Soldier is notorious for being the loudmouthed moron of the team, yes, but take away the "moron" bit and replace it with unbearable piece of shit, and Scout has acquired the perfect definition as to what he's dealing with right now.
Worse, an unbearable piece of shit with a week's worth of alcohol frolicking through his system.
"HELLO SSSSCOUT!"
Scout didn't even get a chance to say hello back, the patriot immediately slinging a slaphappy arm over his shoulder like they're bestest of buds. He almost topples over because Demo isn't even trying to stand up on his own—really just limping like he's got two peg legs and using Scout as a convenient makeshift cane.
The initial plan for this to go down was basically the equivalent of dragging a stubborn dog on a leash—forcing Soldier out of this place with every amount of strength Scout can muster out of himself, rather than go through the same bullshit he experienced with the Scotsman all over again. But as soon as he panned in the Soldier's field of view, his epic plan crashed and burned before it even took off; completely out of his control.
Utterly foiled, because—
"MEN, THISSSS isss what WAR doesss to you! Thesse SCARSS are a man's's's PRIDE AND JOY… an Americanadian mark of what it meanss to SSSERVER your country…!"
"Get da hell off'a me!"
Jostling Scout around like a mindless ragdoll, shouting about whatever junk he just said and pointing furiously at Scout even though he doesn't have any damn battle scars and therefore murdering his eardrums, Soldier has heads turning their way, the absolute last thing Scout wants.
The patriot's smiling all wide and happy like he's being reunited with his long lost brother. Demo just nearly slips off Scout's shoulder before he's caught, heaved back up once Soldier follows orders and gives the kid a friendly push—or at least it should have been, but instead he completely disregards his own strength and pretty much shoves Scout and Demo into a nearby table.
If a drunk Engineer and a drunk Heavy weren't bad enough…
"Och…"
And Demo's starting to look like he needs an ambulance.
"Fer tha love o' mercy…"
"Don't you dare throw up," Scout demands. Giving Soldier a piece of his mind six ways from Sunday for pulling a stunt like that is the first thing he's gonna do once they get back to the base.
Though at the moment Soldier isn't all there and most likely unaware of what he just did. Actually given how much he's really struggling to hold himself up it's safe to say that he's putting up a huge effort to not fall over unconscious at this point. Respect where it's due, but getting all buddy-buddy like that has hives already forming on the Scout's skin.
Come to think of it, Scout isn't necessarily familiar with a drunk Soldier at all—even when he's not as shitfaced as he is at the moment. Usually he sticks to water or milk as his beverage of choice. Scout's always kind of maybe sort of secretly admired his health regimen and blindingly white teeth, but when the guy is sloshed every now and then in the evenings, he's just flat out meaner than usual, throwing insults here and there like free candy.
That being said, none of what Soldier's done up to this point screams belligerence towards Scout—unlike Demo—but more like he isn't sure which way is left or right.
As if the ethanol had somehow flipped his brain upside down and shook it like a mixologist.
In short, a very sad and very dumb case of delirium tremens.
"Stand up already," Scout says to Demo, exasperated, but Demo either ignores him or doesn't care, letting his toes drag along the wooden floor as he's heaved up. Scout huffs, deep breaths going in and out, muscles flexing, mentally preparing himself for what he hopes to god will be the most painless exchange ever. To take advantage of Soldier's blue devils, to strike while the iron is hot—it sounds rude but this may just be his only chance.
Then Scout strides to Soldier and tries to rally him to attention, and for a moment the man actually stops to look at him, but before Scout can speak he's thrown off balance yet again—
"Youu are—hic—jussssst in time, ssson!" Soldier pretty much shouts right in Scout's face. He smiles wide and giddy, literally grabbing the kid's head and directing him toward the rest of the establishment. "THEESSSEE are the new recruits who will be JOININGG uss in the fight against fuganaziesss!"
Ah.
Out of everything that has happened tonight—including running into the stupid BLU Medic, being patronized, and whatever the hell went on with Demo—the words new recruits oozing out of Soldier's fat mouth has Scout's face turning ghostly white, conjuring every terrible conception that could follow with just what Soldier means by new recruits.
"Oh—"
At the table Scout sees three stooges grinning at him, all blindingly bright and smug and clueless at the same time.
"Howdy-doo, heard yuh're all part of some military unit."
That dumb greeting came from the first guy, who looks like he was born in a trench. Second guy is wearing sunglasses indoors for some reason, arms crossed, like he doesn't have anything better to do. He looks like Michael Jackson before Michael Jackson became Michael Jackson. Third guy is…definitely not someone the Scout would enjoy taking a punch from. He looks like someone Heavy would readily slug if he threatened the giant over some petty argument—Soldier, basically. And a redneck version of Reg Park.
Where these weirdos even came from is a mystery Scout decides to set aside for now, because hold on a second, Soldier didn't mean them when he said new recruits, right?
New recruits?
That can't possibly mean what he thinks.
Please don't mean what he thinks it means.
"Soldier," the runner begins, pulling his dumbass teammate to the side, "before I even figure out what I'm tryin' to say, please tell me dese aren't da freaks you're talkin' about."
"INDEED THEY ARE."
He nods stiffly, not one sign of duplicity in his form.
The Scout isn't sure what to make of the word indeed coming from Soldier of all people, as the word and his disposition contradict, but soaking in the information that these three are quite indeed who Soldier is talking about, he feels like the world is suddenly muted, gradually processing yet another disaster that is yet to come.
What that guy just said about a military unit—what Soldier welcomed him with by introducing "new recruits."
If Demo is still alive, then perhaps he can hear how loudly Scout's heart is ramming in his chest, hanging on his shoulder and all.
He did not—
"Soldier…"
Scout's brain is quivering just formulating the question.
