A/N: Oh, it's you. How have you been? I've been REALLY busy being happy. You know… After you REVIEWED MY STORY.
Random TF2 disliker: YOU DID WHAT?!
*Snaps RTF2D's neck*Ok, look, we've all said a lot of things that Snowsky, DeltaG, DMS41319 and xXReviewManXx are going to treasure, but I think we all can put our differences behind us. For Fanfiction. You cool dudes.
:) Portal references aside, thanks, you mentioned guys and/or girls, for the continued support!
I shall be upset about the lack of popularity no more! :) Onward to Chapter 7!
(Aperture Science's Over-dramatic leader speech and Portal references 36% complete. If you are diagnosed with intolerance to Over-dramatic leader speeches, or Portal references, then you may go ahead and kiss-INFORMATION REDACTED. The author does not own the video game franchise commonly known as Team Fortress 2. The author will now spare you of their sudden, uplifting emotional surge and allow you to continue reading the Fanfiction.)
Everyone had their inner demons. Depression, anorexia, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, uneven emotions, ect. Even the most perfect of people had a least one of these types of problems every once and a while. Scout, being a far, FAR cry to a perfect person, had quite a bundle of them. The main one, the one he was joyfully taking part of at the moment, was violence.
He kicked the gangster in the face, turned on his heel and whacked the one that had predictably tried to charge him with his bat. The old metal now had another bloodstain. Another one screamed and tried to punch him, but he grabbed the fist – And twisted it. The newest gangster shrieked in the pain of their now broken wrist, while Scout remained passive and forced him to face-plant on the ground. Scout planted his foot on the lad's back and took a look at the six defeated teenagers.
They had surrounded him and had tried to steal from him. His response was kicking their faces in. Now here he was, standing over them with a relaxed smirk. Fighting always made him feel good. Even when the opponents sucked.
"Ya feel dat?" asked Scout, wedging his foot into the weakest gangster's shoulder blade, and addressing the question to all of the now immobile gangsters, "Dat, is whut 'appens when ya mess wit' me. Take it as a learnin' experience, or call f'ah vengeance, I don' care, but dink twice 'for ya tango wit' someone as awesome as I am. It's a good idea f'ah ya, since, well… YOU GUYS KINDA SUCK."
The gangsters groaned in pain and anger.
"Ga'bye, dum'asses," said Scout, tipping his cap, "Hopefully, if we's ev'ah meet again, you won't suck as much." With that, he took his leave, smiling ear to ear and whistling, 'Bye-Bye, Miss American Pie.'
As demented as it sounded, he had really needed that fight. He needed some way to get his anger out. The best way for him to deal with his anger was to hurt someone. Anyone, it didn't matter who. He wouldn't complain if they were strong or weak. Hell, at the moment, he felt like fighting the infamous, legendary CEO, Saxton Hale single-handedly. …Not like he could without dying any time soon. He was nothing in comparison to Saxton, whose skin was rumoured to be so thick that bullets barely did anything, but he still wouldn't mind the challenge. With this confidence, Scout walked off to the main street, feeling awesomer than ever.
Then, after five minutes of walking down the main street, got hit with a dreadful surprise.
The city life had used to be an easy reality for Scout. He grew up in a City. He knew how to steal. He knew how to trick people into thinking he was an innocent bystander. He still remembered how to pick locks to loot houses and stores from his gang years. But despite it all, he absolutely, positively, HATED IT all of a sudden!
