CHAPTER II: CASSIOPEIA

Spy slowly staggered forward through the backyard, clutching his side and puffing on a cigarette that was almost completely spent. It had been a long day, and he didn't want to join his teammates on their beer run. He was too tired to deal with them, and unlike them, he wasn't in a good mood. Sure, they had won the last couple of matches. But as his teammates were busy going off on killstreaks and shooting their BLU enemies with wild abandon, Spy had been busy dealing with the BLU's Pyro, Medic, and Soldier, who somehow kept ending up behind their lines and threatened to rip his oblivious team to shreds. And Spy wasn't even supposed to be back there, cleaning up messes, mothering the RED team! Fathering! Whatever. Every time he got a knife in that Pyro's back, he'd be exploded to bits by the Soldier. Every time he killed the Medic and Soldier, the Pyro would burn him to a crisp.

And there was that time that BLU Medic kneeled on him, saw at the Frenchman's throat, a grin a thousand yards wide. There was only one thing that Medic wanted in the world, and that was to see what the RED Medic had done to Spy's body. No, no, there was more. The BLU Medic had a grudge against the Frenchman for all the times Spy had stood over him and snorted at the surprised look on his face as the German's blood stained the desert sand a darker shade of red, his Ubercharge flickering to nothingness, his efforts laid to waste. That bloodthirsty doctor wanted to rip Spy to little screaming pieces. It was only because Demoman had bolted to the Frenchman's rescue that Spy didn't have to watch his own intestines be viciously tugged out of his body.

Spy shuddered as the icy feeling of fear slid down his spine. M***e, he needed a drink. He should have left with the others. He could have snuck a wine bottle off the store shelf while he was cloaked, and hidden somewhere quiet where he could drown his sorrows in peace. M***e!

And then, the back door of the base swung open with a bang, and the RED team's youngest member strutted out into the sunlight, chattering to himself about some inane thing that Spy didn't have the patience for.

Spy needed to leave, and he needed to leave now.

The Frenchman's hand darted to his watch and pressed a button on the side. A cloud of smoke arose around him as he faded out of sight. He tiptoed his way to the side of the base and managed to escape without Scout noticing him.

That's what Spy would have liked to happen. But the things Spy wanted to happen chose not to at the most inconvenient of times.

There was a crack in his watch's face. Springs coiled out of the side. It must have been busted during the last fight. He forgot to replace it when he had been overwhelmed by a haze of tiredness and pain. When he had been trying to get his mind off of how the BLU Medic's knee felt as it dug into his sternum, pinning him to the ground like a papillon in a display case.

S**t.

"Spy! SPY! YO, FRENCHIE!"

Motherf***er.

Spy kept staring at his watch as the pounding of Scout's footsteps grew louder and louder. When they stopped, the Frenchman's eyes flickered upward to get a look at the cocky grin on the Bostonian's face.

Spy did not let his lips twitch slide into a frown, and he did not give Scout a heated glare.

He was not going to let Scout see him like this. There was no way that Spy would let Scout see that he was upset. Scout might tease him and aggravate him further. The last thing Spy was going to let happen was someone see him lose his composure, especially when he was this distressed.

The BLU Medic's smile had been as sharp as his saw.

"SPY! Are you deaf or somethin'?"

Spy slowly lifted his head and looked at Scout through half-lidded eyes, his jaw unclenched, his shoulders slack, his face set in a look of relaxed boredom.

"Hardly. I had just noticed my watch was broken." The Frenchman said it in a passionless, dull monotone. Too dull. He was overcompensating. He had to fix that. "Why aren't you with the rest of zhe team?" he asked, this time with a hint of irritation.