Because, these implications—
"For how much of a heart attack ya given' me man, please, please tell me ya didn't tell dem about—us. Our," he gestures between the three of them, including Demo, "situation—about da war. Just say ya didn't and I'll be fine. Dat's all I need. Please."
"No worriesssss, ssson," Soldier immediately responds. "I infffformed them of our unitssss! Each, and eeevery, one…!"
Ah, as he thought.
Currently Soldier looks like a cartoon character with how wide his smile is, drawing out a lighthearted chuckle that sounds so off since it's his voice, and for some reason that just triggers Scout's indignation. At first he isn't really sure how to process this once his spontaneous brain fog dissipates.
"Ya freakin'… how much didja tell 'em?"
"EVERYTHING."
"Okay, by everythin'—I'm jus' tryin' to clarify 'ere—do ya mean everythin'?"
"AFFIRMATORY."
"Everythin'."
"DOWN TO WHAT SSPY KEEPSSAKESS IN HIS LOCKER."
Back at the table the three stooges are watching them talk like curious cats. Mr. Sunglasses might as well be a statue, just staring at Scout with an unseeable menace. Meanwhile the first guy has his hands respectfully folded on the table, but dripping through that amiable layer is a cunning facade. His smile isn't reaching his eyes…
As for the third guy…
Whatever emotion that is, it doesn't look very pleasant…
This is very bad.
Sure, the Scout sometimes bragged to girls that he's a hard boiled military recruit, crowing about his favorite weapons and bats and whatnot. Usually those speeches end with him talking by himself all of a sudden, but Soldier touting out forbidden knowledge outside the field, stuff even Scout knows not to talk about (even while at work), to a total of three mostly sober-looking dudes, spells danger in every direction—every way, shape, and form.
On top of all that, he's recruiting them, whatever that means.
Scout feels enervated to the point of raw choler. "I hate you so much right now, Soldier."
"THANK YOU."
Scout peeks around the dumbfuck to peer at the three strangers again. Thankfully they're no longer looking at him, but instead have moved to a game of UNO. Mr. Sunglasses has his cards stuffed in front of his face like he can't read them without the right amount of lighting.
Of course. Of course they would happen to be the only few people sober enough to hear Soldier's hogwash. Just great. And here Scout thought he would be able to get moving already.
They look shady as hell, and who knows what they'll do with whatever info they've conveniently collected?
Engineer's out, Demo's a living corpse at this point, Heavy and that BLU Medic are who the hell knows where, and Soldier just made everything ten times worse.
"Oh dear god."
He's gotta handle this one on his own.
By himself.
"Alright, um—Blockhead, I needja to understand somethin', okay? You are prob'ly da most stupid piece'a shit I ever met, an' I hate you. Like seriously. I ain't in da mood for killin' anybody except you right now."
"Yer a blasted half-wit yerself," says a bilious Scottish voice from the kid's shoulder.
So he is alive.
"You wait 'ere," Scout lets Demo fall into a vacant chair, then turns to Soldier, "an' you come with me. Look, I'll tell it to ya straight—those three weirdos ain't gettin' recruited, no frickin' way. Dey can't be recruited with us."
"An' whyyy NOT, maggot?!"
"'Cuz—"
There's a trick to dealing with loud unbearable morons. Call it a sleight of mind.
Dismissing the patriot's harrowing glare and snarl, rolling his eyes so far back he could have fallen over, the Scout smirks, an evil show of pride. A quick tilt of the head directs the other's lackadaisical gaze to the table of three.
"—Dey're hippies."
Bingo.
Soldier's face promptly freezes, an engrossed registration, dissolving into an acidic glare burning with hate, a missile of nuclear contempt.
Even the most uneducated brains under the influence can recognize the one thing they despise the most. Scout doesn't feel like killing anyone right now, so he'll just have Soldier do it for him.
All Demo has to do is sit back and enjoy the show.
There is a place a few miles South of Teufort where strong (and strong-hearted) folks can test their might against a machine that enumerates the maximum amount of PSI packed into a punch. Regulars of the establishment have made it tradition to set newcomers against the contraption to see what they're working with.
The machine was crafted by a long-time-dead part-time engineer who had a fetish for getting punched in the face. After he died from a massive spleen rupture, his descendants found the old gizmo in his basement with notes indicating the directions. Many of these notes have been omitted from the public eye, and no one really wants to know what those passages said, as every ex-lover of the engineer swore to silence in traumatic fear of having to simply recall the words that were written.
In any case, the machine regained honor in its new and improved form.
During his first attempt at taking a swing at the thing the Scout scored a total of 360 PSI, which isn't something to laugh at. A lot of the regulars were pretty impressed—even astonished.
Scout is more than confident in his ability to throw a punch and make it seriously hurt.
Okay, maybe his confidence did dwindle just a little when Soldier managed an impossible 4300 without even giving it his best shot—nor did anyone want to find out what he could do at his strongest. Heavy straight up destroyed the thing, which considering its history, may have been the most insurmountable favor he's ever done for the dead engineer's family's dignity.
No matter the case, Scout admits he isn't the greatest physical fighter. His only rudimentary training in such a subject was with the bastards back in the Boston streets who catcalled his mother while on her way to the supermarket or church. His older brothers roughed him up enough to get an idea of what to expect while going at it in a full-fledged, committed, and bloody brawl.
He doesn't count the amount of times he's been beaten to death by bare fists in the war, neither by Heavy, or Soldier, or that one rare instance when Scout somehow managed to piss off the enemy Demoman so much he abandoned his grenade launcher to stomp broken glass down the runner's throat.
Actually, the only time he's ever had a fair traditional scuffle while enlisted was against himself—some incident involving both Scouts letting their grips loose on their bats and tearing each other down with everything they had—punching, kicking, biting, strangling. The BLU Scout lost that one.
The Scout has his own experiences with fights.
But he has never been involved in a bar fight.
