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No. 3633
reposting for At0m

----------

Marlboro Boy

Morning was never a difficulty for Scout. He was always up and at 'em by 6 o'clock, at the latest. Sometimes he would rise before the sun had even peeked its head out above the BLU complex across the moat. He'd walk around the base, checking to see if anything had snuck in during the night, human or otherwise. He'd check every nook and cranny for mice, snakes, and other sorts of rodents that had wandered in from the surrounding desert. He had never found a Spy...at least from the other team.

So Scout was surprised to find the RED Spy sitting on their own battlements, his legs hanging over the edge, taking one of his seemingly infinite supply of cigarettes from his shiny smoke case, holding it in his mouth, and lighting it. Scout stood on the corner and watched, curious as to why this Spy was awake this early. Was it a BLU?

“Bonjour, boy,” the Spy muttered without even meeting Scout's eye. The young Bostonian jumped back a centimeter in surprise. “Uh...mornin',” he replied. There was a moment of awkward silence as the Spy took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled with a contented, “...Très bon.”

“So, ah...” Scout stammered. “What'chu doin' up at this hour? Trying to steal some breakfast or somethin'?”

The Spy chuckled a moment, playing with his cigarette between his index and middle finger. “Is it not alright for me to want to see the sunrise? I am sick of being cooped up in that base of ours.” He took another drag from his smoke and blew it out quickly. “Sit down. You are making me nervous, boy.”

Scout, ever swayed by the Spy's natural, aloof authority, complied, plopping himself down next to the Frenchman. Immediately the smell of cigarette smoke met his nostrils, causing him to wince a bit from the strong stench of tobacco.

“Shit, man,” he said, wafting his hand in front of his nose jokingly, “how can you smoke those things? It smells like Pyro went at a pile of tires or somethin'.”

“Hm?” the Spy asked, confused for a moment. “Oh, these. I have always smoked these. It's a sort of...addiction, I guess you could say.” He held the cigarette between his lips absentmindedly.

“I could never suck on one of those things,” Scout stated proudly. “I don't think that's really good for a runner, y'know? Make you cough and hack and all of that stuff.”

“I have hardly ever been sick, and never have been made sick from my cigarettes, boy,” the Spy replied, releasing a puff of smoke from his mouth without even removing the stick from his lips. Presently he looked into his cigarette case: one laid by its lonesome. “Merde...” the Spy muttered. He didn't want to have to venture all the way back into the windowless base to fetch another case. And yet his cigarette was burning to the filter...

A small smile crossed his lips, raising the smoke a few centimeters up on his face. He looked to his left at Scout. He too was staring absentmindedly at the water standing stagnant in the moat separating the two companies. “Look, boy, I only have one cigarette left.” He showed the nearly empty case to the Scout. “Have you had one before?”

Scout turned to the Spy quickly, a slightly angry scowl crossing his face. “Didn' you hear what I just said, you dumb frog? I don't want to kill myself, dumbass.”

The smile grew on Spy's face. “But how do you know...if you never have had one?” the Spy teased, leaning closer to the young man.

Scout was again looking at the moat, trying to distract himself from Spy's speech. He looked sideways at the white cigarette, laying immobile in its case. It wasn't hard to convince the boy.

“Alright, but only the one!” he stated loudly. Spy allowed the smile to grow even larger, showing his gleaming white teeth. He hastily pulled it out. Scout's hand slowly extended towards the Spy, who placed it lightly in his open palm. The Bostonian placed it between his lips, it skewing to one side awkwardly. “So...ah....you got a light...or somethin'?” he asked coyly.

“Hon...” the Spy laughed quietly, pulling a silver Zippo from his breast pocket. “But of course, Scout.” He flipped the top open and struck the flint, starting a small orange flame. He leaned even closer to the Scout, forcing more of his interesting smell onto him. He was beginning to get used to it. The flame burned one end of the cigarette to black, but did not light it. Spy knew the problem immediately. “Breathe in, you stupid boy. It won't work if you don't.”

Scout obeyed and took a deep breath...too deep. The initial burst of smoke filled his lungs, causing him to double over in a fit of hacks and coughs. The cigarette fell from his mouth, in danger of falling into his lap but was caught by the agile Spy in a millisecond. The Scout cursed loudly in between gasps, his facing turning a plum red, and at this Spy could only smile and chuckle to himself quietly.

