A/N: Hello again. There are people still reading this crap? Colour me surprised. Not much to say for this chapter. I was hoping on a bit more time with the team, but I couldn't fit them in.

Internet Oreo/Chocolate Chip/Whatever-Flavour-You-Like cookie if you can see the blatantly obvious Portal reference close to the end of the chapter.

I do NOT own TF2. If I did, I'd die from happiness. …And you'd all hate it from my awful writing.

"Wake up, Scout," said the conductor, nudging the sleeping form of the boy on the train's floor. He didn't actually know the boy's name, but judging by his dog-tags and his build alone, he could tell which of the Nine Classes he was with ease. Besides, Scouts tended to be the sloppiest of the Classes when it came to things outside the battlefield for some reason, and for that, the chubby conductor hated Scouts. The nineteen year old just mumbled a little and rolled onto his belly, sleepily. This irked conductor, and his frown stretched wider. "Damn it, you, Scout! Wake up, your stop is here!"

Scout blearily opened his eyes and looked at the portly conductor standing above him. He was a currently quite cross with the baseball fan, the look of frustration ever apparent on his features. Scout looked up at him for a bit, sleepily.

"Wuzzat?" he asked, at last.

The conductor's eyes narrowed as he angrily began spelling out why.

"Your. Stop. Is. Here. GET. OFF. THE. TRAIN."

"I'm on a train?" Scout asked, puzzled. His memory tended to take a while to reboot itself after he first woke up.

"Yes, you are. And I'm a very busy man. Now, GET OFF MY EXPRESS."

Scout did not like this man, as he was being a prick towards the baseball fan. So, he did what he always did: Insult without thinking first. "Gladly, lard ass. No need to shout, I mean, dis place is like a dump anyway."

Scout's face hit the gravel beside the train harder than he thought the conductor could throw.

"Douche," he growled, holding his bleeding nose.

Only now did the memory of his departure resurface itself, leaving Scout feeling angry. Then… Depressed, actually. One of Scout's biggest weaknesses was that he hated being alone. It was odd, really. He didn't mind a little bit of quiet to think things over here and there, but most of the time, he liked knowing that there was someone behind his back (that wasn't an enemy Spy) to have a conversation with. …Except for his family, of course. Which he was going to see…

Fuck.

Scout picked himself off the gravel and grumbled a little as he wandered out of the train station, praying fruitlessly that Demoman and/or Soldier had somehow came to Boston with him, drunk and senseless, and 'accidently' blew up his old house. Of course, that was wishful thinking and nothing more, but it was a nice thought.

As he wandered around, he noted that while a few things were different here and there, like this old restaurant he had never been to before being turned into a bookstore, or a place that was once for rent being turned into a condo, Boston hadn't changed much from when had last been to the city. There were still skyscrapers, people driving around the street, children beating each other up, Spy, the old library -

…Wait, Spy?

Over at a small, ordinary café, under the shade of an umbrella over a plastic table, sat Scout's infamous teammate in all his masked glory. The Spy, garbed in his expensive suit and mask, took a sip from a small cup of coffee, somewhat depressingly. The Frenchman was so out of place amidst the ordinary people of Boston, there was no way Scout couldn't have seen the classy assassin. Before he knew it, he was heading over to the older Class. He came up to him from behind, and poked his shoulder.

"Spy?" he asked, trying to make sure. His suspicion was confirmed as Spy's blue eyes peered over to Scout's, looking a bit surprised.

"Scout?" he asked, a little perplexed, "What would you be doing 'ere?"

Scout didn't feel like explaining his past again. He didn't want to share his story with Spy. He figured he'd just lie. Besides, Spy lied all the time. Equivalent exchange, after all.

"Meh. The high'uh ups forced me to take a holiday, and refused ta let me stay at the base, and Boston was the cheapest place fah me ta go, so... I took da train, and here I am. Can I sit?"

"Oui," murmured Spy, uncannily unfocused, offering Scout a seat whilst taking another sip of coffee. Scout took a seat at the table, and suddenly remembered the café he was at. It was Miss Marie's Café. Why it was called that, when the owner was named Harold Smith, he had no idea, but he didn't care. He and his brothers had been there a few times when he was around seven years old. He remembered loving it more than the playground nearby, and always getting a cherry flavoured smoothie and smearing it all over his face. Never banana, never blueberry, (especially not blueberry, he HATED blueberries) never strawberry, always cherry. He remembered loving this place, but he and his family had stopped going after a while. Something about Lukas's allergy to almonds. Which was funny, since they kept buying and eating coconuts, when Nathan had an allergy to them.