Which is why this situation is absolutely insane to watch.
"Whoa."
"LETGOLETGOLETGOLETGO—"
"YOU UNDERCOVERING FRIEND-MAKING HIPPIEFIED PIECESSS OF TRAITOROUSUS TREASONING CANADIAN MOOSE-CHASSING SSCUMMIFYING—"
No words, no negotiations, no provocations—as soon as Scout gave his matador-like initiation Soldier made a beeline for Mr. Sunglasses of all people and slammed him with a whole military boot to the face, knocking his sunglasses clean off. From atop the table the man claims Mr. Sunglasses-less's neck, mouth spewing every derogation his drunken mind invents next.
"OHGODLETGOLETGOLETGO—"
…Mr. Sunglasses-less is revealed to be not at all what Scout expected him to sound like. His voice clashes around a higher pitch of Scout's with less Boston dialect and more with unparalleled terror being choked to death by a huge and blood-starving man. The sunglasses were apparently a mask to look cool, albeit a poor choice in cosmetics. He doesn't look cool at all. Looks really can be deceiving.
"Tuh hell—is yuh problem?!"
The first guy's got Soldier by the uniform while the third's vying for the liberation of Mr. Sunglasses-less, prying Soldier's fingers off his neck with all his might until he finally unchains the grip and the two stumble away in shock.
Soldier then glares at the first guy and gives him a drunken-fueled jab to the face that cracks terribly loud. A lot of the patrons of the building are craning their necks to see what the hell's going on, many with the excitement of children at the sight of a fresh, raw, not-on-television bar fight. Even Chett Massachusetts looks on without trouble.
"I WILL NOT SSTAND FOR HIPPIESS IN MY WAR!"
"Tuh hell are'yuh on about?!" First guy looks utterly and understandably perplexed at what just happened. "Yuh just told us we'd all be gettin' ourselves sum fancy doohickeys—why'd yuh do that tuh ol' Warner, Sarge?"
"I WAS WINNING THAT GAME, MAN! I HAD UNO!"
The Scout looks to Warner, who is gesturing at the mess of UNO cards, staring wide-eyed right back at him, which is a pretty fitting reaction after fighting against that for the first time. He quickly picks up his sunglasses and props them back on his face.
"IIIIII WILL KILL HIM BEFORE I LET A LYYYYING SSON OF A BITCH JOIN THE RANKSS!"
The first guy lowers darkly at Scout, staring, wordless and judging, but Scout refuses to shrink under his gaze. "Well I'unno whut in tuh world yuh've been told just now, but we dint come'ere in hopes tuh start a fight."
Neither did Scout, so they're all in the same shithouse.
"I guess yuh're goin' back on yuh word about that recruitment thing, Sarge?"
"CORRRECT, MAGGOT!"
"Alraight. Yuh seem'a lil' plastered raight now, but I don't like tuh'way yuh've treated Warner. I told yuh we dint come'ere lookin'tuh fight, and that ain't tuh'way I go about things. I'll make yuhs a deal instead."
Something about the way he's talking, the way he's so calm even though his uncool buddy just earned a massive footprint tattooed to his face, something about his presence seems so unnatural to Scout, as if—as if he knows something sinister that no one else does. Right then is when the Scout pinpoints where he's experienced this type of uncertainty before—this is the same exact haunting air the Administrator emits.
The bar is dead quiet—save for the jukebox blaring The Beatles's Twist and Shout—as the crowd awaits the verdict.
"It seems yuh'all don't want us in this military squad after all. But after we've heard such interestin' things, there ain't no way we can just fuggedaboutit—so how about this: as compensation fer hittin' ol' Warner, we'll have a small arm wrestlin' thingamajig. If we win, we get'tuh join yous' ranks. If yuh'all win, we'll let this slide and not mention a word about this. Capiche?"
A heavy air blankets the room. Everyone watches with interest. Arm wrestling? That old-fashioned tie-breaker? Not exactly what Scout expected to hear, considering the severity of what occurred in the last five minutes, but he supposes it beats getting his arm broken in a savage ballroom-bar blitz, seeing what he's put himself up against.
Good thing Soldier is on the same page.
"CHALLENGE AFFIRMED, MAGGOT! I WILLLL BREAK YOUR ARMSS LIKE THIN BRITTLE SSSUGHETTI!"
"Oh no, I wusn't talkin' about yuh, Sarge."
The first guy rolls an inauspicious look at Scout—
"Was sorta hopin' this loose-lipped chap raight here would like tuh have a go against ol' Smitherjan Jr.…"
The redneck Reg Park wannabe steps forward, knuckles and neck cracking to snag Scout out of his rattled trance, and this time, he feels the cold underlying his pride blast off like a magma eruption. He's able to get a good look at just how unmatched this is.
A resounding "oooooo" surrounds the Scout. Patrons' faces brighten like explosions. Soldier contorts into a fit of drunken anger and a damn-you-meddling-kids attitude. With wide eyes the Scout gestures holy shit no way to his teammate in the best way he can—flail his arms back and forth and shake his head, but in lieu of taking it as a call for help, Soldier's ethanol-infested brain must have translated the movements as a way to signal the phrase get outta 'ere, I got dis, thus performing great calculations to arrive at his genius conclusion, smile, and then announce:
"ALLLLL YOURSS, SCOUTER! KICK SSOME ASSSS, SON!"
"What?!"
"Ay dunnae ken wot's going on but YE GOT THIS LADDIE!" says someone behind Scout.
Smitherjan Jr. claims a table with an inviting empty seat, people hollering "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" (even though no one's necessarily fighting) at the frigid runner—and that plops him into a spotlight where he just can't possibly walk out and say no at this point.
If everyone is expecting you to do something, with one against however many, it's hard to refuse, to let everyone down, even if your gut is scolding you for being such an idiot. A classic case of intense peer pressure—nightmare difficulty.