City life had abruptly gone from being an easy place to thrive, to being a reality that was completely disgusting to him. So many weak people walking by, of both body and mind. All of them were so arrogant and caught up in their own lives, looking to him like he was naught more than dirt, while he was much more powerful than they were. The parents kept feeding their children crap about how it's 'wrong to hit,' and skinny, pathetic beggars kept begging for food instead of manning up and stealing the shit themselves. He wanted to puke. Weakness suddenly deeply appalled him. He was so used to the weak being killed off in the first twenty minutes of a battle by the opposing team, whereas here, the weak seemed to be in command. They called the police whenever something went wrong. But despite all these revolting problems, a giant one towered over them all:
Here, even at night, he was deeply overwhelmed. Noise was ever abundant and hurt his ears, everything down to the quiet flicker of a lighter somehow made itself known. Not only that, everywhere he turned, the lights would blind him and leave him deeply disoriented, leaving people staring at him like he was a freak. Perhaps having heightened senses was not the best thing to possess in a city area. Also, just to add to his pain, he felt very different and extremely uncomfortable around 'normal' people now, which itself sort of unnerved him. He talked all the time to other REDs back home, but why did he suddenly feel like he was a different species here, amongst the 'normal?' It was like being a leopard in a sea of house cats. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he hitting on every pretty, single girl he saw, or insulting every other person he got the chance to? There, a fat lady. Why wasn't he calling her Moby Dick? There, a 'tough-guy'. Why wasn't he stealing his stuff? Look, a pretty lady without a date. Why wasn't he making a playboy comment about her figure to woo her? He held his head, both out of frustration and pain. His head hurt. The lights, the sounds, the somewhat familiar faces, everything hurt him. And the pain only magnified the longer he stayed. He pleaded in his head for everyone to shut up for at least two seconds, but they wouldn't. His skull felt like it was going to explode. Scout, the motor-mouth, the 'social one,' the most merciless fighter ever, couldn't bring himself to handle the noise levels. Scout could handle an army of BLUs no problem, but the noise levels of Boston's main streets were completely destroying him. He needed out. He needed quiet. He pathetically stumbled into and alleyway, getting as far distance between him and the noise as possible.
Oh, the pain. The fucking pain…
He tripped and nearly face planted into a puddle, clenching his temples with his bandaged fists as he tried to fight off his migraine. The darkness and slight quietude had actually proved to be surprisingly effective, and soothed it a little. Soon he found he could at least bring himself to stand, but there was still a twinge of pain worming around in there. He sighed and slumped against the wall. That midnight stroll was far more painful than it should've been. Removing his cap and running a hand through his hair, he reflected on his trip so far:
His Ma was dying, and he couldn't bring himself to care.
His Dad was still a bastard.
He now had a little sister whom he didn't know what to think of.
Spy was here, too, but due to his 'mission' he could not talk, nor be with him during this emotionally conflicting time.
City life was now excruciatingly painful.
...
He hadn't eaten anything all day.
Way ta bum ya'self out, Scout, he mentally scowled. There was a reason Scout couldn't be alone for too long. Without people, or a fight/mission to keep himself occupied, his brain would try to distract itself by thinking. And having a life like his, with misery, injuries and death ever abundant, thinking of past events thoroughly depressed him. He hated depression. But upon thinking, he decided to ignore his childhood and instead try to focus on his life at the base instead. He began trying to unfold the playful memories he had with his teammates.
He tried to focus on that time when they had to defend some cargo on a train while the BLUs tried to raid it, and teaming up with only Sniper for the first time and learning some of the marksman's philosophy.
He tried to focus on the crisp, autumn day where he had to explain to Pyro what hide and seek was and spending the whole day playing with the firebug and completely forgetting about the battle.
His first M.H.W.D with Demoman, that quest was a blast, almost worth the hangover he got afterwards. (M.H.W.D: Monster Hunt While Drunk.)
The time that he and Heavy got trapped in an alternate timeline. That was badass.
All those times where he got into fist-fights with Soldier over trivial things, usually over things Scout caused on purpose because he wanted a good fight.
That time after a battle where he talked to the Engineer about his problems and gaining a good father figure in the Texan in the process.
That time he and Spy, unintentionally at the same time, had snuck into a movie theater and wound up making fun of the movie together, gaining a bit of a secret partnership and a tradition that whenever they entered a town with a theater, to sneak in and watch whatever was playing together.
The time where he had to take care of Medic's doves and nearly killed the poor things out of ignorance and annoyance.
Such beautiful memories.
All overshadowed by his fucking childhood memories that his subconscious refused to forget.
Overshadowed by getting locked in the attic for the first five times and screaming for someone to hear him in his misery.
Overshadowed by getting beaten up at school. Overshadowed by beating up other people at school.
Overshadowed by getting hit by his Father for spilling paint in the garage.
Overshadowed by killing someone for the first time.
