A/N: Wow… No reviews? Seriously? XD Was Chapter Seven really that bad? You can always just tell me when something is poorly written! I won't get offended, pinkie-swear. :3 Oh well, back to the story.

I don't really have much to say for this chapter. Have fun (and I say fun very, VERY loosely) with Clark and Scout's sheer hatred for each other, forced family drama, and Ally's cuteness, I guess. :D

BTW… Um… I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do this, but I just realized I don't like the idea of Scout being a gangster before joining RED. I'm still new to writing Fanfiction, so would it be OK if I edited out the information and re-write it in a way I want to? I want to do this, because I don't think there's much I can do with the old gang, and so much more I could do if Scout ran away and immediately joined RED, at the age of fourteen as opposed to fifteen, as I could get more character development out of him, and in the process, give him and the team a bigger connection and more epic-ness to this other story I plan on writing. Please answer in a review or a private message. If it is that bad of I move, I'll go with what I've got.

Anyways, I do not own TF2. Herp-de-derp.

To say that Clark Hawthorne was a bit upset with Nathan Hawthorne at the moment was not true. No, no, at the moment, he was absolutely INFURIATED with the boy. He snarled as he tore through the house in an a futile attempt to find the second-youngest child, only for the rage to increase as yet another effort became in vain.

He had never liked Nathan. He knew right from the beginning that the boy was from a different father, regardless to how Blair insisted otherwise. Clark was a firm parental figure to say the least, but he did honestly care about his wife and his own children. Neither Nathan or Ally were his children. Both were from the same man he was certain his wife had been seeing. Clark himself was not completely innocent when it came to his relationship with Blair, he had seen a few women here and there, so he let it slide. But if Blair expected him to treat Nathan and Ally like they were his own, she had another thing coming. However, the fact Nathan had vanished, AGAIN, made him feel like he was about to explode with rage.

Nathan was a despicable kid. Whenever that child got the slightest bit upset with something, he hid from it like a coward. He turned his back on all negative things. He only saw the things he liked, only did the things he liked, not once thinking through the consequences his actions might cause. That imp was not half the man he believed himself to be. He'd never be strong. Clark had seen enough from the pathetic, shivering whelp of a child he'd had the displeasure of raising to know, and the fact that Nathan thought becoming a MERCENARY would gain him respect only added to his not-so-favouring opinion on him. The boy was dead to him, and that was all there was to the story. With an angry scowl, Clark trudged down the stairs to the base level of the house, angrily searching for his least favourite child. Instead, he found the second least-favourite: Ally, the littlest.

She was sitting on the couch with her stuffed bunny while watching television, long hair undone from its previous ponytail so it hung in a messy, chocolate coloured cascade off her back. She was clothed in a pale green dress, and giggling at the funny characters on the screen. A long buried, gentler side to him would have laughed with her, but something was wrong about this picture.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" he asked in typical coldness. The instant she heard her father's callous voice, she darted her head towards him, shuddered, and squeezed her bunny closer to her as she trembled in fear.

"It's Friday," she whispered in intimidation, "I only got school on T-Tuesdays an' T'ursdays…"

Oh yes, that's right. Ally was still in Jr. Kindergarten. Only for two days a week, she'd be out of his hair. The rest of the week, she'd coop herself up in the house and sketch, or do whatever it was that the little girl did in her spare time.

Clark nodded in acknowledgment. "Oh, yes. That's right… Where's your brother?"

"I dunno…" mumbled Ally, fidgeting with her fingers, "I fell asleep watchin' cartoons with him… When I woke up, he wasn't here no mores."

Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. That only left one option: Nathan had run off again.

"Bastard," he growled. Ally pushed herself as hard as she could against the couch, making herself as small as possible. Clark was about to call the police, when he heard a knock on the door. He went towards it, opened it… And saw Nathan standing there, looking a bit grimy with his old, bloody bat hanging from his shoulder.