For Scout, it's as if he's been elected to run as the newest U.S. president against his will and set up in a debate that consisted of the candidates beating the shit outta each other, and he just happened to have been plonked down against Mr. Olympia, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Impossible, but not a position where he can just simply drop out. He has to try.
The knowledge of all the leaked intel swimming through these guys' brains compels Scout to swallow that backhanded fear. He has to do this—he has no choice now.
He has to do this—
By himself.
"I swear I'll kill ya fer good someday, Soldier..."
As he states his promise he strides toward his seated opponent. Scout feels a chilling dread rise up his spine, both at the thought of losing, and that some horrible parents decided to name their child Smitherjan. Twice.
A story must always come to an end.
Since ancient times, humans have been constructing stories in many forms—be it art, songs, writing, acting—storytelling is and always will be a permanent stamp on humanity's history. This is common knowledge. Good stories, bad stories, even unfinished stories have an end, even if that particular resolution never came to fruition.
All good things must come to an end. Including life. Especially life. It's a known fact.
Of which, the Scout knows as a fact that his life story may come to a pathetic end in a couple of minutes.
"Uhh…"
Smitherjan Jr. keeps rolling his shoulders and flexing his muscles. It's hypnotizing in a terrible way, because this guy could probably crush Scout's head like an empty soda can if he wanted to.
"I don't care what you do," spits Warner, adjacent to Smitherjan Jr., "just please kick his ass, I can't handle another panic attack, seriously man."
Fortunately there will be no ass kicking because this is arm wrestling.
But the Scout just can't stop thinking the worst. His mouth is dry, a glacial chill raising the hairs on his neck. He shouldn't have expected a fair matchup. He anticipated having a go against the Michael Jackson lookalike, who keeps grinning like an idiot and all Scout can do about that is pity him because he doesn't look cool whatsoever.
Thanks to Soldier's insobriety, it's possible the ethanol installed way too much faith in his brain for Scout, and when loads of faith is pressured onto him, the opposite happens and everyone ends up disappointed. It's not fun.
In any case, juxtapose a white picket fence post with a thin metal cable.
That is what this matchup against Smitherjan Jr. looks like.
But that's fine, that's fine—it doesn't matter! Even the smallest cables can sustain a bridge. It's not impossible. This is doable. Wonderful things can happen if Scout just has a little faith.
This may look like a circus display for the surrounding patrons, but this is more than Scout can handle—practically the lowest level of hell. The entire future of the war, Miss Pauling, and pretty much everyone involved relies on this very moment. This one, single outcome.
Right now the Scout is situated at the table with Smitherjan Jr. right across. More than twenty voices are overlapping each other, spectators arguing, cheering, even placing absurd amounts of bets on who's going to win. Some of them suggest the "slim fella," which is then ridiculed and laughed at by the others. Scout pretends they don't exist.
Soldier is at his side giving him solid advice and uplifting slurred words that make zero sense like a boxing coach.
"Iffff you lossse, Ssscout, I promisse to tear out your pelvisss."
Very uplifting.
In the back someone yells, "FER MISSUS PAULIN', LADDIE!"
At least somebody's enjoying himself.
"When I give tuh go ahead," says the first guy, situated between Scout and Smitherjan Jr., "yuh'all lock hands, and when I say GO, yuh'all can start. How yuh feelin' Smithers?"
Smitherjan Jr. grunts like some Russian mafia man.
"How yuh feelin' Slimmers?"
Don't call me dat.
But 'Slimmers' scoffs, "Peachy," regardless. He can do this. Just believe. It'll be fine.
"Remember, if yuh lose, we're comin' with yuh. I wantuh know more about this 'disguise kit' thingamajiggie…"
"I get it," Scout sneers. Spy won't be very happy to hear that his precious little stealth tools have been used as ice breakers. "Jus' get dis goin' already."
First guy smirks. Everyone goes silent for the inauguration.
"Alraight, lock hands."
They do. Smitherjan Jr.'s hand completely envelops Scout's and gives it a bone-breaking squeeze.
"Ow ow ow ow holy shit what da hell is da matta with ya ya stupid-ow ow ow—"
This was a mistake, a very bad mistake—Scout abruptly realizes he is no way in hell a good match for this, and it shows, but it's too late to back out now.
"On yuh marks—!"
Scout is committed. He has to give it his all—for Miss Pauling—
"Get set—!"
—for the team—
"GO!"
—for his pelvis!
It should be appropriately noted here that yes, thin metal cables are indeed capable of holding a bridge in place. However, an entire bridge cannot be held by a single cable. Several cables and precautionary foundations are set up to prepare the bridge, to steady the bridge. They are fundamental. A single cable cannot hold such an edifice. In comparison, a white picket fence not only looks fabulous, but also helps keep out annoying teenagers, animals, and is wedged into the ground to stay stable against bad weather.
In no way is this implying that a white picket fence can bear the weight of a bridge.
This is merely stating that Scout screwed up. The equation of White Picket Fence Thin Metal Cable.
Something snaps.
Roars of duplicated fanfare had gone off as the two commenced their battle. They ended as quickly as they started.
As for Scout—
His eyes are closed so tight his eyelids might invert. He doesn't want to see the damage. Inside his chest his heart is strangling itself like it wants to die of myocarditis. Scout knows his arm is broken—what else could possibly make a sound like that and not be a broken bone? All he's doing is waiting for the pain, the white-hot blistering agony to electrocute his nerves into a type of living rigor mortis. His teeth are clenched, fists clenched, muscles clenched, because he must have torn every fiber and every atom in his right arm—
"Jesus Christ…"
First guy.
"Oh jeez oh no, what the hell dude—"
Warner.
"Dear god…"
Soldier.
What? What happened? What's—?
