Hangovers sucked. Really. Honestly, truly sucked.

Scout groaned; his throbbing forehead pressed firmly against his forearms resting on the table. Why did he drink so much? He didn't even like alcohol, it tasted nasty, left a bad aftertaste of… copper? And his splitting migraine had taken an eraser to every memory of the night before. So now here he sat at seven in the freaking morning at the big freaking table and he could hear someone doing their best impression of a marching band in the kitchen from the sheer freaking volume the clanging was making, which only served to make his freaking headache even freaking worse.

Oh, it was so bad. So freaking bad! Moaning and groaning his pain away, the runner tried massaging his temples to alleviate the pounding between them. It didn't help. He did it anyway.

"You're up early." To Scout's right came a steady but surprised voice. Flopping his head to the side and wincing from the thin rays of sunlight piercing through the windows, he spotted Spy at the doorway to the Mess Hall, looking back with a cocked eyebrow and a half-spent cigarette pinned loosely between his fingers. No 10,000 custom tailored suit to be seen; instead Spy just had an off-white dress shirt and normal pants. And some little slippers that looked like crabs. Scout turned back, shoving his face back into his arms to make the light go away. Oh, if only he didn't forget Snipes' shades on his nightstand.

"Woke up with a stupid headache and couldn't fall back asleep cause of the stupid headache so…" Scout gestured loosely at nothing before his hand flopped back down and smacked the table. Spy hummed.

"Have you had any water yet?" The Frenchman asked. Scout started to scoff but thought better of it. Now that Spy mentioned it, his throat was sticking together, and his tongue tasted bad, and felt bloated and swollen in his mouth. Normally he'd snatch up a Bonk! and that'd do just fine. But nice, cool water right now sounded even better. So, Scout shook his head and heard Spy sigh. Then turn with a scowl towards the kitchen double doors.

"Who is making that racket?" Spy asked, walking over to the kitchen.

"No clue."

"Stay there."

"It's not like I got somewhere else to be," Scout grumbled, resting his head on the palm of his hand. It felt warm. Aw, he better not be coming down with a fever too. What the heck could he have done last night to warrant a flu? Well, it might have been the fact that he fell asleep in his clothes. The same clothes that were torn, stretched beyond repair, dirtied, bloodied, and were stained with the vomit he'd ended up puking sometime during the night.

Thank goodness no one shared rooms in this base, so no one could tease him or act like he was some gross animal that needed dissecting to know how one person could be so gross. With the headache he'd woken up to (and the missing tooth that he'd have to ask Medic to fix), the only thing he felt like he could do was take a shower. And that was another thing. Separate showers! Linked bathrooms to the dorms! One of the best bases, hands down! When one grows up with eight other people and only two bathrooms, one tends to understand the importance of the quantity of laboratories. So, a quick warm, and private shower later, and having left the completely revolting clothes in a bag outside Pyro's room to burn, Scout was now ready for the weekend.

And that was probably going to start with him washing his bed to get rid of the puke stains on it. And airing out the acidic smell. Stupid alcohol.

Right as Scout was about to start his self-pitying session again, something cool and wet hit his arm. A water bottle, now lazily rolling away from his limb, sloshing with sweet liquid. He wasted no time. Snatching the bottle up, Scout ripped the cap off and began chugging the water like a dying man in a desert. Oh, when did water taste so good? Too quickly the bottle was empty, leaving Scout wanting another. But that gross stickiness on his tongue and in his throat had been quenched. Even his headache seemed to dim.

"You're welcome," Spy said pointedly as he sat to Scout's right, placing a steaming cup of tea on the tabletop. Scout chewed his cheek, weighing his options, before deciding that perhaps being an annoying jack*ss wasn't the strategy for today.

"Thanks, man," Scout said, fiddling with the plastic bottle, listening to the crinkle it made. His sly companion simply nodded before taking a sip from his own early morning drink. What he said next would make even Saxton Hale shudder in his baby seal leather boots.

"Soldier is making breakfast today." Those five words held such power. Such dreadful power. Never before has there been a phrase, in English or in any tongue of man, that can produce such undefinable horror.

"Please tell me you're kiddin'," Scout croaked, face palling at high speeds. Spy only shook his head.