"Didn't feel like going with 'em. Heavy said they'd be back in a half hour." Scout replied. "And besides that, you musta lost your hearin'. I mean," he said as he grinned and puffed his chest out like a scrawny rooster, "if you heard me, you wouldda given a waaay better greeting to the guy who carried the team today. Like, when Cy Young carried—"

"Scout," Spy interrupted, "What do you mean you "carried" the team?" It wasn't Scout who had carried the team; Spy had been trying to keep his team from being slaughtered all day! He had almost been tortured by the most demented doctor on this side of the Atlantic! Who the f*** did Scout think—

He was not going to get angry. He was not—

"Spy!" Scout laughed, and it grated on Spy's ears like the tuneless, drunken singing he was forced to listen to when he was disguised as a busboy in Berlin's shabbiest tavern. "You must be blind too! I killed the BLU Engineer, and then I jumped over the fence and I swung my bat down, with all my weight behind it, and then I cracked the Heavy's skull open like an egg, you shoulda seen it, I swear his head looked just like an egg after you've smacked it against a pan, what a skull fracture, oh, and then I ran real fast and I grabbed a medikit just before their Demo collapsed on it, and he was on fire, so if I hadn't nabbed it he wouldda killed more guys, and then—"

"Scout!" Spy barked. "Your point, please!" C***r, this boy took forever!

"Ugh, chill out, Spy. Hearing a cool story ain't gonna kill ya." Scout rolled his eyes, unaware of how close Spy was to dropping the act.

He was not going to drop it. He was not going to lose to Scout. Scout. Who would ever lose to a Scout?

"Anyway, a bunch of cool stuff happened and I got, like a 20 killstreak! Never EVER got one of those before. And, like, the BLUs were a total mess! Man, I've never seen 'em run around like chickens with their heads cut off. I think. I haven't seen that, personally. The chicken head thing. Engie said it. But, like, they must have been intimidated by me and my awesomeness! That's why their plans all went to s**t! They were scared of me!" Scout shook his head and smiled.

Spy's fingers twitched.

"You think zhat just because you got a big killstreak, you carried zhe team?"

Spy drew himself up to his full height to glare down upon his coworker.

He could be angry without losing his composure entirely. He was a spy, after all. He had years of practice in holding back his emotions.

"Do you honestly think zhat killing random BLUs is how you contribute? Zhat picking off 20 inconsequential teammates without dying is something to be proud of?"

Spy stepped forward, hoping Scout would be more uncomfortable the closer he got.

"While you were off mindlessly shooting your gun in any direction, I was keeping you from dying. I was busy stabbing zhe BLU Medic, Soldier, and Pyro as you let zhem sneak behind our lines over and over! Zhey nearly killed us all several times! I am zhe only reason you got zhat killstreak in zhe first place!"

The Frenchman leaned forward, keeping his hands at his sides and his body still so that he didn't let too much of his anger be communicated.

"I am zhe one who carried our team. And you? You ran, you jumped, you didn't focus on what was really going on, and we suffered for your incompetence!"

Scout raised an eyebrow, infuriatingly relaxed as he picked some dirt out of his nails. "Touchy today, aren't ya, Spy?" He moved on from one nail and began to pick at another. "If you were busy stabbing BLUs behind our lines, how the h**l do you know what I was doing?"

Spy scowled. "I wasn't always back zhere. In zhe rare moments I had to breathe, I was hunting down zheir Heavy and Sniper."

Scout rolled his eyes. "Right, right. You were picking off the real important guys. The sniper who couldn't hit a billboard if he tried, and the fatso who's slower than my aunt when she goes shopping. Right. You were taking out the most dangerous BLUs, I didn't do s**t, the Red Sox suck, and I'm not supposed to take medikits if I reach them first."

"BULLS**T!" Spy's memory reeled back to the countless times he had seen his bleeding, bedraggled teammates limp towards a medikit only for Scout to run in and swipe it, with only the slightest of cuts to justify his actions. "You're supposed to let injured teammates use them!" the Frenchman snarled. "You took a kit today and I didn't see a single mark on you!"

Scout snorted. "I was injured. Got clipped by that sentry. Not my fault you didn't see the blood running down my arm. Besides, we've got Medic! We ain't gonna lose if I take a kit, 'cause Medic can just heal them and stuff."

Spy stared at him speechlessly for a moment before throwing up his hands. "You took a kit while Medic was running towards it. While screaming zhat he was on fire!"

"Well, yeah, but I needed it. And he wasn't that hurt…"

"And zhen Medic died and lost whatever Ubercharge he had!"

Scout furrowed his brow. "Medic didn't die… Right? Wait. I leapt over Demo's head..."

Spy didn't actually know if Medic had died from the flames. Or how injured Medic was in the first place. But he did know one thing for sure: Scout was wrong, and he exaggerated the truth, and he was a selfish little brat who didn't deserve that kit.