"So, uh…" began Scout, "What're ya doin' here?"

Spy looked over to Scout for a minute, as if wondering what to say. He did answer after a while, though.

"Zhere is someone in zhis city I was assigned to assassinate," he said, simply, "Once I find 'im, I will take the first train back to Dustbowl." He appeared calm, but secretly, he was praying harder than he had in years that Scout wouldn't ask any further questions and let this conversation slide. Much to his surprise, his praying worked. Scout simply nodded in understanding, wordlessly leaned back on the plastic chair and looked up at the blue skies with an sad look in his eyes.

"Dat's cool, I guess…" he muttered. Suddenly, an idea flashed through his head, and his mood lightened a great deal. "Can go kills him wit' ya?"

Scout was a bit more blood thirsty than he let on, and yet it was still a bit surprising each time he made it relevant. Still, Spy shook his head.

"Non, this iz a Spy's job. You are a good assassin, but I do not 'ave time to tutor you, as I must do zis quickly," he said, "Besides, should you not go see to your moth'air?"

Scout's joy died like it had just been stabbed with one of Spy's daggers, and he gave him a look that was filled to the very brim with hatred and loathing. Spy mentally slapped himself for bringing up such a sensitive and hurtful topic and braced himself for a long, swear-filled, immature argument. But instead, much to his surprise, the younger Class stood, tipped his cap and walked off.

"Nice talkin' ta you too, ya slimy, sociopathic piece 'a shit."

Spy watched him leave, and went back to his coffee, a bit shocked at the lack of a long series of hateful comments from the Bostonian. Being told he was a piece of shit was not at all polite, but Scout had a bad habit of staying and arguing about little things until he had felt that his ego had been stroked enough. Perhaps Scout, the childish teammate he had grown to know (seemingly) so well, really was maturing. Or maybe, Spy had just had a glimpse of Nathan without his mask. After all… Fabric was not the only way one could disguise themselves.

(-)

Scout took a left at Darren street, re-memorizing the roads he had taken daily years ago from his walks home from school. It was funny how four years felt like such a long time. He marched past the Mulholland's house and took the shortcut through Mr. Johansson's bushes like he used to do as a child. He went this way and that, humming a song he had heard once called, 'Exile Vilify,' until the bright, blue sign of Merle street hung before him in pristine, white letters.

He walked along until house 28 stood before him.

There she was, blue, ugly, chipped and, honestly, larger than he had remembered. Odd. Weren't things supposed to get smaller as people grew up? His father's old, black mustang and his brown pickup truck stood in the center of the tar driveway, both as old as the hills, and his mother's flower garden was still there in the front yard, but seemed a bit sick, kinda like their caretaker. The tulips were paler than they normally were, the daisies were a bit withered and the daffodils drooped over slightly. Probably since his mother was diagnosed as deathly ill, his Father had been forced to take care of them for her. And, knowing how nurturing his Father was, he obviously hadn't done a good job. He walked a few paces up the driveway, ignoring his screaming instincts to run away at full speed, and approached the door – But before he was close enough, the door was opened by a man. And not just any man.

His father.

Clark Hawthorne looked over to the former Nathan Hawthorne with his dead looking green eyes, like he always used to. The Father and the Son looked nearly nothing alike. Scout was skinny with a lean, with a thin, acrobatic build, while his father still had the muscles from his years as a quarterback. Nathan had sparking blue eyes and short brown hair, that if allowed to grow, would've been as spikey as a porcupine's, while his father had light green, deathly and dull eyes and straight blond hair that somehow never caught the sun's rays. The only thing that was even remotely the same about either of them were the serious frowns that were currently on their faces.

"Nathan," said Clark, curtly.

"Pops," replied Scout, tersely.

Clark coldly gestured for his son to come in, and Scout did just that. He walked into the old house, boards creaking under his weight as he seemingly emotionless entered the foyer with secret unease. Not much had changed. The same pictures hung on the walls, the wooden floors and walls were exactly the same, and the feeling that he just walked into a cemetery was ever apparent as the doors creaked shut behind him. Scout turned towards Nathan's father, and his Father looked towards Scout.

"Welcome home." He said, with typical heartlessness.