The fit passed eventually. “Fucking shit,” he said, wiping his lips of saliva that had managed to force itself out. Spy was still chuckling as he stated, “Not so hard. Slowly, mon ami.” He held the stick in front of Scout's face, who swiped it agilely out of his hand and stuck the filter back into his face. He took a small drag, causing his face to turn red again as the burning, cauterizing smoke filled his chest. Some coughs attempted to force their way out, but Scout held fast.

“Don't hold it in forever,” the Spy suggested. “Let it out. You're going to suffocate if you keep that up.”

Scout let the smoke out in a graceless puff, followed by another fit of coughing, this one less severe. He held the cigarette close to his face, examining it intently. “So where the hell do you get all of these anyway?”

“Don't worry about that,” the Spy stated secretively. “Let's just say that...I have my sources.” He held the cigarette between his teeth as he smiled at the Scout, making a sideways glance again at him. Scout made his own glance back at Spy, allowing a small smile to form. He placed his attention on the smoke again, taking another, longer drag. His body tensed up as he held in the inevitable coughs, his face lightening from plum to pink, while he pondered the situation at hand. “Nah,” he said suddenly, releasing a globule of smoke which floated into the blue sky. “This ain't for me, pal.” He held it out to Spy, its smoke making a small trail following his earlier puff into space.

The Spy glanced at Scout's hand, the cigarette halfway burned to the filter. He smiled once again. “Silly boy,” he chuckled as he gingerly took it from him. “But at least now you can say with authority that you don't like it.”

Muffled voices reached their ears as the rest of the team rose for breakfast. Pyro's muddled discussion with Demo, apparently over whether Scotch whiskey can be used to cook, roused the two from their relaxation.

“Ah, yeah,” Scout said, standing up quickly. His face has returned to its natural peach color. “I think we'd better go to breakfast, y'know. Pyro makes those mean eggs of his and everything...”

“Mmm, yes,” the Spy agreed. “I will be but five minutes, mon ami.” He flicked the used butt of his first cigarette over the edge of the battlement onto the sand below as Scout's own continued to burn between his fingers.

“Cool,” Scout stated as he walked briskly back into the base, joining the din of their morning conversation.

Spy stared at the sun, now fully over BLU's compound. He took another drag from Scout's cigarette and smiled as the rays warmed his face. He loved mornings.
Marked for deletion (old)
>> No. 3634
Breakfast

Pyro wasn't a cook before he came to the middle of nowhere to cover RED's ass. Everything that he touched became black, torched, burned to cinders. Pyro enjoyed that life, reveled in the destruction of anything that his gloves could get their fingers around.

And yet, the rest of the team automatically assumed that their pyromaniacal teammate knew how to cook simply because of his experience to turn things into carbon with flame. It was ironic, really; many of them liked their food lightly cooked, not burned to a crisp as he normally dealt with things. And so Pyro was relegated to the stove and oven every morning and night, cooking breakfast and dinner for the other eight members of RED. Pyro didn't mind, though; everyone had their own little jobs. Scout liked to patrol the base, trying to waste off his constant supply of energy. Sniper made sure that the stream of pornography that was sent in for “morale purposes” from HQ was of high quality. Soldier derided the men for their weaknesses. And so on.

Pyro made his way into the kitchen and immediately began digging in the filthy, dusty cabinets around the room. Pots clanged, pans clinged, and gas hissed as Pyro turned on the stove. He had a habit of letting the gas run for a few seconds before he even bothered to dig the box of strike-anywhere matches from a nearby drawer. A few weeks before it reached the point where he caused a small fireball to engulf the area around the stove, burning parts of the sky-blue counter and partially melting Sniper's jar of Vegemite that had been left out in a rush. Pyro cackled at the memory.

Unfortunately, his results were less than stellar this morning. The flame barely tingled the tips of his gloved fingers before it settled into the familiar ringed pattern. He sighed disappointedly as he reached above the cabinet to an area just within his reach and pulled down a pure-white chef's hat. This was his sole possession that he kept absolutely away from flame of any type. He had found it when Heavy had torn open a shipment of food in a hunger-induced rage. Perhaps one of the guys from HQ had slipped it in there just so the team could have a taste of home. He placed it on his head and stuck a pan onto the flame just as the voices of the rest of the men echoed down the hallway and into the kitchen. Scout slammed the door open and immediately began talking.