Scout looks up, and is blown away by the sight of his not-broken arm overpowering Smitherjan Jr.'s, splaying it flat against the surface of the wooden table. The sound—the sound of that sickening snap was not Scout's arm, but rather, the sound of Smitherjan Jr.'s face eating table splinters, possibly even his nose shattering upon impact.
Above Scout—hovering menacingly above Scout—stands a large, bald, and familiar Russian man, who grunts impassively as he holds down the unresponsive Smitherjan Jr.'s head against the table.
"Is sad," Heavy says, disappointed. "To shamelessly pick on weak."
"Heavy—"
"Whoa whoa," the first guy cuts in among the shock. "Who tuh—"
"Entschuldigung. Vould you kindly step away, herr?" That splintering German accent slices the hillbilly down. A man with weird hair, weird glasses, and a familiar blue uniform emerges beside the flabbergasted Scout like a guardian angel. "You are scaring mein son."
"Yuh're—whut?"
What.
Warner stares at the BLU Medic as though he were a weeping angel. "Oh jeez oh god, oh no dude, do something, Steinz." He uses the first guy—Steinz—as a meat shield.
"Yuh're—yuh're this weedy thing's dad?"
"Vell, more like a guardian, but yes. More or less."
Steinz's eyes dart from Scout, to Medic, to Heavy, and finally Smitherjan Jr., utterly appalled, stupefied. BLU Medic's smug grin is nothing like he's ever seen before.
He's met many confident people in his lifetime, from cocky smart folks, to no-brains-all-brawn fighters, and even haughty hoors who think they're all that.
Yet this guy…
This German fella who looks nothing like the weedy kid radiates something else, something terrible, something so atrociously rotten—a malice even the Devil himself would show submission to.
"I vas having a splendid little chat vith my Russian comrade outside vhen I heard zhere vas a fight going on," he says, then adds a dark, "I do not take kindly to schweinhunds who easily manipulate children und zhink zhey can get avay vith it."
Oh god—for once in his life Steinz understands why Warner is so paranoid all the damn time—this guy is pissed…
"Is pathetic," Heavy lifts Smitherjan Jr.'s head to reveal the carnage. "Leetle man is no man."
Steinz and Warner back away. The BLU Medic approaches them slowly, a wide, maddening smile on his face that defines the term barbarity.
He tells them, "Fortunately zhere are times vhen I can be forgiving, und zhis is one of zhem. I am not in zhe mood to cut cadavers right now, so instead, I shall cut corners, ja?"
"What the hell are you saying, man?" Warner says. "Oh jeez—we're sorry, sir!"
"Yeh, whut ol' Warner said..."
"Ahaha, und I'm not."
They back into the wall while the BLU pursues them. There's nowhere for them to run. Furtively the man snags some things from his inner coat pockets and strikes—from the Scout's perspective it looks like he just gave them a swift chop to the neck like they do in the movies. Yet there's a moment of tension hanging tightly in the air, like the defusing of a bomb in progress and the last substantial wire has been severed.
A moment passes, then another.
Until finally the BLU Medic steps away. Scout doesn't know what he just did, but he makes a flicking motion at something in his gloved hands. Warner is the first to react—clutching his neck while simultaneously grabbing the wall for support.
"Holy man, jeez," he groans. "What did you jus… whoooooooaaaaa…"
Warner looks as if he's been cursed with the essence of a bad trip.
"Wunderbar," BLU Medic says in amazement. Steinz outright collapses to the floor with his hand pressed painfully against his neck. Medic leans down to him. "Your friend vill be fine, herr, just don't move him too much. I do not vant to hear anyzhing of you fools again. I vill be taking mein son, now. Auf wiedersehen."
Steinz hacks up some garbled gibberish—something sounding like luck or truck.
The bar is as dead as a cemetary. Somebody killed the jukebox.
Everyone stares in bewilderment at what they just saw. As though they beared witness to Stevie Wonder removing his glasses and declaring he shall see the sights of Europe. Many too drunk to articulate it, and many too drunk with adrenaline to believe it.
With a flamboyant pivot and spin, BLU Medic displays his cat-like grin to the astounded patrons. "Everyvone," he says, and what comes next is the line anyone will tell you to be the most forgivable in the most dire circumstances:
"Drinks are on me tonight!"
To conclude this hellfire of Scout's worst night of his life and possibly ever.
The BLU Medic was able to divert the attention of the patrons away from him with promises of free alcohol and concession (despite there being no such thing because the place ran dry an hour ago). Claiming himself to be Scout's dad of all things had some eyebrows raising, including Scout's, but whoever pondered it quickly grew indifferent on the matter, because hey, free (nonexistent) alcohol!
What has transpired tonight was, to quote Chett Massachusetts, the greatest and perhaps the most vacuous event to befall this sinkhole.
Scout still doesn't know what the BLU did to the three stooges back there, and when he asked all he got was a, "Don't vorry. Zhey von't remember a zhing," as an answer and left it at that.
Granted the Scout found it creepy and overwhelming, but he couldn't focus on that because at long last, an hour and ten minutes after arriving, Scout could finally, finally go home—but not without some free cognitive damage.
No amount of therapy will ever make this traumatic night better.
Nevertheless, the Scout tried to make the best of what was available to him, maybe find some value or wisdom in the creases of his mentality.
Hmm…
'Never trust a dumbass.' Yeah, that'll work.
Speaking of which, while Scout collected Demo, Soldier never once stopped staring at the BLU Medic, eventually creeping over to the kid just now to say, "I neverrr knew you had a—hic—dad, ssson…"
"Neither did I," and Scout shoves the patriot out the door with him. Heavy tags along, offering to help carry Demo as the four finally make their way toward the car.
Engineer is sleeping soundly inside—or maybe that's his corpse, Scout can't tell.
"You arrre… my favorite member of thisss team, Ssscouter," Soldier says as he's dragged to the vehicle.