That was actually three things.

Whatever. That wasn't the important part.

"And then I took the kit, and the BLU Soldier shot a rocket to the left of me, and…"

The boy should care. The boy should remember.

And he didn't remember a thing beyond what had happened to himself. He let his teammates die just so he could keep on running. So he could keep on shooting. And so he could keep on missing, and yet still live in his own little world where he was the most important member of his team, when he contributed nothing. When he was worth nothing.

What an arrogant little piece of s**t. Spy was glad he never stuck around to raise him. Honestly, he had spared himself twenty three years of enduring this imbecile, whose head was stuck so far up his own a** he couldn't see what a pointless waste of energy he was.

But while Spy was stuck here with him…

He could teach the boy his place.

And honestly, Spy was doing him a favor. It was about time Scout learned the truth, no?

But Spy couldn't just start fighting him here and now. Throwing the first punch was unprofessional and silly. It would open his defenses, and it would give Scout the satisfaction— no, the idea—that the fight wasn't his fault. He'd get so fixated on the idea that he didn't start the fight, and thus he wasn't guilty, so that even when Spy knocked the s**t out of him, Scout would be certain that he had still won. He would cling to anything that would support his sense of self-righteousness.

No, Spy would have to goad Scout into starting the fight himself.

And Scout was a hothead. A hothead who would flip out the moment he realized his world was a lie. That he really wasn't anything special. And he'd scramble pathetically for excuses. And then, he'd find out he wasn't intelligent enough or clever enough to defend himself against someone like Spy.

Oh, this…

This was going to be fun.

As the incarnation of vanity and pride struggled to remember how Medic had died, Spy had slid back into his typical half-lidded, relaxed expression, all traces of anger wiped away from his countenance. He nonchalantly lit a fresh cigarette and took a drag on it, feeling its cylindrical form between his index and middle finger. Watching as the idiot rambled to no one.

And then Spy spoke.

"You know what, Scout?"

"What?" Scout jumped a little as he was broken out of his reverie.

"I really shouldn't be angry. I apologize for shouting."

"Okay...?" Scout uneasily trailed off, but he shrugged and a smug grin spread across his face again.

"After all… how could I have expected you to contribute when you're not even a real mercenary?"

The Bostonian blinked. It was one of those slow blinks Spy had seen on the looks of cows, that uncomprehending, mindless blink of something that hadn't used its brain once in its lifetime.

"The h**l does that mean?"

Spy snickered lightly. "Here you are, a boy among men. A child. You lack all zhe combat experience we have, and it shows. You're so naive zhat you think zhat getting a 20 killstreak is a big deal. I honestly don't know what zhe Administrator was thinking when she hired you."

"What?! Okay, I'm not a kid, second, are you freaking crazy? I killed 20 BLUs without dying. Do you know how hard that is? Keepin' yourself alive as the BLU Scout's flingin' freaking chef knives at you, the BLU Soldier's trying ta wack off your head with a shovel, and the BLU Demo's got stickies around every corner? And the other REDs hardly ever get 20s! They're rare as h**l."

Spy began to idly play with the buttons on the side of his watch, pressing them and running his fingers along the edges."They aren't rare. We get 20's all day. It's frankly rather commonplace... but we don't yap our heads off all day about it." He looked back up to Scout's confused visage. "If you really were a mercenary like us, you wouldn't have said anything."

Spy watched as Scout flinched at that remark, his face flushing red. The boy was aware on some level that he talked too much, and mocking him for talking was a surefire way to make him squirm. But combining that with the lie that the other mercenaries didn't revel in their occasional impressive killstreaks and they looked down on Scout for congratulating himself? That was a brilliant move. The boy couldn't talk back without feeling like he was proving Spy right.

And so what if Scout got a 20? He probably hid in a corner and waited until someone weak stumbled into his path for him to easily pick off, forgetting that he had a cart to push, intelligence to steal, and points to capture.

Useless.

Scout's face got even redder as he stepped forward aggressively."You're just jealous of me, Spy!" he shouted, jabbing a finger at the Frenchman's impassive face. "I won those matches for us while you kept dying over and over! You can't even fight like the rest of us; you just sneak behind people and stab 'em instead of fighting them face to face! And me? I get behind their lines and I actually beat them to death. And I win! You WISH you could do what I do!"