“Yo, mornin, Flamer,” the young man said, taking his usual seat next to the head of the table. Pyro suspected that the Bostonite's nickname for him was somewhat pejorative but never said anything about it.

Soldier arrived next, chastising Scout. “You will NOT run around the base without a reason, private!” he declared, taking a seat at the head of the table.

“Yeah, yeah,” Scout replied, taking off his headset and fiddling with the position of its microphone.

“And stand up when your superior enters the room!” the older man added. He sat straight up rigidly, staring straight ahead, his hands resting on his lap. Soon Medic and Heavy burst onto the scene, talking amongst themselves about how to better heal the huge Russian.

“I need more sandviches, Doctor,” he boomed, taking a seat across from Scout. The small wooden chair whined under the weight. “If I have bag full of sandviches, nothing can put harm on me! I will eat and eat, nothing hurt anymore!” He smiled at the thought as his arms swung wide for emphasis. Medic sat next to him and immediately put his face into his palms.

“Zat is not how it works, Heavy,” he stated, obviously frustrated.

The din increased as Demo and Engineer entered together, followed by the two loners, Spy and Sniper. Sniper was talking about beers he could have back Down Under while Spy called the Aussie's favorite drink “swill for the proletariat.”

“'Ey, you best watch your tongue, mate, or I'll swing my fist right into your eye,” Sniper threatened. Spy simply laughed in the nasally French tone they all had come to expect from him.

“Hey, just sit down and shaddap, alright? I want to eat sometime today,” Scout said, wrapping his hands with athletic tape. “What's on the menu today, Pyro? More shitty grits?”

“Uh-uh,” Pyro replied, motioning to a large wooden crate behind the door labelled “FOODSTUFFS” in spray-painted stencil. Engineer started to rebuke Scout, saying “Now boy, you know I can't let you say that sort of thing about grits---”

Scout ignored him, leaning his head back and thrusting his fists into the air, dragging a whole roll of tape up along with them. “I don't think I'd be able to handle that cornmeal crap anymore,” he said, turning his attention to the tape dangling from his hand. Engineer shook his head. Pyro dished out a generous helping of bacon grease he kept on hand into the heated pan.

“I still wish HQ'd send along some other things though, y'know?” Scout said after a few moments of quiet discussion. “Like some Boston cream pies or somethin'...mom used to pick those up from the bakery around the corner. Fuckin' tasty. I could go for a hot bowl of chowder or a pizza, too. Not for breakfast, though. Lunch, I mean, or maybe dinner.”

“Yeah, I got your bowl of chowder right here, mate,” Sniper said, leaning back in his chair and placing an arm around its back. He chuckled softly at his own witticism.

“Hey, fuck you, fucking Brit-Aussie asshole,” Scout said, standing up and leaning over the table towards Sniper.

“Now now, calm down. I'm just takin' the piss out of ya, just a little bit of fun,” Sniper said, still smiling. “I wouldn't complain about a nice cold Handle right about now, something from deep down in the casks. Bit of chips and you have yourself a right snack.”

“Not enough!” Heavy declared, slamming his fists down onto the table. “We fish out of Volga, find good fish to cook for dinner. Sometimes we only eat borscht, is red soup. But it isn't good; it does not fill up stomach like Medic's sandviches or Pyro's eggs do!” His booming laughter filled the room as he slapped his German friend on the back. The Pyro dropped a few slices of thick bacon into the pan.

“Aua...” Medic complained, reeling from the strike. As he recovered, he described his own home food: “In Stuttgart we had only spaetzle for a long while. Once civilization came back, we had all sorts of good food. Sauerbraten, viele Kartoffeln, potato dumplings, sauces, sausages and breads of every kind. Then I was sent here,” he glanced over at Heavy and a slight frown began to form. “Now I only get sandwiches that I must MAKE. And even then, SOMEBODY eats them all!” He crossed his arms and looked crossly at Heavy.

“Prostitye, Doctor,” Heavy apologized. “But they are so delicious...I cannot help myself.” Heavy sniffed the air as he finished his statement as the scent of frying bacon filled the room.

“Aye,” the Demo interjected. “Ah used tae make a guid piece ay haggis wi' some neeps an' tatties oan th' side thaur. Wi' a dram ay mah favorite bevvy...my, 'at is a guid scran, laddies.” The rest of the team simply stared at Demo, completely taken aback that they had such a horrible understanding of Scottish vernacular. They all then agreed politely in unison. Demo laughed to himself between swigs of his scrumpy.