"I bet I am. I'll be ready to go in a sec, fellas, get in an' wait for me," he tells them, and he briskly wavers back to the entrance of the establishment, where a certain smiling German awaits him with his hands held daintily behind his back.
The flickering of the sign's letters blink wildly at them. Two beautifully illuminant words light the ground, shades of red and blue transforming into a bright magenta. For a final time Scout ogles at it, reading the brilliance.
Teufort's local dive bar: The Drunken Sailor.
"Vell?" asks BLU Medic, expectant.
"Don't rush me, Deutsch-bag."
"I vill vait however long it takes, zhen."
Scout rolls his eyes. "You do dat. What I wanna hear first is, what da hell didja do?"
"Vhat do you mean?"
"Explain to me how ya managed to—y'know, do whatevva da hell dat was. With Heavy, an' with da three creepers in dere… what was dat?"
"Ah," BLU Medic nods. He doesn't stop grinning. "It vasn't hard, really, getting your drunk comrade to believe I am a bystander. Zhey don't even recognize me. Under normal circumstances I vould have been murdered! I'm lucky! Hah!"
"Where did ya go after I set ya off? Dat whole time I was lookin' for ya."
The BLU takes a leisurely gander at his surroundings. "Outside mostly… you do not vant to know vhat measures I vent through to truly convince him of mein character. Do you zhink I could pass as mein own Scout's father?"
"Why da hell would ya eva wanna do dat?"
"You get discounts!"
Veteran and child discounts—the great savings duo.
"I dunno, den, maybe… anyway, last thing—what da hell didja do to da Warner brothas in dere? Seriously, gimme an answer, dat shit was cool."
"I told you," BLU Medic laughs softly, "zhat is somezhing I cannot say. Doctor-patient confidentiality."
Scout recoils a little. "Okay, I ain't too keen on what ya doctahs do, but dat don't sound right…"
"Of course, not to you. You aren't a doctor."
Scout didn't feel like bringing up the fact he technically isn't one, either.
"I simply gave zhem a little acupuncture."
"In da neck?"
"Pressure points can wash memories und symptoms of PTSD. Zhey von't remember anyzhing."
"Wait, really?"
"Of course."
No, seriously, really?
The Scout briefly looks over his shoulder at the stationary crimson station wagon. He's gotta drive that—he's been dreading that fact and frankly ignoring it until now. He really hopes the Engineer is somewhat back to normal.
Right, before getting out on the road, though… he needs to say it. That's what this freak is waiting for, standing out here like a hobo. Scout knows he has to say it, too, but—for the team's sake, he really shouldn't.
He peeks up at BLU Medic just to see an expectant little smirk on his lips.
…
Oh, to hell with it.
Scout thrusts out his arm at the man, palm open. An invitation for a handshake.
"Thanks," he says slowly, an awkward yet genuine smile on his face. It sounds off given how unsure he is, but he repeats it to have it up to standard. "Thanks… thanks. Thank you."
"Forrrr?"
Oh, go to hell. "Thank ya fer helpin' me… I guess. An' fer savin' my ass back dere."
Thank you for saving his pelvis back there.
"Oh, you shouldn't have!"
Their hands connect and shake, and as the small truce between the RED Scout and the BLU Medic severs, a little sliver of Scout's mentality whispers that, while he can never trust a dumbass, sometimes trusting an enemy may not be the horror-show it's made out to be.
Someday your greatest enemy may become your best friend.
They have afternoon battles tomorrow. Sooner or later tonight will be nothing but a bad dream. Thoughts of going back to the base like normal, getting up like normal, fighting mercilessly like normal, and never once mentioning this event to his teammates, nor to the BLU Medic ever again crosses Scout's mind.
It's a weird feeling—making a friend for a solid hour max and killing them the next day.
"I'll see ya tomorrow, I guess," Scout says. "I've got a bat with ya name on it."
The BLU looks a bit touched at the sentiment. "Jawohl. I vill harvest your organs tomorrow, ja?"
"I'd like to see ya try."
"Suppose I vill, zhen."
"Go fuck yaself."
"Likewise."
They laugh—excited smiles sprout and they release the handshake like it's a re-declaration of war. Right. This never happened. This is how it should be. RED and BLU are forbidden from contact like this. The Administrator would have their heads for this.
Scout needs to get back to the base now, anyway. He doesn't say anything further and walks off toward the car, not looking back. He opens the door and slides himself in the driver's seat. In the back Soldier and Demo are having a hard time breathing due to Heavy being situated in the middle. At his side the Engineer is lights-out, head hanging lethargically on his shoulder.
He turns the key in the ignition and the car sputters to life. On the radio some country music whispers itself in.
"Ya weirdos good now?"
"Da," Heavy speaks for everyone who clearly isn't fine because of him. "We leave."
Smushed up against the window Demo says, "Oyyy, Scoot, yer Pa looks a weeee bit familiar, aye? Ay jus' thought o' that…"
"No he don't," Scout says quickly. "Ya way too drunk again, man."
"Not HIM, Sscouter," rebuttals Soldier. "WE are drunk!"
"Ay thought ye hated communism, Solly?"
In the middle of their ping-pong argument Scout peers through the rear view mirror to see the BLU Medic still standing there, except this time, he's waving goodbye, and the way the Scout can see him makes him look like a lost, distant memory resurfacing for the last time before fading into the abyss.
And Scout sets that memory sailing off with a fellow wave, short and half-assed, but a wave nonetheless.
"Who ye wavin' to lad?"
"Nobody, absolutely nobody."
"ARE YOU HEARING ME?"
"Be quiet, leetle man, Engineer is asleep."
Oh, boy.
Scout changes the radio channel from country to some good ol' rock 'n roll—
"Ah' wuz listenin' tuh that, boy…"
When the fuck did he wake up?
