiculous drunken fantasy is circulating in his brain, Scout sighs in preparation, shouldering all remaining guises of stress.

Let the flame ignite the fuse.

"We're packin' up for da night, bud. Get ya shit or whateva ya brought so we can go home. Da hardhat's in da car already, so we don't got time to stick around here anymore, got it? Ya with me?"

Scout smacks Demo awake a little, because god help him if he has to repeat himself a thousand times.

"Leeeave?" Demo squints like he's trying to clarify what he just heard wasn't complete bullshit. "Lad, we jus' got here."

"Hate to burst ya bubble, but, uh, rules are rules… Engie didn't want us gettin' rowdy, remember?"

"Awww, bollocks! To hell wit' that! Ay dinnae come here ta lisssssten to some chaperone lollygag an' vamoose, Scoot… so ay think ye neeeeeda tell Mr. Arizona Ranger to shove a big iron up his bloody arse!"

Scout foresaw a reaction like this. It is instinctual to back down in the face of danger, the runner feeling a jolt of cowardice surging through him like the type of electrical shock people exchange when they touch fingers after rubbing a carpet. He knew Demo wasn't going to be a joyride talking to.

Therefore, using Demo's own words of wisdom, entrusted to Scout some chilly autumn night, he is going to pull up his britches and assert himself.

"Ye need ta assert yerself more, laddie…"

Even now Demo sounds no different than he did back then. It sounded oddly senseless, yet wise and inspiring in a strange, admirable way—an old pirate's anecdote. That may have been the alcohol talking, but damn it if the Scotsman can't be surprisingly humane. The other members of their team present at the time listened idly.

"Fer Nessie's sake, ye jus' let them gits push ye around like'a tadpole, ye got no posit here. Ye gots'ta grow into a big ol' toad, lad—set some ground rules fer yerself."

"Uhh… ain't really gettin' ya fish analogy, but I kinda get what you're sayin'. So what do I do?"

"Say NO when some eejit gives ye a piece'a cheese onna hook. Issat clear?"

"...No?"

"'Tis a metaphor. Fer drugs."

"Cheese is a drug?"

"No—well in this case ay suppose it is, so, let's jus' go wit' that. When yer a wee tadpole swimmin' with tha other fishies, if some hoity-toity, pot-bellied fisherman comes along an' sticks a hook with cheese onnit in yer face, wot do ye do?"

"..."

"Come on lad, ay'm tryin' to help ye."

"I thought we were talkin' about assertin' myself, why are we talkin' about bein' fishes?"

"Fish, lad. Fishes is nae plural. And ay'm not there, 'tis only you."

"Huh? So am I a fish or a tadpole?"

"Yer a tadpole swimmin' in tha pond."

"Tadpoles don't eat cheese, do dey? Was cheese always a drug? Also, are dere girl fishes—I mean fish?"

"Thas nae tha point, lad! Answer me question! When a fisherman sticks a block'a cheese in yer face like Tantalus, wot do ye do?!"

"...Eat it?"

"NO!"

"Well what da hell are ya tryin' to—"

"For god's sake," Spy abruptly interjects, head in his hands, "he is saying don't do drugs, Scout! Don't do drugs! Zhe cheese is a metaphor for cigarettes, you imbecile! Zhe fisherman is a metaphor for irresponsible influencers! He is saying you must learn to stand up for yourself and say no! You idiots are going to give me an aneurysm, please, just shut up!"

Scout just looks at Spy like he's a reanimated mummy who was ordered to clean the toilets. "Oh. So I guess you're da fisherman?"

Their night ended short when Spy threatened them with a murder-suicide.

Nonetheless, however stupidly bashed and disconcerting the memory is, Scout was able to procure the message, and like any good scholar, he is going to use it to his best advantage.

To—assert himself.

Like a tadpole—growing into a frog.

Affirm himself some ground rules. Keep his head held high in the face of an adversary. In this case, Demo.

Scout looks him dead in the eye, chest buffed out, and with the sternest expression, asserts himself with:

"No go, dude. We're gettin' ready to bounce, and like I said, Engie's already in da car. Dat Arizona Ranger is gonna shove a big iron up your ass if ya don't get in da freakin' car. His words, not mine. Minus da freakin' part."

…

It isn't a superlative argument, but it dealt enough cognitive dissonance for the drunk to literally stare the runner down. As if he were looking at a weirdly sculpted latrine.