"You ought to have known by now that I never kid about such serious topics." Scout shoved his face once more into his arms and groaned.

"Whatever thing that lunatic makes, I ain't lettin' it anywhere near my freakin' mouth."

"Agreed," Spy said, his eyes piercing the double doors of doom. Meanwhile Scout was clenching his teeth so hard they seemed to creak like floorboards. This stupid, no good, very bad headache was going to kill him. Straight to Respawn due to head combustion, what a pleasant way to die. "...have you tried getting yourself a hair of do-"

"No, those things taste disgustin'," Scout barked, running his fingers through his ruffled and messy hair, "and plus, I'm, like, 100 percent sure I'd have my brain explode if I set one foot in there while Soldier's still beating pots and pans together like that."

"Fair point… Alright, relax your shoulders."

"What?" The runner turned to find Spy standing up from his chair and pulling his sleeves back. "You better not freakin' touch-" The Frenchman gave him a silencing glare.

"I'm going to help you, but if you're so certain you'd rather have a migraine for the rest of the morning instead of daring to let me assist you in any way, shape, or form, then fine!"

"...just do whatever you were gonna do, *sshole," Scout grumbled, doing his best to ease the tension from his body. Though that was a challenge considering Spy was now behind him, with full view of his now vulnerable back. And that tension spiked up the second Scout felt Spy's hand on his neck.

"Relax," Spy ordered.

"That's kinda impossible considerin' it's you doin' this," Scout hissed, cringing at the leather glove his teammate always wore feeling up the base of his skull. Then, when the runner winced at a painful and sensitive spot Spy had touched, the Frenchman pressed his thumb directly on it and dug into it.

"Ow, ow owowowowoOW! Are you- OW- tryin' to stab my neck or- ow- something!?"

"This is a pressure point," Spy calmly explained as if he wasn't causing the runner excruciating pain, "that once I release it, the pain you're experiencing should all but disappear. If not, then chances are you've developed a brain tumor overnight and we would have to get Medic involved. I'm sure he'd be delighted to have the chance to toy with your brain again."

"Oh h*ll no! I ain't le- ow, that happen! I'm- OW, are you almost done!?"

"Just about," Spy replied as he applied even more pressure, causing Scout to cry out again. Then, he let go and stepped aside as the runner went limp.

"...ow. Freakin', "oh, I'm just tryin' to help" bullcrap, that was… that… woah."

"Oh, no need to thank me," Spy rolled his eyes as he sat back down. Meanwhile Scout was practically buzzing. At least that's what it felt like. His fingers, all the way down to his toes, were thrumming with revitalized circulation. And that headache was snuffed out like a match, leaving nothing but that easy buzz.

"Holy crap, dude, I ain't ever drinking again if just pokin' my neck feels this good, holy crap!"

"Again, no need to thank me."

…

"Thank's, Spy."

"You're welcome," the Frenchman replied as he watched the sunlight from the windows fill the halls. The golden rays were pretty, but that light buzz was stealing all of Scout's attention, a lazy, happy smile plastered on his face as he rubbed his tingling neck.

Click!

"Mhmph, llhpm!" The pair at the table turned to see their local pyromaniac waving excitedly at them from the entrance, a camera held in his hand.

"Bienvenu, Pyro." Pyro came skipping to them before plopping herself down in the chair next to Spy, waving something in his face.

"...very nice. You have quite the eye for lighting," Spy noted. Pyro was practically bouncing in his seat as she shook Spy's shoulder with less than gentle force. He then handed Scout something. "Take it before I'm shaken to death, please."

"The heck is it?" Scout grabbed what looked to be a polaroid from Spy's hand. Upon further investigation, he found it to be a picture of himself and Spy sitting at the table. From the angle it was taken, both their faces could be seen. The men in the photo were happy, like they were close friends and didn't, in fact, have an incredibly strained… something that one would hesitate to call a "friendship". More like a begrudgingly accepted acquaintance.

Scout looked back up to find Pyro staring back with those deep, vacant lenses, cocking her head and waiting. He cleared his throat and handed the photo back.

"It's good, mumbles, real nice." The pyromaniac clapped and quickly wrote something on the photo. Sneaking a glance at the fast scribbles Scout could make out the date January 9th, 1970. Huh.