"Hey," he said, casually. Clark gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Without warning, he punched the boy, hard in the cheek with his ring-hand in anger. While surprised that Nathan did not fall or stumble backwards from the blow, and instead only put one foot behind him to keep him from losing his balance, Nathan had disobeyed him, and punishments had to dished out.

"Where the hell were you?" he snarled.

Nathan, for quite a while, said nothing. After a while of just looking down at the pavement, visor of his ball-cap shielding his eyes, he just absently rubbed the bruise forming on his cheek as opposed to answering the question. This angered Clark.

"Well?" he demanded, harshly. At this, Nathan spat a bit of blood onto the pavement and store daggers at his father. It was a look of pure, untainted hatred. His eyes radiated with loathing, and his firmly clenched hands shook with the craving of violence. However, despite how enraged he was obviously feeling, he kept his voice even, and eerily calm.

"I got bored," he stiffly stated, doing his best to refrain from killing Clark, "So, I went out for sum air."

"At MIDNIGHT?"questioned Clark in frustration, "Without leaving so much as a note?!"

"Basically, yeah," replied the old teenager, stiffly walking past Clark into the house, "Don't worry though, I ain't goin' ta the main streets again."

"The MAIN STREETS?" repeated Clark in both amazement and anger.

Scout looked towards Clark with a hateful expression. "Yeh. Did I fuckin' stutter, Pops?"

That did it. Clark growled. No one in this house could give him that level of disrespect and get away with it. Clark grabbed Scout by the back of his head, turning him to face him. His green eyes were filled to the brim with dullness and fear-inflicting death, secretly filling Scout soul with dread. He tightened his already tight grip on the young mercenary's head.

"THIS. IS MY HOUSE,"snarled Clark, breathing close to Scout's face, "YOU ARE GOING TO FOLLOW MY RULES, AND DO THINGS BY MY TERMS. I DON'T CARE HOW YOU DO THINGS WITH YOUR 'BUDDIES' BACK AT YOUR GODDAMN WAR-ZONE, BUT I CAN SURE AS HELL PROMISE YOU THAT IT'S NOT GONNA FLY HERE. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR, NATHAN?"

Scout did nothing. He just turned his head away and shut his eyes. Clark scoffed.

"Still a coward," he harshly stated, "Typical. All you ever do is run and hide. I'd say the whole reason you joined those ridiculous 'Mann Wars' was just to hide behind their backs, as well. I'd also bet that you've never even experienced REAL pain before."

Scout's eyes instantly opened and turned to his father with initial shock, which immediately turned into unfathomable rage.

"REAL pain?" he repeated in ire and fury, eyes narrowing as his malice grew. REAL pain. Coming from the man whose closest experience to the subject was spraining his knee while playing fucking Football. THAT. DID IT. Scout had been held captive by the Builder's League United for two months. He had almost died more times than he could count. He had fought armies of BLUs, an evil Australian Santa Claus, the cursed lost eye of his teammate, a corrupted mage, dozens of monsters and had even gotten thrown into an alternate dimension He had been shot, slashed, cursed, poisoned, burned, tortured, half-drowned and struggled for his life on a daily basis. He knew more about pain than someone his age should have. Anger ten times hotter than the burning sun boiled in his chest, he leaned over to his father's face with a flaming, blue hell of rage brewing in his ice shaded eyes. All the things he and his team fought for, and he had the gall to INSULT them.

"FUCK YOU."

(-)

Clark threw Nathan into the basement with force to rival that of an elephant's.

"And STAY down there,"he hissed.

"GLADLY!" screeched Scout back upwards, "THIS PLACE'S A HELL OF AH'LOT BETT'UH DAN STARIN' AT YOUR ASS-UGLY FACE ALL DAY, YA DICK LICKING PIECE OF SHIT!"