Yes. Spy wished he could talk for ten minutes straight without saying anything meaningful.

The Frenchman shook his head. "Please. Look at you, running your mouth off again." He smirked lazily. "You say zhat you're hot s**t. As for us mercenaries? We know zhat you're just s**t."

Scout only sputtered in response, trying to say something but stopping, over and over, jerkily coming to a halt with every attempt, an unreliable car that couldn't start no matter how hard you turned the key.

Spy was feeling better, his body naturally relaxing on its own so he wasn't as tense as a coiled spring. The thought of the BLU Medic was no longer so troubling. And he had gotten Scout to shut up!

But Spy still wanted to twist the knife further.

The Frenchman shook his head with a mocking false pity. "And we mercenaries were even hoping zhat you'd get better. We helped you out of pity. Tolerated your presence. Maybe our assistance would pay off, and you'd shut up and act like an adult. And look at you! You never took zhe hint! It's only after two years zhat you got a 20! Two!"

The boy's head was lowered, his face obscured by the edge of his hat. Spy wanted to take it off and laugh at his tears.

But Scout raised his head, and stared at the Frenchman for a moment. His eyes were dry, and his mouth was set in a slight frown.

"Heavy told me himself that he was proud of me."

M***e. Spy hadn't thought of that.

Little b*****d.

Scout shrugged derisively. "I'm leaving. I'm not gonna fight you, Spy. I know that's what you want. And you know what? You ain't gonna get it. But you know what you can do? You can take all that bulls**t and shove it where the sun don't shine."

Scout turned around and started walking his way back to the base.

Was Scout… why… No, he had to be lying! Spy had torn him apart! He couldn't possibly be that mature! He wasn't just going to walk away!

Spy smiled as his blood boiled just beneath his skin. "You're only leaving because you know you couldn't win."

"I'm not playing your dumba** mind games. F*** off."

He knew. He really knew.

"You couldn't win against a real mercenary," Spy hissed.

Scout didn't say anything. He just kept walking.

Why wasn't he saying anything?! Tas de m***e! He couldn't just walk away, as if he had done well today, as if Spy had chosen to suffer for nothing!

As if Spy had…

Spy had…

He could not let him win.

"You want to run away? Like a little coward?"

No, no. Calling him a coward wasn't good enough. It had to be worse. It had to be horrible. It had to be…

Ah.

"Go ahead. Run! Run home to your mother…"

Something deep inside Spy begged him to stop.

"...so she can tell you…"

It was so, so wrong.

"...what a f***ing disappointment you are."

And it was perfect.

The moment Scout heard those last words, he jerked to a halt, his fingers curling, clenching into fists, his head turning slowly to reveal his lips curled back into a snarl, the shadow of his cap falling across his eyes, which were now wide and bright with rage. His body wrenched around and he began to stomp back to Spy, who grinned darkly at him.

"Spy…"

"She must have been so relieved to get a burden like you off her shoulders…"

"Don't you f***ing dare..."

"But still, she has to struggle to keep up zhat pathetic lie zhat she loves you..."

"SHUT UP! SHUT THE F*** UP ABOUT MY MA!"

Spy laughed, faintly aware that he was doing something horrible, and not caring in the slightest.

"How could anyone love you?"

Those were the last words he was able to say before he stepped to the side, Scout's fist whistling past his right ear.

The fight erupted into a flurry of kicks and punches, mostly from Scout. They went wasted as Spy effortlessly wove around them like a serpent, taking spare moments to strike Scout with an uppercut, knock a foot into his shins, elbow him in the stomach. Spy took his time, letting Scout tire himself out, waiting for those perfect moments where Scout stumbled and gave him an opening. The blood burned through Spy's veins like a wildfire, and his heart raced with the exhilaration of combat. He couldn't feel anything from earlier that day. But it wasn't the adrenaline. Knocking some reality into Scout's head really felt that good. And Scout was so outclassed by the Frenchman that the fight was child's—

Scout's fist cracked into his cheek, the skin splitting beneath the Bostonian's fist, staining it with blood besides his own.

Spy didn't stop to react, though a hiss of pain escaped through his teeth. No matter. It was only one—

Scout's knee slammed into Spy's body, causing the Frenchman to stagger.

As the fight went on, Spy found it harder and harder to land a solid hit on Scout, and Scout seemed to be getting faster and faster. And more vicious. Spy managed to narrowly escape Scout's teeth, which almost dug into his forearm. He barely avoided the boy's right hook that would have broken his nose. And the Frenchman was very aware of the nasty rips his suit was acquiring from Scout's hands grabbing onto him. Spy almost wanted to run off at this point, but the only option was to win. There was no outrunning Scout.

Option? Outrunning? Why was he thinking like this? Where had this boy learned to fight?

Spy feinted and leapt to the side, out of Scout's way. Finally, he'd get an opening!

Or so he thought. The end of Scout's foot rammed into Spy's side, and his breath exploded out of him in a cry of pain. There was something about the way Scout had aimed that made it feel as if Spy had been kicked by a policeman's horse. He slammed into the ground, the rubble scratching and scraping into his left shoulder and the side of his face, enough to feel as if his clothing did nothing to soften the sensation. Spy got a glance of Scout's face, the blood dripping in long streaks down his forehead and cheeks, his eyes blazing like the sun, his mouth contorted into a wild snarl. The Frenchman's heart seemed to leap into his throat as he rolled to his feet and they began to circle each other.

They grappled together again, and separated after a minute of whirling fists and kicking legs, jabbing elbows and clawing hands. Spy found his breath wheezing painfully through his lungs, his left foot screaming in pain, the wound in his side burning his flesh. Scout seemed invulnerable, despite the tears in his shirt and the blood on his face.

Spy almost wanted to say something, but his mind went blank as he looked at Scout, shifting from side to side, eyes flickering from Spy's hands to his feet and back, and sometimes to return Spy's gaze. Spy's insides squirmed when he saw the concentrated look of hatred in those blue eyes.

He had to end this. He had to.

Scout sprang forward, and Spy's body froze as the Bostonian descended upon him. Scout's fist rammed into Spy's sternum as Spy wrapped an arm around Scout's. Scout jerked away and stomped his foot down onto Spy's, and Spy howled with pain before he tried to throw him to the ground.

And then, as Scout stepped to the side again, Spy put his weight behind the punch that cracked into the side of Scout's head.

The Bostonian fell to the ground, and lay still.

Spy waited for Scout to get up and begin again, his chest heaving and his balaclava soaked with sweat and blood.

Scout did not get up.

Spy put a hand to the side that hadn't been viciously kicked and groaned. Was it really over? M***e, that boy had almost beaten him to a pulp.

Almost.

The boy was hell to fight. Hell on legs.

But Spy?

Spy was better.

Spy slowly raised an aching leg and prodded at Scout until his body rolled onto his back. His eyes were just shut, and his chest slowly rose up and down. The blood painted Scout's face in messy streaks, and it dribbled in little hesitant streams from his nostrils to flow down the sides of his face. There was a cut on the ridge of his right eyebrow like a little red stripe, and it looked as if his eyelids on that side were starting to puff up and turn purple.

Spy planted his foot onto Scout's chest and pressed his weight into it. He looked down on his son and made a disgusted noise in his throat.

Stupid little boy.

He should know better than to fight his father.

Something in Spy was crying out, deep down, but he mentally ground it under his heels like every other time it had interfered with his work. What an annoyance. Scout wasn't worth pity, and he deserved this. He brought this on himself. And now he had paid. There was nothing wrong with what Spy had done, nothing at all. Why did that feeling inside dare to nag at him?

Spy stepped down after a moment. He had to leave. Look through the base. Find that hidden place where Medic had put the painkillers he saved for rare occasions. Maybe try fiddling with the Medigun a bit. And if it wasn't enough, he could blame his wounds on Medic forgetting to heal him properly after the matches today.

And Scout? Scout had gotten himself into trouble again, and he was just trying to hide what had happened by pinning the blame on Spy. Everyone knew they never got along. And everyone knew the boy was a liar.

Heh. Run your way out of this one, Scout.

Spy smiled to himself and began to walk to the base's back door.

He failed to hear the footsteps behind him.

There was a single, sudden blow to his head. The lights flickered about him like stars as the world faded into the darkness of oblivion.