"Why's he takin' pictures?"

"I believe it's started a scrapbook hobby," Spy explained, trying to free himself from the iron-grip hug he was trapped in, "I've seen it collecting stickers. And it would seem our masked colleague has been taking pictures of us with an impressive sense of stealth, seeing as I haven't seen it take any pictures till now." Scout raised his eyebrows before focusing his attention on Pyro.

"Yo, Pyro," the firebug perked up as Scout jabbed his thumb in the direction of the still deafening kitchen, "ya might wanna help Soldier out in there, y'know, make sure he doesn't undercook nothing." Pyro stood stock still for a moment before starting and zooming towards the kitchen, lighter in hand. The two other mercs stared at the double doors for a moment as the yelling of Soldier could just be heard over the metal clangs before Spy turned towards Scout.

"Why would you tell Pyro to help with cooking?" He asked with a disturbed expression. "It will only burn whatever it can get its hands on."

"Exactly," Scout grinned, "so now whatever Soldier ends up making will either be too charred to eat, or it'll be so burned that any diseases it has will be scorched away."

"...A fine point," Spy noted, seeming impressed.

"Yeah, and also since Scorchmark ain't here, I can ask you what the h*ll you want from me," Scout said, rounding on Spy with a glare. The masked man only raised an eyebrow.

"Why would you assume I-"

"Cause you helped me without askin' for anything in return, and that ain't you," Scout jabbed a finger into Spy's chest. "So, what do you want? A favor or something?"

"Why does everyone assume I only have selfish intentions?" Spy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Cause you do only have selfish intentions!"

"I can assure you that's false. Mostly false, anyway."

"Bullcrap!"

"Alright, fine, you don't believe me, so then what, you want me to ask for something in return besides gratitude?"

"If ya wanna stop bein' a snake then yeah!"

"Fine." Spy fished out his lighter and cigarette case. With easy, slow movements that made Scout get more and more antsy, Spy picked out a cigarette, lit it, brought it to his lips and took a long, drawn out drag. And once he exhaled, filling the air with the sour smell of nicotine, he finally spoke.

"What did you and the bushman do once you left the festivities?"

"Sniper?" Scout asked. When Spy nodded, the runner was left to scramble around and actually think about last night in detail. "Uhhhh, crap dude, I don't remember! Why do you wanna know anyway?"

"Our colleagues were curious. Many were talking about what you two might have been doing in your drunken, aggressive states. And I'd like to know if you could clear the air."

"Well, we didn't die, least I didn't," Scout mumbled, scratching his head as if it would stir up some memories from the previous night. "I'm guessing we fought, cause my clothes were ****ed up, and my teeth cause one's missing-"

"So I've noticed.

"Yeah, well… but I don't really remember…" Scout scrunched up his face, hard in thought, "I think… he pinned me. Then I pinned him. And… I remember gettin' really, like, hyped, I guess." Spy's face melted into one of confusion. "Like on a sugar rush or something, and it kept gettin' stronger the longer… I can't freakin' remember, dude, ask Snipes when you see him!"

"I plan to," Spy muttered as the sound of approaching footsteps met their ears. Conversation forgotten, the pair watched as Medic and Demo arrived at the table. The German looked just like how Scout felt moments ago, with messy hair, crooked glasses, and leaning heavily on Demoman, who seemed completely immune to hangovers. Whether it was due to experience, or that Demo drank so much that he never left his body time to develop a hangover was anyone's guess.

"Mornin' guys," Scout called out. Medic grunted as he pushed himself away from Demo and slumped into a chair across from Scout, letting his head fall onto the tabletop. Demo entered the kitchen without a moment's hesitation, got greeted by Soldier's and Pyro's loud cooking, and came back with a bottle of scrumpy.

"What happened to your tooth?" Medic mumbled, looking up and narrowing his eyes at Scout.

"Not a d*mn clue."

"Why're all a y'all up so early, it's the weekend, ain't it?" Everyone's favorite Texan called from the doorway, scrubbing his face with a yawn.

"Hangover," Medic and Scout said in unison.

"Scrumpy," Demo stated as he popped open his bottle's cap and began to drink. Spy simply shrugged. Engie started to smile when he paused, then started counting the people in the room.