Clark slammed the door so hard, it was a miracle the door hinges didn't break. Scout let out a wordless scream of rage and punched one of the walls of the basement so hard it cracked. His knuckles bled, but he didn't care. He was PISSED. He was wondering why he hadn't kicked Clark's ass, grabbed his belongings and took the first underground express back to Dustbowl right after Clark had punched him. He would've deserved it. No, he would've deserved DEATH. Hell, he still did! Why not go kill him and make it look like he had an accident, or committed suicide? His Ma would stop taking her medicine that kept delaying her imminent demise, and once they were both dead, he could leave forever. How could he go wrong with that?

But no, no, he couldn't do that. He had to keep staying in this hell until his Ma died. When she did die, he had to go to her funeral, and once that was all done, he could leave, and never look back. The base sounded like paradise to him. He lay his head against the beige couch against the basement wall and sighed through his nose. Well, he was going to be in here for a while. May as well get to having fun.

He hopped off the couch and opened the old, locker-like wooden cupboard on the wall. He was looking for something in particular; Chalk. Lots of chalk. Time to get in touch with his artistic side. He gave a sinister chuckle as he began his blind search. It was hard to see what was in there, as it was pitch black in the basement. Even with his above average eye-sight, it was still so hard to see inside the cupboard. He pushed back a bag of flour and a package of pasta. Why was it so hard to find a chalk bin? His hand pushed can after can, package after package, probing the cupboards and scowling. He was beginning to think that the chalk wasn't even there, like his parents might have moved it, when his fingers brushed against something leathery. That wasn't food. What was that? Curiously, his thin digits traced the leather, and the plastic next to it. He also unintentionally found a flashlight near it, how convenient. Scribbling absurdities against the family and giving the basement a, 'make-over,' would have to wait. He wanted to know what this was about.

He fished out the flashlight and mystery objects. He was surprised to discover that the leather and the plastic were actually covers to two separate books. A white, plastic binder with a gold title on the top, and a secretive leather-covered black book with a small scrawl of neat printing on it. Odd. Most of the books were kept on a book-shelving unit in his family study. Normally, Scout would've just ignored them, but right now, he'd do anything to entertain himself. He tucked them under his arm and headed over to the couch. He clicked on the flashlight and decided to start with the binder.

"'Hawthorne... Photo Album,'" shakingly repeated Scout to his best abilities. His reading abilities weren't the best in the World, he'd have to grudgingly admit. He flipped to the first page.

A picture of him and his family in front of their current house greeted him. All of them were standing stiff and serious, except for him. He was about a year old, teething on his hand while sitting on the grass with bright, happy eyes. How embarrassing. He flipped through a few more pages. A few pictures of his parents in their childhoods, his Ma while pregnant, Clark's old football team from high school, Vincent's seventh birthday party, Matthew getting second place in the football tournament, Ritchie playing the part of a charming rogue in a play, (Scout had to laugh at this one. His costume was hilarious) Johnny reading a book, all innocent pictures, but something hurt him as he came to realization; There were no pictures of him anywhere in the book besides the first picture. No baby pictures. No childhood pictures. No pictures from his teenage years. Nothing. He flipped through the whole thing, and while the whole family got mentioned he was nowhere to be seen. He let out a scowl and tossed it across the across the room. Bastards. Typical of them. He then looked at the other book, which oddly enough had a French phrase written in cursive.

"Tou… Touj-j-jours un… Ser…ment… gardien? Jusqu'à… La mort que nous nous sép… séparions...?" Scout couldn't understand the printing. He had picked up on a few French words from Spy, but only a few, and that didn't mean he knew how to read it. Not only that, he hadn't heard either of his parents speak a word of French. It didn't make any sense. He flipped the page, and his mind flooded with questions.

There was a picture of a man and a woman. His mother was there, but not with his father, someone else. His mom looked around eighteen with her hair tied back into pigtails and garbed in a silky white and black dress. She looked delighted, and admittingly beautiful, hugging a someone's arm. Someone skinny wearing a fedora that covered his face in a shadow, and a trench coat. It was the same man he had seen when he was five. The friendly stranger who had just wandered into and out of their house from way back then. He had an air of familiarity back then, but now it was like a giant force of gravity smacking into him. He knew this man. He knew him very well. The answer should have so obvious… So why was it just out of his grasp?