Overshadowed by the years he spent hiding.
Overshadowed by Ritchie's absence.
Overshadowed by pain in general.
He hated being alone. He needed his teammates. He needed someone from his team. Anyone, it didn't matter who it was out of the eight of them. Pyro, Engie, Demo, Heavy, Spy, Medic, Sniper, Soldier… Or… Or Miss Pauling… He didn't care. Someone out of those people would do just fine. But with no phone in sight, he decided to test a temporary replacement. He reached into his pocket and took out a photograph.
He looked towards him and his teammates at the base in Coldfront, who all looked right back, smiling warmly by a pleasant fire. Everyone was looking at the camera… Except Pyro, who was sitting on the floor, fixated on the warm flames. Spy was looking typically serious, with a cigarette in between his teeth and his eyes sharply looking toward the camera, but if Scout looked closely he could see the slightest of smiles formed on the Frenchman's lips. Heavy's smile was very much forced, as he obviously wanted the photo out of the way so he could enjoy the 'Sandvich' in his giant hand. Medic was looking up from some novel with a small hint of joy in his dark eyes. Sniper and Engineer both held beers, Engie looking friendly as always and Sniper looked a bit tipsy, with a drunken smile that made Scout chuckle a little. Demoman was looking relaxed, shuffling a deck of cards and Soldier was standing up straight and doing a military salute. Scout himself was sitting on the floor in the photo next to Pyro with his lucky baseball bat giant grin on his face, and standing on the other side was dear Miss Pauling. She looked beautiful, as always, with her inky hair tied back and cat-eye glasses. He could've just stared at Miss Pauling forever. He wasn't sure what it was about her. He'd make comments about attractive women all the time, but Miss Pauling was special. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Miss Pauling was just perfect in every way to him somehow. She was smart, witty, fairly serious, but strong willed. She could fire guns, kick ass and had a beautiful voice to top it all. He had heard her sing in the shower during that one week she was trapped with them during a snowstorm, and he knew how perfectly she could those notes. Just staring at her photo made him forget all about his problems…
Until he heard his stomach growl at him.
He slapped himself on the forehead. He hadn't eaten anything all day. Maybe eating something would distract him from his misery.
He tucked the precious photograph into his pocket and wandered off to find something to eat. He did not take the street, however. He took the rooftops to both test his abilities and escape the noise. He was just badass like that. …Or stupid, judging by what badass is and what stupid is for you. He crawled up a fire escape and hopped onto the top of a skyscraper. Using his signature speed and heightened abilities, he jumped to the other side easily.
Jumping precariously across rooftops proved to be a most enjoyable activity. He felt like Spiderman, and it was even awesomer than it sounded. Supernatural. Godly. Nothing could stop him. He laughed triumphantly as he bolted to the other side of yet another building.
"FUCK YEAH!" He shouted, jumping all over the place. All he needed was some gunfire and some people to kill, and this would be perfect. He jumped over some more alleyways and slipped onto a window ledge. Scout crawled to the top of a skyscraper using his advanced psychical strength, and looked over the city he used to call home. He had the view of a god. From a distance, the city didn't look that bad, actually. If it hadn't had given him a hell of a headache, he'd go right back down there, dancing and singing. But he knew better. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, interesting little contraption: A silver harmonica. A decent sized one, one of obvious value due to its fine engravings and ever apparent care that went into its beautiful craftsmanship. He took the small instrument to his lips, took a deep breath, and started playing it.
Nathan sat next to the fifteen year old next to him, thoroughly engrossed in the beautiful sounds coming from the instrument the other boy was playing. The instrument in question was a harmonica, masterfully woven and designed to perfection. The noises emitted from it wonderfully spun around in the air, filling the air with music that was a happy and playful beat, dripping with mischievousness and coolness. The tune made him feel like slipping around the alleyways and stealing stuff, like a cool, funny burglar. Such an astounding tune. Like all good things, however, it came to an end. The music stopped and the boy sitting next to him looked towards him with a merry look in his warm, brown eyes.
"Da song's called Law of da Backstreet," he smirked, brushing some of his curly blond hair away and putting the harmonica in its case, "I learned it frum dis cowboy guy in New York. Anywho, I thought this'd be a good souvenir for ya."