"Uhh, who's in the kitchen?" He asked hesitantly.

"Soldier and Pyro," Spy replied with a sip of his tea. Medic and Engie's faces dropped.

"Ah h*ll," Engie muttered as he dejectedly sat at the table, "Lord, have mercy on our stomachs."

"I don't think people like us are gettin' any, mate," Demo noted. At that, Scout shook his head.

"Nah, you are, I put in some good words for ya," the runner said happily. When the table remained quiet, he spoke again. "What? I did! It's just up to him whether or not it'll work."

"...laddie," Demo looked close to tears while everyone else seemed skeptical, especially Medic. Speaking of Medic, the German was scanning the room in haste.

"Where's Heavy; he is usually up by now."

"Saw him talking with Sniper about something," Engie said before the kitchen's double doors were kicked open.

"ALRIGHT, YOU WORTHLESS MAGGOTS!" Soldier barked, heaving a steaming metal pot towards the table. Pyro was right behind him, boxes of burnt cereal and charred bacon. The pair slammed their cargo onto the tabletop, sending it bouncing and wobbling under the force. Everyone's expression twisted into disgust.

"What is that?" Spy curled his lip at the gloopy, bubbling substance in the massive pot.

"Porridge!" Soldier replied as Demo scooted away from a bit of the "porridge" that exploded from the mass and landed by his elbow. As Pyro began serving them their portions, the pyromaniac struggling to even free the ladle from the taffy-like substance, Scout got to his feet, shaking his head.

"Yeah, there's no way in h*ll I'm eatin' that," he began walking backwards to the door. "I don't know what that thing is, but it sure as heck ain't porridge! Sides, I ain't even hungry, don't wait up for me!" Scout turned and bolted.

Or at least that's what would have happened had Soldier not grabbed his shirt collar.

"Oh no you don't, Private!" Soldier snarled, yanking Scout back. The runner slammed into the table, causing it to shake and the pot to teeter dangerously side to side. "You're not going to miss the most important meal of the day!"

"Says who?"

"Says me!"

"No! Who says it's the most important?" Scout stalled, eyeing the exit and inching away from the table. Soldier paused, then began to scratch his helmet in thought.

"Well, I say it's the most important meal, and since I am a denizen of the GREATEST nation this side of EVER, I. Am. RIGHT!" He grabbed Scout's neck right as the younger man was lunging away.

The sudden tightness around his throat caused Scout to scramble and kick out instinctively instead of focusing on more powerful means of escape.

"FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!" Demo chanted, slamming his fists on the table in unison. Everyone else simply looked on in boredom or annoyance at the constant usage of the table as a weapon.

"You. Are going to eat, and put some meat on those bones," Soldier grunted, reaching for the pot of abominations. Using the patriot's newly teetering weight against him, Scout planted his feet and ripped himself out of Soldier's grasp. In less than a second he was up and over Soldier and putting the older man in a headlock.

"I ain't eatin' that s**t you call food!" Scout declared as he dodged the fists swinging in his direction.

"MAGGOT!" Soldier roared.

"Imbeciles," Spy grumbled.

The two offense classes continued fighting with each sustaining blows. Scout was clocked across the cheek several times while Soldier was a victim to a nasty kick between the legs. Twice. The others were shouting at him for the "unsportsman-like behavior" but the rush of battle was calling him. That lust for blood at seeing Soldier swearing and curled up on the linoleum tiles flooded his veins and mind.

That sugar rush was growing by the millisecond. And soon he was upon Soldier once more, the pair trading punches again and again. But then Soldier's wrist was exposed. Unbruised, unhurt skin. The blood rush roared in Scout's ears like an ocean.

He lunged.

And missed as that unbitten wrist snapped around and wrapped him into a headlock so tight the air only wheezed through Scout's flattening throat.

"Soldier, just let the boy go," Engie droned, picking at his sorry excuse for porridge. The patriot shook his head, dragging a kicking and writhing Scout towards the frothing pot.

"Negatory!" Soldier panted, grabbing the pot with his bare hand and pulling it towards the table's ledge. "Scout needs to learn-" the man lifted his arm, forcefully raising Scout's head and knelt on the runner's legs, keeping him from escaping- "to obey orders!"