“You are all weaklings,” Soldier said. “I can live on rations alone! Give me a piece of hardtack and I can battle the enemy for days and weeks on end, and live to tell my children! You maggots need a full meal and DESSERT to even get out of bed in the morning!” Sniper grumbled at this. Scout tried to stifle his laughter at the fact Soldier took his job so seriously. Pyro was listening intently now as he cracked eggs on the rim of the pan and plopped them into the heat.

The men then turned their attention to the Spy, who sat opposite Soldier, quite a distance away from anybody else. He sat silently, taking drags off of his cigarette at regular intervals, filling the top half of the room gradually with smoke. “What do you need?” he asked conceitedly. “Do you think that I am going to give away my identity by mentioning my childhood food?” He blew smoke out of his mouth, filling the air again with his nasally laugh. “I think not!”

“Aw, come on, Froggy,” Scout said. “You afraid to say you like to munch on snails and and duck livers?” He scoffed, fixing his hat further down onto his head.

“Silence yourself, boy, before I force feed you that garbage, swillish chowder and serve YOU as foie gras,” Spy retorted, pointing with his index and middle fingers for emphasis as his cigarette burned between them.

“Well, if Spy doesn't want to talk, then I will,” Engineer said. “Nothin' like a big helpin' of biscuits and cream gravy to start off the day. Momma used to make that every mornin', puttin' a slab of bacon on the pan would wake me right up. Ain't nothin' like an RC and a Moon Pie, neither, boys, if you get the hunger during the day, that is.” The team could tell he was reminiscing happily, even though his eyes were hidden behind his goggles, as a smile wormed its way onto his face as he spoke.

“Biscuits? You eat bikkies for breakfast?” Sniper asked incredulously. “And with gravy on top. That sounds quite 'objectionable' in Spys words, mate.”

Engineer laughed to himself. “No, no. Not like your biscuits, Aussie. Real biscuits: milk, flour, butter, salt, and bakin' powder. Don't need nothin' else...besides gravy, of course.”

A silence fell over the room as they each reminisced about their homes, the comforts, the food, their friends...

“Huddaaa! Brkfstchm!” Pyro announced as he stood before the team, waking the team from their stupor and holding in front of him a huge plate full of crispy bacon and eggs cooked sunny-side up. They all could tell he was extremely proud of his work.

“Aw, hell yeah!” Scout said, holding his empty plate in front of him. “Me first! Come on Pyro, fill it up!”

“What did I tell you about respecting your superiors, private?” Soldier said as he started to take off strips of bacon with his fork. The din started anew.

Soon the plate was mostly empty, the team leaving enough food for their cook to take later. Pyro set to cleaning the dishes; he had a penchant for eating after everyone else had gone. The team ate loudly, some with better table manners than others. Soon they filed out of the kitchen again, each giving their thanks as they walked through the door and out to their day's work.

Pyro placed the dishes back into the cabinet and placed his chef's hat back on top of the cabinet. He sat in Soldier's seat and pulled the dish towards him, salivating a bit from the sight of an especially over-cooked piece. He raised his mask just enough off of his face to expose his mouth and nostrils. For the first time in weeks the smell of cooking meat met him, and he reveled in the delightful smell.

Perhaps he didn't like just burning things, after all.
>> No. 3635
Refrigerator (TF2chan Secret Santa 2008 submission)

Summer in the desert, Pyro had learned, was as close to hell as any mortal could approach. He had it the worst out of the whole team: the rubber and asbestos-lined suit wasn't the best for allowing his skin to breathe to the outside air. RED wasn't exactly the most generous corporation when it came to employee housing either, so the base became as hot as Satan's own bowels when the sun hung high in the sky. There was one refuge, though: the kitchen freezer. Scout after his morning jog would often rest in the freezer and drink copious amounts of soda and other energy drinks. Sniper, being a lazy type of man, often fell asleep in there, far overstaying his break from keeping watch on the base's battlements. He also had a penchant for keeping bottles of beer in there to have them chill quickly.

Pyro, for one, didn't like the freezer much; he preferred the heat of the ovens and stove, even though the heat outside made him sweat torrents.

One especially hot afternoon, Pyro was attempting to relieve himself of the heat by sitting in the shade on the battlements, keeping Sniper company while the Australian discussed his own adventures in the searing Outback, stalking whatever prey he could find.