"Souvenir?" asked Nathan, puzzled, "Rich, you're givin' it ta me? Whut can I do's wit' a harmonica?"
"Learn ta play it," suggested the blond teenager, "Play it whenever you're upset. It sure helps me, so I dink it'll help you."
Nathan gingerly took it from Ritchie's scarred fingers and held it in his own calloused ones. Smooth, stainless with a potential to play grand tunes. A lovely gift. Almost makes for-
"Congrats on turnin' twelve two weeks ago, by da way. Wish I could've been dere," smiled Ritchie. Nathan gaze darted to Ritchie's, awestruck and completely shocked.
"Ya remembered my birthday?" he asked, startled.
"A 'course I did!" laughed Ritchie, "I woulda come sooner, but work got in my way. I had ta do sumthin' for ya, right? So, I'm givin' ya my harmonica. Take good care of it, Ok?"
"Y-Yeah! Of course I will!" cried Nathan ecstatically, shaking his head up and down furiously, "Thanks, Ritchie!"
"No prob!"
Nathan smiled. Best late birthday present, EVER. Before Ritchie had to leave again, though, he wanted to learn how to play that song. "Hey… Can you teach me dat song ya just played, Ritchie?"
"Sure, why not?" grinned the teen, "Kay, ya take it like dis…"
Scout was horrified to feel the salty streams run down his cheeks, stopped playing, and quickly brushed the tears away, doing his best to deny the existence of his emotions. Stop cryin', he growled in his mind, YOU'RE. WAY. BETT'UH. DAN. DAT. Scout quickly smacked himself across the face, fuming at his weakness. Why is ya crying, anyhow? Ritchie's gone. Long gone. Pushin' up daises. Only good as worm food now. You accepted this five years ago, so why are you cryin' ov'uh him NOW? Scout didn't want to keep crying out of fear of being seen as weak, but regardless to what he tried, the tears spilled down anyways. You wanna keep cryin? Ok, dat's fine. Be a baby. But why ov'uh Ritchie who died around four years ago? Why not ov'uh you're Ma? She's dying right now. Cry fah her, fah God's sake.
Wait... No, she don't deserve tears my tears... She deserves to die, hissed a more sinister, cruel voice on the other half of his mind, She deserves exactly what she gave me. NOTHIN'. Equivalent exchange, af'tah all.
But wait... No one deserves ta die frum an ILLNESS of all things! Bullets, sure. But not an illness! Not like dat. It's too slow and cruel.
But den again, dat's whut she deserves. A slow, cruel death.
No, ya sick fuck! Da BLUs that held ya captive fah dose seven months woulda deserved dat! Remember da Spies ya slaughtered? They woulda deserved dat, and if wanna stretch, maybe Pops does fah hittin' ya and yellin' at ya all da time. But not your Ma. She did nothin'.
Da guys who don't do their job in da Wars get killed by der laziness, don't dey? Why wouldn't dose rules apply ta Mom? Lookit 'ow she raised me! Throughout the whole time I stayed with her, all dose times I tried tellin' her 'ow sad I was, 'ow broken I was, 'OW I WANTED TA KILL YA'SELF, she didn't bat a freaking eye my way! I sobbed in the corner, I got beaten, broken, bashed, bruised and abused… And what did she do? NOTHIN'! NOT ONE. FUCKING. THING. During the most fragile point of my life, no less!
Dat ain't true! You didn't tell her how upset you were! Besides, she hugged you!
ONCE! AND DEN NEVER AGAIN! BESIDES, SHE SHOULDA REALIZED HOW SAD I WAS! EVERYONE KNEW I COULDN'T TALK UNTIL I'S WAS LIKE, TEN, AND IT WAS HER JOB AS A MA TA NOTICE IF I FELT OR DIDN'T FELT SUICIDAL!
She had eight boys to raise! She didn't have enough time fah ya!