"He's a grown man. A stupid young man, but still an adult. If it's his choice to skip breakfast that's his loss." Soldier shook his head again.

"I will not tolerate backtalk in this unit!" Scout tried cussing Soldier out, but his voice was nonexistent. His ability to breath was nonexistent. Nothing, not a single sigh of oxygen was making it to his lungs. Now that roar of blood was twisting into a rush of panicked heartbeats.

Scout pulled at the arm and jerked, writhed, bucked and yanked his body around to get free from the limbs keeping him trapped. Nothing worked, and his chest grew tight with carbon. At some point he'd closed his eyes, focusing everything on getting loose.

Soldier was still shouting, and now something grabbed his face, yanking it further up, the tendons in his neck crying out in pain. That something tightened its grip, going as far as to try and open his mouth.

Freedom was the only thought in Scout's mind. Freedom as something scalding and moist brushed his lips. Freedom as his chest continued to tighten from the suffocation. Freedom as something small and metal was shoved into his mouth, painfully clanging against his teeth, filling his sense of taste with something vile and hot and sour-

Sour taste.

"Mein friend, I don't think that's necessary-"

The scent of soaking evergreen and mud.

"Solly, he's turning blue!"

His face grabbed and locked in place as something forced his jaw wide open. Past his lips, past his front teeth, past his molars and tongue.

Down, down, uncaring, mechanical descent. Widening with every stolen inch until any air was quelled and crushed against the walls of his throat. A conquest of autonomy. Like a horrible twist of puppetry as every ounce of control was hijacked.

"Soldier, let him go!"

The tendons in his jaw on the brink of snapping. Bursting apart from the pain inside. Pain. Pain. The mud below was the only cushion to lessen the force above. Pain. Pain. Pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain painpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpainpain-

Laughter at his attempts to scream. Laughing as the mass crushed him into the roots and cold, wet earth. Pain. Nausea. Laughter.

Freedom.

"Look, you can try it if you want, but Vegemite does not work well with that kind of sandwich," Sniper explained for the fourth time to Heavy as they walked through the hall. Heavy, the complete embodiment of stubbornness when he wants to be, simply shook his head.

"Will find out myself if what you say is true."

"If you were going to do that despite what I told you, why did you ask me in the first place?" Sniper pointed out. "Were you just looking for a second opinion or was it permission, because we're both grown men, you can do whatever you want as long as I'm not dragged into it.

"Wanted permission to use your jar," Heavy explained. "Do not know where to get this Vegemite."

"Australia."

"Heavy does not know anyone from Australia to get own jar."

"...mate."

"Heavy does not know anyone in Australia to get own jar." Heavy explained, looking quite done with the conversation, just like Sniper.

"Just talk to Miss. Pauling, mate, she'll be able to help you more than me at the mo-" his words were cut off with a cough as a sour, charred smell hit the back of his throat. "Bloody h*ll, what is that?" Heavy paused and sniffed the air. Then his face hardened.

"Soldier's cooking."

"Oh, that's just brilliant," Sniper grumbled, staring up ahead at the Mess Hall's doors, "might as well head back to my van to eat." His Russian companion chuckled.

"Perhaps is not as bad as we think. Come," Heavy grabbed Sniper's shoulder and continued walking to the Mess Hall. The closer they got, the more they could hear. And smell. Soon the unmistakable sound of yelling met their ears, and by the time they reached the actual room, Sniper thought nothing would surprise him.

He was wrong.

The rest of their team were gathered around a table that appeared more like a pigsty than furniture. A giant steel pot was tipped over, spilling tan, gloopy sludge over the tabletop and some men's clothing. Spy looked particularly livid at that fact. And he, along with everyone else, was yelling at Soldier, who was coated in not just in the strange goop, but another substance on his hands and shirt that somehow looked even more vile.

When they entered the yells were indecipherable, that is until Heavy put his foot down.

"STOP SHOUTING!" Heavy bellowed. Silence fell quickly after that as everyone turned towards the now irritated giant. "Alright," he said softly, "what is mess, and what did Soldier do."