The background ambience sort of drew in a gashing awkwardness—the kind that has Scout wanting to turn away and forget this ever happened. Yet he remains still, eyes wavering left and right for something of interest, hating the way he kept them locked with Demo's. Waiting for his answer somehow felt more laborious than dancing around the bush.

When Scout's eyes started to water from the lack of blinking, the drunkard finally handed him a response:

"Wot crawled up yer arse?"

Of all the nerve…

Knowing no big iron had crawled up his arse, Scout just shrugs and tries to refrain from passing out from the ungodly stench of cheap beer. "Dunno what to tell ya. In all seriousness we coulda left by now and have dis done and over with. Didja hafta to go and spend like, two pages worth of shit over weird crap?"

"In all seriousness, lad, ay—think ay'm gonta be sick."

"Yeah, okay, well—wait what?"

All forms of ingenuity vanished in that mere instant.

As if tonight couldn't get any worse.

Scout wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy.

"You're kiddin', right?"

Demo doesn't respond verbally and instead loses the ability to sit up. Like a ragdoll he discards the ethanol, drooping his head before Scout takes brisk action and stops him from nose-diving into the table. The Scotsman groans, managing an elbow to prop himself on.

"Feckin' hell…"

"I swear, if you start barfin' on me…" Scout warns. "I told ya we hadda leave."

"Don't count yeeeer chickens, boyo. 'Tis strange, ay neva felt like this before…" Demo pauses, peering at his almost-empty bottle of ethanol, "but ay still got sum juice left in meh—"

Scout hauls Demo up to his feet, "Nuh uh, ya ain't inahlin' anymore of dat stuff. Da reason you're all loopy is because of it." He boots the bottle out of reach, but not before scrutinizing the thing's nutrition facts. He gives up when he realizes he can't articulate a single word.

Hmm…

Despite the man's adeptness in extirpating his body's own biological process in nutrients, even Demo fell victim to the ethanol's prowess…

Engineer was understandable; the mechanic really only had alcohol when the proper social etiquette coerced him to have a good time with everyone else. Drinking straight poison like that, it was amazing he could even hold his head up. The poor guy was most likely going to experience a hell of a hangover…

But Demo?

The guy who survives on alcohol, getting sick to his stomach because of it?

This thing is revolutionary!

One whiff of the stuff had Scout gagging! How any of his teammates managed to choke it down and get drunk off of it, of all things, was beyond him. Not even Demo could stick up against it.

"C'mon, let's just get outta here already. Ya ain't feelin' good—ain't lookin' it, either…"

"Fine, fine, hold yer seahorses. Nae gunna lie, lad, ay'—hic—need ye ta give meee a hand here…"

"Oh, sure."

The Scotsman falls forward, Scout taking his hand and yanking him up from the chair, crashing into one another, the kid using all his strength to not let the drunkard reel back on his ass. It's a wonder how he's even operating with all that ethanol in his system—and at least Engineer was nice enough to try walking on his own. With Demo hooked on Scout's shoulder, they finally get themselves situated in a not too terrible walking rhythm.

"Can ya walk?"

Demo burps.

"Alright den."

It took way more effort than Scout would have liked, but Operation Return to Sender is going along swimmingly.

Two down, two to go.

Speaking of which...

Surveying the rest of the establishment, Scout looks out for his other fellow teammates, suddenly recalling a certain BLU-suited German scavenging for Heavy's assurance. Despite the Russian's bulk, the Scout could not for the life of him find neither him nor the Medic. What with all the insanity spiraling out of control, grisly images of what could have happened to the BLU during his absence crowd his brain like termites.

Scout feels like a turncoat when the thought crosses, but—just for tonight, he'll spare some concern for BLU. Just this once. As soon as he gets back to the base with all members on board, he'll forget this ever happened; stab tonight's events out of his skull.

Just this once, he'll toss their differences aside.

Long as Medic isn't dead at this point, which looks about as bright as Davy Jones' locker. But recalling the BLU's earlier declaration, how insulted he was from Scout underestimating him, Scout decides to shove those grim thoughts aside, forcing a myriad of he'll be fines into his state of mind. He successfully snagged Demo. All that's left is to complete his end of the deal.

Getting back on track, with Demo at his side, Scout looks across the room to see Soldier performing the Union Army version of Dixie with the jukebox, slurring his S's like a rattlesnake.

Huh.

Scout remembers meeting a girl named Dixie once.