In any case, Scout maneuvers the car out of the lot, leaving the BLU Medic and The Drunken Sailor behind. He never wants to see this place ever again.
Though, it's weird—as he's driving down the road about a mile or two away, instead of being unchained from coiling stress, his mind electrifies him with something odd. Like, that he's forgetting something…
Eh, whatever.
If he forgot, it's probably not that important.
Spy had been enjoying himself in the silence of the empty base for the past hour and was beginning to think there is no better feeling than being liberated of idiocy.
Honestly, any longer around his uncouth teammates and he'll be needing to incarcerate himself to a psych ward. They lack class, they lack elegance, they lack the proper intelligence the Spy possesses. And, in Spy's opinion, they are quite ugly. Sniper's out of the question, cloistering himself in his van all the time so he can do Sniper-things. Spy doesn't know where Pyro is and doesn't want to—though he assumes it went to sleep. If it does sleep.
But it's just him now. Expensive, tabasco-flavored cigarettes, pounds of great Greek literature, wine as dark as Indian ink, all at his disposal for a joyous night in solitude.
And then he hears a terrible rumbling outside.
Then a burning, screeching stench of rubber.
Then "WHOOP-DE-DOO!"
You're joking.
Are you serious.
The garage opens and something tumbles inside, more voices becoming audible.
Spy's dread-washed heart dares to go see what just happened, and upon opening the door to the garage he sees the Scout having a hard time yanking a burly Russian out of the car. The other goons cheer for him when he finally gets dislodged.
Why are they back.
And why does the car look like it went through a meat-blender.
Engineer's head looks his way, and he grins. "Howdy Spah!"
"Bonjour…"
He doesn't know if he should ask. Mostly he doesn't want to. But…
"Er, you are back early, I see… why? What 'appened?"
The Scout pushes past Spy and into the base, shutting the garage door. "I don't feel like explainin' right now, I'm goin' to bed."
"What do you mean?"
"Night."
"Wait—"
Slam.
"Merde… Engineer," Spy looks to the merry mechanic, "what is ze explanation for zis?"
"No clue! Ah' passed out! Goodnight Spah! Getch'yer beauty sleep!" And he's gone.
Spy doesn't know what to say to that because Engineer has never been that happy to see or talk to Spy. He knows the man went out with the fools to that bar to keep things stable, and yet…
The Spy starts to feel as if he missed out on something prodigiously fun, seeing how happy Heavy and Soldier and Demo are.
"What did you idiots do?"
The three give him the same jolly smile, and Demo responds, "Had a bloody BLAST, tha's wot!"
"Really."
"Affirmatory," says Soldier. "An' we met Sscout's father."
Spy stares. "You… did."
"Da," Heavy nods. "Is good man! Very knowledgeable. He reminds me of good German friend."
Um… there is definitely something that Spy should say about this—questions along the lines of who, what, when, where, why, and most importantly how—but he bites his tongue back and lets his curiosity suffer with salt in the wound. He shouldn't ask. He feels as though his sanity depends on him not asking.
Wait a second, something else feels off here—Spy counts off his teammates: there's Scout, Engineer, Soldier, Demo, Heavy, and…
Uhhhhhhh?
"Wait," Spy calls to them as they leave, "where is—"
"Lightsss out French fry!"
"G'night lads!"
"Спокойной ночи!"
The three depart to their designated rooms, abandoning Spy, who suddenly feels very alone.
The phone rings at exactly 2:14 a.m. Nobody answers it the first four times, and after realizing that nobody is going to answer it, Spy takes it upon himself to trudge his way to the phone and answer it on the fifth ring. He'd been having a nice dream, this damn well better be important.
He holds it to his ear. "Whom in god's name—"
"ENGINEER."
"..."
"IS ZHAT YOU."
"No—"
"WHO IS ZHIS."
"Zis is Spy speaking. If you yell any more I will go deaf and 'ave you arrested on auditory assault charges."
"HALT DEINE FRESSE."
Spy ponders if living is worth eternal suffering.
"To whom may I be speaking?"
"YOU DON'T RECOGNIZE MEIN VOICE?"
"No. Yelling louder does not 'elp me identify you. Please state your name and reason for calling or I will track you down, kill you, and none of your relatives or family will ever find your body."
"Medic," the other end breathes, a dragon's huff of fury. "Zhis is Medic."
"Oh."
"Zhe eediots are gone, Schpy—I'm here alone. Zhe car is gone as vell."
"Oh."
"I zhink zhey may have been abducted."
"Oh no."
"Indeed… alzhough I am sure zhey're fine. Zhey're not at zhe base vith you?"
Spy checks his watch. "Zey are."
"Vhat?"
"Ze idiots you speak of 'ad returned many 'ours ago and are now sleeping. I 'ope you are aware zat it is an ungodly 'our, and I feel like killing everyone and myself because you selfishly decided to call zis late with such malarkey. What I am curious about is why you did not return with zem."
On the other end the doctor pauses. Spy quirks a brow at the silence.
"'Ello?"
"I am still here."
"Why are you not answering?"
"...It is complicated, er—vould you mind picking me up now?"
Hmm. Spy can have fun with this.
"Is it somezing personal? And do not change ze subject."
"Herr Schpy, please—"
"If you answer ze question 'onestly I will retrieve you. If not, zen, bonne nuit."
"Warte warte warte!" RED Medic's voice halts Spy from putting down the receiver. "I vill tell you, but it's…"
Silence. Spy taps his arm patiently.
"Embarrassing?" he suggests.
"Yes."
"I see. Does it 'ave anyzing to do with alimentary stoppage?"
A brief pause. "...Yes. It vas terrible. I vas like a high pressure steam pipe zhat had made enemies vith a strong boa constrictor…"
Spy blinks. "Pardon?"