"He-"

"What did I do!?" Soldier yelled, fists curling before jabbing a finger at Heavy. "You should be asking what Scout do! He refused an American meal and-"

"Ye bleedin' idiot," Demo snapped, smacking Soldier's helmet, "you were choking him with that slop you called porridge!"

"Because he wouldn't eat!"

"Soldier, we just told you you can't force feed someone who doesn't want to be fed," Engie snapped, gesturing to the complete mess of the Mess Hall. "And now you two ruined our one meal table!"

"Well, at least we won't have to force ourselves to actually eat this," Medic muttered, eyeing the porridge with suspicion. "And if it turns out you gave Scout food poisoning from this-"

"Where's Scout?" The team turned towards their marksman, who had been observing the commotion in silence and was now wearing an unreadable expression. Engie cleared his throat.

"He, uh, ran off. After Soldier got some of this junk into him he-"

"Puked all over my hands!" Soldier interrupted as he lifted his hands, still dripping with bile to the utterly revolted team. "A weakness you must cure, Doc," the patriot turned to the German, "to rid the body of food is to accept defeat! And I will not allow my men to accept defeat so easily-"

"Our gag reflex is to prevent us from poisoning ourselves, Soldier," Medic deadpanned.

"Then we will battle the poison head-on on the battlefield, not this pansy-schmansy-"

"Phmmpher mhh gmme," Pyro suddenly mumbled. Engie perked up and spun his head around the room.

"Aw shoot, yer right, he's gone."

He was alone.

He was inside.

He was safe.

Alone, inside, safe. Alone, inside, safe. Alone… He left them alone. He left them to DIE-

Inside. Inside and safe. Safe, secure, hidden from sight, enclosed- a sitting duck with his back against the wall trapped and cornered. Dead, a dead man, powerless, weak, worthless-

Alone, inside, safe. Just breathe. Breathe in, breathe out through clenched teeth. Teeth clenched, tongue curled up like a cobra, lips clamped shut, hidden behind his hands.

Alone.

Breathe in, breathe out. In, and out. This was something he could control. In- inside, inside-

Not alone, inside, worming deeper and deeper, forcing room for more-

Dark room, door closed, alone and safe. Safety, safe and silent. Dead silent. Could he scream if he needed to? All alone, with no one to help. Karma. Horrible, foul tasting karma-

Waves of tremors washed over his arms and worse waves of nausea crashed against the walls of his empty stomach- not empty, never empty again, disgusting and pigish, connecting them forever.

The trees seemed so tall. Stretching higher and higher, out of his desperate reach. Any animal had scurried, every bird flown to safety. His vision was soon engulfed by a mountain flesh and eyes, crushing his legs and waist as it pinned him further and further, gleefully watching its writhing playtoy, grinding fangs into the meat of his arm. For fun, for reproduction? What was this torture?

Someone help.

Please someone come find him.

But no one would. He was the sole remaining survivor, having damned his friends to death. Punishment.

Punishment.

Freedom.

Please.

The taste was revolting, but he couldn't spit it out. Cold metal in his grip. Thunder roared overhead. Buckets of water cleansing the dirt from his paling skin. His conqueror was hissing and bleeding white rainbows onto his cheeks. Rain was fighting back. He had to fight back.

How?

The gaping maw mutilating his arm bubbled and dripped fleshy mounds as crimson rain smeared against its lips.

Freedom.

Now.

Cold skin met colder steel. The roar of a red ocean in his ears. Biting down on the meat in his mouth with all the strength he could muster, tearing into it with his teeth, the trigger was pulled-

There was a knock at the door. Then another, and a third. Scout's head snapped up from his knees, staring at the entrance.

"Jeremy?"

Jay swallowed before speaking.

"Y- Yeah, 'm in here," his voice was raw and coarse. As he cleared it the door of his room opened.

Mick poked his head in, the light of the hall splitting the darkness of his room in two. The man's expression was hard to see, not just from the aviators he wore. Though any doubts were brushed aside when the marksman spoke. "You okay, kid?"

Jay swallowed again before forcing a small smirk.

"Pretty crumby morning, but I'll live," the runner shrugged casually, as if he wasn't curled up in the corner of his room, covered in disgusting substances, and hadn't just broken out of… whatever that horrid experience was. Mick didn't answer, just staring at the younger man for long enough for Jay to start to squirm.