"Damn," he snarled. When he tried to think too hard, it'd just slip away and leave him with a headache. How obnoxious. With no other option, he turned the page again… To be met with nonsensical French diary entries, written in his Ma's handwriting. There were pictures from places he'd never seen. A ship, some city that sure as hell wasn't Boston… It just didn't click. He closed the book and sighed. Nothing made sense. It didn't add up. Two things he learned, though;

One, he didn't know his Ma as well as he thought he did. Clearly, she knew her French well, and probably used it to confuse Clark or anyone else who ever tried to read about her personal life. Two, whoever that stranger was, his Ma certainly knew him VERY well. He'd have to ask her how she did know at some point, or else the memory of the enigmatic visitor would forever be a mystery. At the same time, though, that meant TALKING to her… He wasn't sure what to say to her. He had just left the bedridden, dying woman while she was giving him a heartfelt plea for forgiveness, and he had answered by saying, 'bullshit,' and slamming the door in her face. He cursed himself, as he had just complicated things. …He HATED complications…

He threw both books away, and leaned back onto the sofa. Well, life just had just got eight times more confusing. His stomach roared at him. It was funny, how he didn't notice the pain in his stomach until now, two days after not eating anything.

"Guess I was distracted," he mused. His stomach let out another shout, "Lat'uh, alright? Stop whining, ya've been trou worse." He folded his arms behind his head, ignoring the pain in his stomach. He tilted his cap, and closed his eyes.

Creeeeeaaaak.

Scout's eyes popped open and darted right to the door. He scowled, expecting his father.

…Then he realised that the footsteps coming down the basement staircase were far too light. Small feet, garbed in socks. Carrying a light-weight individual. Not only that, there wouldn't an scrumptious, chocolaty sent following him. …Yeah, he could calculate all that in the first two seconds of hearing the sounds of the steps and sniffing the air. He, as mentioned before, had ridiculously good senses. The footsteps slowly walked down the steps and turned on the light-bulb dangling from the ceiling. Scout squinted, adjusting his eyes to the sudden difference in the luminosity. He looked up to see Ally at the bottom of the stairs, carrying a plate of oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies and her toy bunny. She shuffled nervously upon reaching the bottom and trembled upon locking eyes with Scout. Scout raised an eyebrow. Was he really that threatening? She stayed strong, however, and held up the plate for him.

"Y-Ya didn't eat nuthin' yesta'day," she whispered, "An' you've been down here fah a long time… Two hours, I thin-"

"Stop, stop, stop," said Scout, waving his hands dismissively, "Stop talkin' like dat. You ain't my slave, and I ain't gonna smack ya like Pops does if ya screw up, Ok? Talk ta me like ya would ta a normal person."

Ally looked down, embarrassed. She muttered some nonsense, blushing in embarrassment. Without further word, she offered him the tray of cookies. Scout looked to them, then to her. She was still looking down with nervousness, shivering as she held the plate. It was then he remembered how much of douche he had been to her, insulting her behind her back. And here she was, offering him cookies. Why had he been so mean to her anyway? She didn't say mean things to him, on the contrary, she said nothing to him asides from asking him to fix a turtle. A bit of kindness would not be out of left-field, he decided. Besides, he was STARVING.

"I'm guessin' ya ain't too chatty. That's alright," he assured, taking a cookie off the tray throwing it into his mouth, nearly swallowing it whole. Ally plopped down next to him and ate quite a few as well, but not nearly as many as Scout did. The lad was just scarfing them down, savouring the chocolate and the crumbs. The first time he had eaten in two days. THANK THE GREAT LORD AND THE EVEN GREATER TODDLER. After shoving them all down, he let out triumphant belch. Ally giggled a little.

As the tyke giggled away, Scout smiled softly and leaned back into the couch cushions. Maybe Ally wasn't so bad after all.

A/N: DAAAAAAAAAAAWW! :D Who doesn't love a bit of cuteness every once and a while? Anyways, see you next chapter.