Well, she certainly had more than enough time fah da oth'uh seven boys as opposed ta you, didn't she? Let's also put a cherry on top 'a da shit-sundae, shall we? She ignored ya, and your pleas ta play baseball or any other extra lessons, and instead purchased YOUR BROTH'AHS extra lessons! Do Lukas's guitar lessons ring a bell? How about Matthew and Reese's football lessons? Oh, Johnny's PIANO lessons? One of the most EXPENSIVE instruments one can play? What about Seth's painting classes? Those cost a pretty penny. Even Ritchie isn't innocent on dis one. He went ACTING once! ACTING! Oh, and here's a kicker: VINCE'S BASEBALL PRACTICE?! THE SPORT YOU WANTED TO PLAY SO BADLY, AND NEVER GOT THE CHANCE TO?! THAT'S NOT A MATTER OF HAVING TOO MANY BOYS TO RAISE. THAT'S FUCKING FAVOURITISM!
Pops was the one who paid for those lessons! He's ta blame fah dat, not your Ma!
She's at just as guitly as he is! Why didn't she stand up for ya at any point? Why didn't she, at any point, tell Clark he was doing something wrong? Did she honestly expect you, as a timid little kid, to stand against CLARK, who is almost six feet tall, tough as nails, and even more terrifyin' dan da Doc when he's craving to see intestines?
She… She must've been scared of him too.
Den why not divorce? It's easy. If she filed one, Clark wouldn't have been able to anything about it.
You's is being so fucking selfish. What about your brothers' sake?
Ha! They have their own class of awful! They didn't help me, IN ANY WAY, dey just beat me up! Another cherry, dere're just another example of favouritism! Dey favoured eachother. Ta them, you's was just a little, annoyin' pipsqueak. Dey hated ya, plain and simple!
YOUR MA. HAD SEVEN OTH'UH SONS-
Who all seemed to be on her good side. And got privileged with expensive lessons while ya had nothin'.
-WHO ALL LUVED DERE MOM AND DAD-
Both of which never seemed capable of sharing that love with you.
-Oh... Don't you get it?! A DIVORCE WOULD'VE DESTROYED 'EM, SCOUT!
OH REALLY? COULDN'T HAVE DESTROYED 'EM LESS DAN DEM BEING TA'GETHAH DESTROYED YOU, NATHAN!
"SHUUUUUUT, UP!" Screamed the Scout at the top of his lungs, holding his head in pain.
He panted in heaves, his cold sweat and tears ran freely off his face, and his hands trembled as he moved them to cradle his face. No amount of BONK! he had ever drank made his heart beat against his ribcage as hard as it currently did. He shivered in pain, fear, confusion, anger and many, many more awful sensations. All of these awful feelings and more twisted and wormed through his body. He didn't know what he supposed to do about this situation. He was lost in every sense, and there was nothing he could do about the sheer confusion alone, let alone the thousands of other emotions swirling around in his head.
He was trembling in fear of himself, and who he was.
He curled up to hug his knees, eyes squeezed shut as his choking sobs wracked his skinny, acrobatic frame. He honestly how no clue about who he was anymore. He felt more messed up than he ever had in a very, very long time.
"W...What... What am I...?" he tragically managed to whisper past his weeping, addressing the question into the surrounding darkness. The darkness provided no answer. Just silence to the bawling nineteen year old. There was no one there to hear him scream of his existence. No one to hold him as the bitter winds stung his back like icy needles. No one was present. Just like how it was from before. Just like how it was from when he was a child.
As he cried himself to sleep, he remembered that it was reasons such as this why he hated being alone so badly.
And the tears, the scars, and the tattoo on his back were only sick reminders of them.
A/N: Aaaannnnnd now it's Scout's turn to have people crying. G'job, Scout. I was upset by this point, for I was having a crappy day at school, so getting it all on this chapter sort of helped, oddly enough.
Anyone who knows about Baccano! and it's soundtrack, knows that Backstreet Law is the theme of Isaac and Miria. ^-^ It's a cool song. Song number #7 on the soundtrack, I believe.
Sorry for no Alley scenes. :(
Everyone: "YOU SUCK! BRING BACK THE LITTLE KID CHARACTER!" D:
Anywho, I'm having a good time writing this and depressing every few people who read it. :D I'm happy to have such nice feedback from all of you. ^-^ It makes me feel all warm, happy and fuzzy inside. Anyways, see you next time! C: