Chapter Text
Running.
It’s always been running for him. For some it’s simple things like reading, for others it’s the thrill of near death, but for Scout? Running. It always gave him the adrenaline that nothing has ever given him. It was and has always been running.
But running wasn't always the best idea. Or, at least the adrenaline wasn't. Sure, it let him get more kills in the battlefield, sprint just a little faster, do more acrobatics, dodge a missile flying directly toward his face, but sometimes, it made him do.. Very stupid things. Sometimes those things had a much later effect in his life.
2 years ago, 1968.
He didn’t really know what to expect when he got that phone call. The woman on the other line was speaking so fast, even he could barely understand it, only getting a few words like ‘Scout’ and war. But boredom, a bit of curiosity, and of course, adrenaline, got the best of him, and he agreed to help in what he assumed was a petty war between brothers. Why was he needed? Who knew? But he was craving something new anyways, so he figured.. Why not?
He didn't know what he signed up for.
Flying over to Mexico into a random desert felt kinda weird, a little difficult too, especially with having to part from his family. But with the promise of money, he figured it’d be worth it in the end. I mean, just 5 years plus a couple months of holiday every year’d probably be okay right?
3 days later
Waking up in the foreign dorm inside what the woman called their ‘base’ after a 6 hour flight where he could barely move (aka. his nightmare), he took in the surroundings of his room. He didn’t really get a chance yesterday, he was too busy running his legs off ‘cause of the pent up energy from the flight. It was pretty small, he thought. Couldn’t be bigger than 10 sq ft. Growing up with 7 older brothers, though, cramped rooms weren't new to him. There was a desk and chair under his loft bed, a cabinet, a couple drawers and a closet for hanging stuff. Pretty average room, he’d say. It was fairly similar to his old room, with him having to bunk up as a child, so the tall bed wasn’t a hassle to get used to either.
One thing he wasn't used to though was how barren the room felt. He only brought a few things with him, most of them were just essentials. At least 2 weeks worth of clothes (if you wear an outfit twice in a row at least), a few handkerchiefs, and a few personal belongings like his baseball cap, dog tags, a notebook & pen, and like 2 pairs of sneakers. Scout didn't bring anything to spice up the dorm, especially because he didn't know what to expect when he accepted that contract. Man, I really should’a brought my Tom Jones posters. Ooh, or my vinyls… He stared up at the empty wall looming over him. Over everything.
Looking closer though, Scout noticed how abandoned the room actually looked. The windows were all foggy, the floors look like they haven't been cleaned in ages, the dust from the desk alone brought a cough out from him. With nothing better to do, he got a hanky from his duffelbag and started wiping.
The next day
Whoo boy was the first day a mess. Orientation and training and stuff was normal. He was given the title ‘Scout’ as his code name (probably for his speed). He knew this was about war but never in his life did he ever imagine himself holding a gun, let alone multiple. He didn’t know what was good so he got a sawed-off shotgun and a pistol. He played baseball with his brothers a lot as a kid, so he figured that’d work for his melee. Going over to pick up the metal bat in the corner, old memories of his brothers flooded his mind.
Shaking them away, he walked over to the gate to the ‘battlefield’, and saw the other mercenaries for the first time. A veteran, a- woah he’s big, a construction worker? A guy in a gas mask, damn that’s a lot of bombs- is that a doctor? Ski-mask guy, and.. Cowboy. Huh. Weird batch of people.
He didn’t want to be alone for the 5 years he had to be there, so he wanted to get to know the other people in this dump. Looking around, the mercenaries already seemed to be talking amongst themselves, and he didn’t know exactly how to enter the conversation. He spotted the tall cowboy-looking guy alone in a corner holding a sniper rifle and decided that was the best place to start. Time seemed to slow down for some reason when he was walking over.
“Hey! You, uh.. Ya new here too?” …Silence. Scout mostly relied on eyes and facial expressions for conversation, so the yellow aviators the tall guy was wearing were not helping. Took the man a couple seconds and a bit of Scout fidgeting with his dog tags uncomfortably to realize the shorter guy in front of him was talking to him. “Oh, uh.. Me? Y-yeah. Sorry, mate.”
Thank God he wasn’t ignoring me, Scout thought. “Ah cool, just thought I’d ask. Not much of a talker eh?” Was that fine to say? He leaned against the locker next to him, attempting to look relaxed. “I’m Scout. My.. codename, at least. You?” The tall guy shifted a little. “Sniper.”
Looking at the g- Sniper a little more, he noticed he was a little thin. He had a hat on, like some sort of cowboy hat. A bit of stubble, brown sideburns, he looked way older than him. His accent sounded familiar. Australian? “Ooh, good aim, huh? Impressive.”
Sniper only hummed in agreement.
How am I supposed to talk to this guy??
Just.. talk I guess?
“Man, I never thought I’d hold a gun before. You seem to know your way around one though, ya got a history wid’ em?”
“Mm. Grew up in the outskirts of Australia, used ta’ hunt for food wit’ my dad. Mum ha’ed it.”
“Oh huntin’ huh? Never did stuff like that. I did baseball with my brothas when I was a kid though. That’s why I got a bat,” He lifted his melee up as if to show it off. “I just know my way around it, y’know?” Scout started to ramble a little before he noticed Sniper kinda spacing out. I'm talking too much aren't I? Ah shoot.
“Uh, anyways, I just wanted to get ta know the people here, ya know? Figured I’d start wid’ u. Friends?” He lifted his hand up for a fist bump. please say yes please say yes please say ye-
“Sure.” Sniper hit his fist lightly.
Yes!
“Alright cool!”
The sounds of an old lady yelling “10 seconds before the match” filled the locker room.
“Oop- time to go I guess. Hey, good luck out there snipes!” Wait, nicknames already? Is that too soon? Should I have said that? Before he could start overthinking again, Scout walked away.
Present
Getting ready to go into the match like always, Scout does his daily routine. Wrapped his hands with grip tape, tightened his shoelaces, got his weapons, rolled up his red sleeves, and ran to his closest friend there, Sniper.
“Yo Snipes, what’s up?” He punched him lightly on the shoulder. Sniper's shoulders seemed to tense up a little, then went limp as he realized who it was.
“Ay mate.”
“Ya ready for the match today? Heard it was payload.”
“Eh, We’ll be awright mate, we’re used to it, yea?”
“Couldn’t’a said it betta’ myself, pal.”
The administrator’s voice rang through the hallways calling the 10 second mark.
“Alright, let’s go stop this thing!”
This was his favorite part of matches. Or, favorite component of it at least. Running. Oh it felt so good. Running, jumping, flipping around, the adrenaline was incredible. He was getting kills left and right. 1, 4, 7, 13, the number just got higher and higher. And deaths? He was way too fast for that.
This round felt so, so good. Way, way better than usual. I mean, he's good all the time, of course, but today felt different. Wayy different. Usually, he'd be at least twenty deaths in by that point, but today? Today, he felt untouchable.
The BLU's had barely gotten 5 kills on him by this point, but him? He was at upwards of twenty, maybe thirty kills already. I'm just too damn good at this, eh?
The BLUs were pushing, but they were still at the first checkpoint and there were only five minutes left, so it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the rush of killing. It wasn’t lethal anyway, respawn'll take them and they’d be back to normal in less than a minute, so all it was to Scout was entertainment. And boy did he love it.
He lined himself up and shot at the BLUs while breezing past the narrow opening. He barely noticed anyone else, the air breezing past him as he ran and jumped were too distracting. Scout decided he would go and flank them just to piss them off, so he looked around and saw a flank route to his left.
He ran toward it, shooting toward a particularly annoying Pyro from the enemy team to make them think he was just switching positions, then entered the flank route. Peeking behind a wall, he saw all the BLUs fighting his team, too distracted to hear the muffled footsteps on their right. No wonder Spy loved flanking. Holding back a chuckle, Scout aimed his sawed-off shotgun, put his finger on the trigger an-
Squelch.
His legs gave out.
Thud.
He felt the rough sand attack his exposed arm, a pain he's gotten accustomed to by now.
What happened?
Taking a shaky breath, the familiar yet sharp scent of coins and metal assaulted his nose.
Blood.
Is it mine?
He looked down. Warm, red liquid was slowly spreading under him, painting the red sand, staining his red shirt with another shade. A bad one.
He found himself on the floor.
Stabbed.
Backstabbed.
Crap.
Scout knew the sensation of being backstabbed all too well. It’s usually instantaneous. Maybe a slight burning in your spine, but you lose consciousness almost instantly. This was different though.
He was still conscious, wasn’t he?
He could still hear everything. He could still see everything. He could hear faint footsteps slowly fading into the background. He could see blue trousers running away. He could hear a far away “finally.” He could hear the distant sounds of his and his enemy’s teams fighting. He could see the BLU team through the corridor's opening, running and shooting.
This was unusual.
This wasn’t good.
He tried to lift his arm up.
Something felt off.
He knows how, he's done it so many times. It's never ever felt like this before.
He looked down at himself.
It wouldn't budge.
He saw and felt it wouldn't budge.