Without a word, Mick stepped into the room and softly shut the door behind him. Now alone and sheltered in the soft shadows, he made his way to Jay's side and sat down. The sudden presence of another person made Jay tense up. The same couldn't be said for Mick. So they sat there for a while, silently waiting for something neither could really understand.

After a while, the silence, like it always did, drew Jay's words out all on its own.

"...guess I don't handle hangovers as well as I thought," Jay muttered, putting his hands at his sides and grabbing at the carpet. Mick hummed.

"You were stupidly drunk last night. Drunk enough to bite me when you get upset."

"...oh," so that explained the metallic flavor on his tongue this morning. "Sorry about that."

"No worries; you were sorry the moment it happened anyway." Mick replied. He then turned towards the runner. "Though you're sure it was just a hangover, or was it something else?"

Jay gripped the carpet with a tight fist. Mick would believe him if he said what had happened, at least he hoped Mick would. But this… five months since he was brought back, three months since the last "urge" to do anything really stupid to himself, and the nightmares, ones that were actually about it and not something stupid like going to school naked or getting chased by a hoard of gummy bears riding rabid pitbulls, or getting locked in a car and pushed downhill into high-speed traffic, were so rare.

But this… what had just happened, where he wasn't here, he couldn't see, and what he could was that forest. And what he felt was weak, and alone, and hopeless and full-

Jay jumped when he felt Mick place his hand on his shoulder. He then quickly tried brushing it off.

"Don't touch me, man, I'm gross as s**t right now," he explained. A low, quiet chuckle filled the dark room.

"I've had to deal with far worse stuff than a porridge covered wombat," Mick said lightly, pulling Jay closer and shaking his shoulder. Jay could only scoff.

"Unless ya mean your own freakin' piss, I doubt that."

"Oh no, I've definitely handled worse than that."

"Wh- what the h*ll could possibly be grosser than that!?" Mick pause, looking away. Then he met Jay's gaze with a restrained look.

"...I've told you how I grew up on a farm, yeah?"

"Yeah," Jay confirmed.

"Well, me and my parents would raise sheep on that farm, and every early spring we'd get a new batch of lambs-"

"Where's this goin', lambs are cute as crap." Jay interrupted. Mick gave a knowing smirk before nodding.

"That they are. So it was always great to see the new babes up and running around after they're born. But, see, the problem was that sometimes our sheep would have some trouble with that."

"Whaddya mean?" Jay asked.

"Well, the ewes, which are female sheep, by the way, normally they'd be fine and we wouldn't have to help them… er, well, deliver the lambs. But there were times when me and my dad had to help with it."

"...So, what, ya gave moral support or something?" At that, Mick barked a laugh, shaking his head.

"Oh, you're an innocent little blighter. No, no what we had to do was reach in-"

"Reach in?" Jay questioned, his face hardening. "Whaddaya mean "reach in"?"

"I mean exactly how I said it," Mick said. He raised his arm to bring the point across. "The lambs would get stuck, or some other problem happened, and we'd have to reach in and pull them out manually."

"...please tell me you guys wore gloves." Mick didn't respond. "Mick, please!..."

"Didn't own gloves that go up to your elbow, mate." With that, Jay gagged, scooting away.

"That's disgusting!"

"Told you."

"That's disgusting!"

"I'm not finished yet, actually." Jay snapped around in horror.

"There's more!?"

"You'd have to clear the lamb's airways so that they could actually breathe," Mick explained with an easy expression, "so you'd have to wipe the fluid and other nasty bits out of their mouths and noses. And sometimes the ewes would have some bowel problems while you helped them out-"

"EW!" Jay cried, cringing into a ball of distress. "That's the grossest- AUGH, why!?"

"Because it was the only thing we could do to save the sheep."

"Bulls**t, you could've cut them out and sewn them back up! That's what needed to happen for Tommy and Ma was just fine-"

"That's a far more dangerous solution than just grabbing and pulling the lambs out, kid," Mick said, meeting Jay's eyes with a steady expression. "It's gross, nasty, and unfortunately, necessary. That's life for ya; sometimes to help the most lives, you have to do the dirtiest work imaginable."

"No freakin' kiddin'," Jay shuddered, looking properly repulsed, "man, thank goodness I'm a guy, can you even imagine what that'd feel like, UGH, crap dude, ain't no way ain't no how I'd ever let anyone stick anything in me! EVER! For any reason!"

"If you commit to that, you'll end up dying from some embarrassing form of cancer, mark my words."

"Mark your own words, I'm marking mine, and they say I'm not letting anyone stick anything in me!"

"...So was that why you threw up all of Soldier?" Mick asked. Jay's jaw snapped shut. Then, he quickly nodded.

"Basically that, yeah," he muttered, looking at his closed window blinds, lit up with hidden morning sunlight. "It tasted awful, man. And it wasn't like I meant to."

"Hey, I don't care if Soldier gets that nasty s**t all over himself," Mick stated, "that's what he gets, honestly. But you should have stuck around so that Medic could make sure you don't have a disease or something awful from that sorry excuse you call porridge."

"...they just kept starin' though," Jay mumbled. He curled back up, bringing his knees to his chest. "Starin' at me like a gross freak, and nobody tried actually stoppin' him, just left me to embarrass myself in front of everyone. Freakin' jerks."

"...right. But, kid… look, you're sure that's the only thing that upset you? Nothing else, nothing…" Mick gestured at nothing in particular, "activating?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's just been a real crumby day so far." Jay stated, looking down at his soiled clothes. Mick didn't respond right away. But after a moment he nodded before getting to his feet.

"If you're sure, I won't press," the marksman brushed off his knees and offered his hand. Jay made to take it before stiffening and snatching his own hand away with a disgusted sneer.

"Don't freakin' touch me with your gross *ss lamb hands!" Jay jeered, jumping to his feet. "Who knows when the last time you washed them was!" Mick wasn't amused. Or he tried not to look amused, but his bunched up nose gave him away.

"Could say the same about you," he sneered, giving Jay a haughty glare towards the stained clothes, "smell worse than an old cattle barn."

"I'll have you know I showered this freakin' morning! But someone thought it'd be a good idea to stuff sour porridge down my throat!"

"Excuses, excuses," Mick shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. "Well, if you're wanting to head into town today, you're going to want to wash up soon."

"You're going?"

"Heavy is," Mick said as he walked to the door, "he mentioned needing to pick up some envelopes and stamps and wanted to know if I wanted to come along. Told him that you'd probably want to go more than me."

"D*mn straight, I do! Better than washin' my freakin' bed all day!"

"What'd you do to it?"

"I th- I, uhh… I threw up on it last night," Jay muttered, hands in his pockets and face burning up. Mick just looked at him with a tired, exacerbated expression.

"Am I going to need to watch you every time you end up drinking?"

"No," Jay grumbled, crossing his arms then cringing at the gross, cold stains he felt on his front, "I'm a grown man, I can handle myself around alcohol."

"I'm seriously starting to doubt that," Mick replied.

"Aw, shuddup and go already, I need to clean up anyway."

"Yeah, because I think if I stay any longer in here I'll end up passing out from the smell alone."

"Screw you," Jay replied as Mick left his room. Stupid Aussie, jerkface. As the seconds passed, the runner's crossed arms and expression fell, replaced with unease. He gingerly rubbed his throat.

…Mick didn't need to know. He could deal with this himself. It was a one-and-done deal, probably, nothing to drag Mick into. And what would he do anyway besides just tell him it would get better. Well, duh, of course it had to get better, sometimes little… incidents happen, yeah, incidents that are completely, horrifyingly memorable and real.

But they weren't. And they never would be again.

Jay grinned faintly as he sat on his bile-stained bed and lightly grabbed his stomach, emptiest it's been all week.

You guys didn't think Scout was back to "normal", did you? Well, don't worry, he isn't.

Also, this might be my only chapter I can post till the middle of November. For (good) personal life reasons, I won't be able to write for over two weeks, and since I wanted to get something out to you guys before I leave, I had to cut this chapter shorter than the others. If I didn't, you would be without content for near a month, and this chapter would be pretty dang long. Longest one yet. And I felt like if I tried shoving together different scenes and the like together just to pad out the chapters, then it wouldn't turn out as well as when I feel that it's reached its perfect length.

Either way, hope you enjoy the story so far! -Five