"A caved-in runoff drain after an overly rainy two days…"
"…Wh—?"
"As if a stool passage had been expressly forbidden by zhe lower intestine's logistics office!"
The Frenchman has never heard such nonsense metaphors.
"Suffering to zhe point zhat even Charles Darwin vould be confused! An experience zhat impeding should not have been permitted by evolution! I could hardly even—"
"Good lord," Spy intervenes, "I get it; it was vile, please shut up. Do not even zink about going into more detail. I will cut ze cord to zis line ozerwise."
He deeply regrets asking.
"Mein apologies," Medic says. "Please come pick me up. Zhe owner here is telling me pure insanity und keeps asking me to pay for two lifetimes' vorth of rubbing alcohol."
"Is zat so. Do you have ze money?"
"Clearly not, you schtupid black-lunged schlampe!"
Spy smiles like a cat. "Good to know. I will be zere soon."
"Danke schön. Bring some veapons, too, if you don't mind."
"Why?"
"Zhere is only me and zhree ozhas here, und one of zhem somehow knows about your disguise kit. He von't stop swearing at me. I zhink he is drunk. I vant to kill him already, so please hurry."
"My disguise kit? What… all right, what do you prefer?"
"Zhe übersaw, please."
"I will arrive zere shortly."
Spy hops in the car and drives peacefully through the night with a freshly sharpened blade, übersaw, some guns, his trusty cigarettes, and black trash bags in the back.
Just as every story needs an ending, every joke needs a punchline.
Hence, the next morning, Spy and Medic would be the only two to sleep in until noon, an unprecedented feat from the early birds of the team. Scout would rouse from his well-deserved slumber to turn on the radio and hear the news of a local bar joint that had an arson attack in the middle of the night, along with four missing persons—three buggers and the owner—and Scout would make no correlation between this and what he was convinced to be a nightmare last night.
Then the team would rise one by one, and to much surprise, the one to be hit the hardest with a sickening hangover would be Demo.
"Ay feel like mother Athena's burstin' outta me bloody heid…"
YOU SAY THAT EVERY DAY, YOU PATHETIC WRETCH, Demo's haunted sword, the Eyelander, would reply.
"Ay reelly mean it this time…"
SUUUURE. THOUGH THAT WOULD BE VERY EXCITING TO SEE.
"Ye dunnae even have eyes…"
OHHHH, SO YOU'RE ALLOWED TO TALK ABOUT EYES HUH? FUNNY, I RECALL A CERTAIN SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T POSSES THE FULL ABILITY OF THEIR VISION, EITHER.
"Who? Doc?"
YOUR MOM.
One of the reasons why the Scout felt like the night before was just an intense lucid dream was because nobody could remember anything. Nothing. Engineer explained he couldn't comprehend the fact that they had apparently left the day before and was adamant that they didn't, which baffled Medic so much to the point he persuaded himself that the insanity was finally taking its toll after all.
As for Heavy and Soldier, they would be relatively back to normal—with the exceptions of their memories, so they were more confused with why Demo was acting like he was on death's doormat. The Soldier's speech impediment regarding the letter S would be fixed, and the Heavy would show no sign of his dual personality. Their systems usurped logic in the craziest ways.
So all that left was Scout to be the one to remember everything in great detail, as if it were a fictitious narrative. The Scout, however, would go on to say he doesn't recall anything, either—mentioning just the color blue was Soldier's definition of treason. It was all a dream. A long and painful dream.
Spy, too, never said a word when asked if he'd called anything to mind about them leaving the base the day before. He had his reasons.
Then, when the afternoon battles would roll around, everyone would carry on like normal, fight like normal, have qualms and fistfights and stab and behead and incinerate their enemies like normal. It was a beautiful day in the badlands. It was a beautiful day for war.
Scout would be doing his job and not thinking about the BLU Medic like normal—that is, until, one moment, he would finish picking on the enemy Pyro, and the next, he would feel a sharp and heavy prick to the side of his neck that echoed a loud thunk in his ears.
A massive syringe protruded from his nape. Agh. The BLU Medic's crossbow. He'd been firing that thing like a machine gun all day. Good thing he sucked… at… aiming… wait…
"What da hell… whhooooooooaaaaa…"
Scout would then rip the needle from his body and hurl it several yards away. His feet would feel like they were balancing on water. Colors and twisting mosaics would overtake his vision—everything gorgeously red, orange, purple, blue, green, like great spectacles of supernovas dividing the horizon before melting into a horrific calamity that made Scout believe he was conceived in New Jersey—the runner feeling his maimed neck and wincing at the sizzling sensation against his palm.
Then there would be a waft of a familiar scent—the same scent Scout had been exposed to for an hour straight. His blood, however much was left, would run cold with dread and hot with enraged conception.
That bastard put the ethanol in the syringes, and Scout's blood would soon be nothing but a cesspool of toxic elements and mind a dizzy spiral of insanity the likes of which no normal human should be able to survive.
A manic, German laugh would be the last thing he'd hear before blacking out.
And Scout would tell himself for years to come once that match ended, to never, ever, trust the Germans.
He really needed a drink, that's for certain. A drink accompanied by the soothing tune of George Jones's White Lightning on that awesome new yet staticky jukebox that magically appeared in the base that morning.
Aaaand cut! That's a wrap!
Over the past ten months I've spent writing this short and stupid and nonsense fic, the ones I'm most grateful to are the people who have patiently waited for each update. A lot of things have been rough and a hindrance to me in the subject of writing (writer's block, zero motivation, that thing where you-gotta-do-something-but-don't-want-to-do-it-any-time-soon-and-then-suddenly-three-months-have-gone-by, i.e. procrastination), but once you set your sights on something it's appropriate to see it through. Do not quote me on this because there are many fics I've given up on.
Anyway, thank you for reading, and I hope you at least got a good laugh out of this.