He tried again. The same outcome.
He tried again. It flinched a little.
He tried again. The same outcome.
He tried again. But to no avail.
He could barely move.
Scout tried thinking.. But his head was too crowded with clouds to form any thoughts. The runner couldn't run anymore.
He couldn’t do anything but wait.
Alone.
Sniper’s point of view, after the match.
Good match, he thought. Getting down from his nest and meeting up with the rest of the mercs, he half expected Scout to either start talking to him or the other people. But the loud voice of the Bostonian was absent that day. He greeted me before the match started, right? Where is he?
Reluctantly, the sharpshooter went up to the self-appointed leader, Soldier.
“Hey solly, ‘ave you seen Scout? Bugger’s missin’.”
“HELLO SNIPER!”
The volume almost made Sniper double over.
Soldier looked around a little. “Now that you mention it, I lost sight of Scout when he entered a flank route.”
“‘E stopped appearin’ in the kil’' feed too, lad,” Demo said, overhearing their conversation.
“Well where is ‘e ‘en?” He practically yelled. The sharpshooter's knuckles turned white as he felt something warm drip onto his fingertips.
The German spoke. “Iz he perhaps still on zhe battlefield..?”
He bit his cheek. Everyone looked toward the doctor.
“Is.. Is ‘at possible?”
Silence followed.
Silence.
Silence he wasn't used to anymore. Everything seemed to freeze. No one dared to speak, or look away, or even move.
Sniper was used to this. He was used to staying still, it was his job for hell's sake.
Then why did this stillness feel so… off?
His senses seemed to betray him.
The violent scents of gunpowder and sand and distant smells of blood ambushed his nostrils. The sight of all of his acquaintances, just stared in disbelief, unmoving. The rays of sunlight gleamed off the floor, stabbing his eyes despite his aviators. The faint taste of coins burnt in his mouth. The clothes touched his body, ever so slightly shifting from the calm wind.
It was too much.
And all he heard was silence.
Silence.
Memories of the nonsense the missing Bostonian filled the room up with echoed in his mind. That first day.
He remembered how awkward it was.
Not memories. Feelings. Feelings of the warmth and light the runner seemed to emanate were no longer here.
Feelings of the emptiness that was present before he arrived in this hellhole came crawling back, and sent chills up his spine.
His chest tightened.
The only one who bothered to talk to him on their first day, the only one who seemed to care about him, the only one he truly deeply cares about.
He’s gone.
No. No, no he can’t be.
He can’t be.
His stomach dropped.
With panic slowly crawling in, he thought.
He thought about the possibilities. Scout could be out there. He could just be lost and he’s okay. He could just be late. He could be fine.
But Scout could actually be missing.
Scout could be injured. He could be gone. He could be dead.
Laughter echoes through his mind.
He could be dead.
His mouth ran dry.
No. He can’t be. He isn’t. He’s somewhere out there, we just have to find him, and everything will be fine.
Everything'll be fine.
Desperately shaking away the terrifying dread, he decided.
He released his hand and felt something sticky. He looked down and saw red paint. Staining his palm, his fingertips.
He’ll deal with that later.
For now, he had to do something.
“Well if ‘at’s the case let’s go look for the wanker!”
A couple of murmurs of agreement were shared before everyone rushed out into the field once again.
“SCOUT? SCOUT WHERE ARE YA!?”
Everyone was looking. Where? They were running blindly. Screams of the youngest team member’s name echoed through the battlefield, frantic footsteps and shuffling heard for miles.
“Soldier, where did ya say ya saw ‘im last?”
“It was right here!”
Soldier led him to the place where they were holding ground. The bushman looked around for the flank route that the veteran had mentioned earlier, and a certain entrance on the left caught his eye.
Running into the hallway, he heard faint breathing. His footsteps, or well, his noises, have always been quieter than normal, so picking up small sounds wasn’t much of a challenge for him. He turned the corner and- aw, piss.
“SCOUT!”
There he was. Lying on his side on the red sand. Staring up at him weakly.
Not moving.
“H-hey..”
Sniper ran out for a bit to call for his team, then returned to scout, kneeling at his side.
“Scout, ya mongrel, whot happened!?”
“Stupid BLU… Backstabbed me.”
Sniper noticed his strained voice. God it broke his heart. Seeing Scout bleeding out like this, so vulnerable, so pale, he must have been here alone for so long. Just the thought of it brought his stomach to his feet.
His teammates rushed into the passageway one by one as murmurs of confusion and concern arose.
“Vhere is he?”
All eyes were on them.
Silence.
Scout's eyes closed.