“One time, out in the bush there, I found this mighty huge water buffalo. So there I was, sittin' out all alone for days, stalking this big beaut', waitin' for the perfect opportunity to shoot 'is head out.” Sniper smiled as he looked through his rifle's scope, watching intently the BLUs on the opposite side of the moat splash around one at a time in an improvised wading pool made out of an old washtub. He reached to his side, picked up a handkerchief, and wiped his brow, all without moving his head an inch.

Pyro, curious of Sniper's ventures in the Australian wilderness, waved his hand in a circle, goading him on. “Haha, right. Then, next thing I know, this bugger of a buffalo ran off, right into the crevice there. Somethin' scared the wits out of him, probably a dingo or somethin'. Anyway, poor blighter broke his legs, so I did him in. Delicious pieces of meat, though. I was full for days on end there.”

Pyro hung his head, slightly disappointed by the less-than-interesting ending. He moved his hand to his own brow, attempting to wipe his own brow of the torrent of sweat, but was stopped by his restricting helmet. A groan of agony escaped the air filter. He was used to the heat, but...

A light, quick pattering of feet sounded from the doorway. Pyro peeked his head around the corner and saw the nimble Scout sprint around the corner, almost breaking Pyro's neck as he ran past.

“Yo, sorry, Flamer,” the Bostonite apologized as he came to a screeching halt. “But I think they need you in the kitchen or somethin'. Freezer's busted, I think. You know how to fix it?”

“Nwydeynee M helfo?” Pyro growled, moving wearily to his feet. Even in the oppressive heat outdoors, he didn't want to go into the constricting base, much less to the cold freezer.

Scout looked at Sniper for a translation. Without batting an eye Sniper replied, “I think he wants to know why you lot chose him to fix the freezer, mate. It DOES sound like more of a job for Engie.” He adjusted his shoulder slightly and recalibrated his sight. Pyro and Scout walked off as Sniper continued, “Then again, what do I know? I'm stuck out here in the blazes of hell itself day in and out. Bloody wankers never give me a day off.” He looked over his shoulder after a moment of silence, and saw they'd both already gone. He mumbled, reassuring himself he was of at least some use to the rest of them. Then it dawned:

“The beer. No cold beer!” He stood suddenly, his rifle clattering to the floor and the box he was sitting on turning end over end. He jogged off to the kitchen after Scout and Pyro.

He found most of the team gathered around the large freezer door. Medic was consoling a weeping Heavy, his sobs muted by his huge hands covering his face. Engineer, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, stood with Pyro just in front of the freezer. Scout watched the events, rubbing his nose with his bound hands. “So what should we do? Let that shit go to rot?”

Engineer didn't look away from the door, still intently watching the tiny temperature gauge. “Well, from what I see here, it's warming by about a degree every hour.” He sighed. “We'll just have to keep that there door closed. Hopefully it'll stay warm if we keep that cold in there.”

“The meat!” Heavy wailed. “What about the meat for lunch?! What will I do without sandvich? How will I live without sandvich?” He placed his face into Medic's soldier as he weeped louder, his nose wheezing with an excess of snot.

“Ugh, quiet, you big oaf!” Medic said, patting his back comfortingly. “You can't eat that bad meat. You'll get incredibly sick.”

Heavy's wails grew louder at this. “I WILL NOT LIVE!” Medic groaned at his friend's melodramatic reaction.

Scout's stomach began to growl. He rubbed it, remembering that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. “Engie, get outta the way, I'm hungry. Lemme get something out of there.”

“Now Scout, I just done told you that you can't do that until we fix it,” Engineer stated without looking away from the freezer's gauge. It had risen a miniscule amount. He shook his head. “Well, all this food's gonna be gone soon. Bit of a waste on RED's part, if you ask me. They really need to send less perishable stuff.”

“Why don't we just eat it all?” Scout said matter-of-factly. “You know, save the good stuff at least.”

Heavy's head perked up at this. “Eat food... now?” His tear-reddened eyes beamed almost as much as his growing smile as realization swept over his brain. “Haha, little man has point! Eat food before it goes bad. What a smart little baby!” He slapped Scout on the back (causing him to wince and call Heavy “a son of a bitch”) as his booming laughter echoed in the tiny kitchen.

“Yeah, let's get on with those beers, then!” Sniper said, pushing his way past Engineer and Pyro. “Come on then, let's go! I'll even let you blokes have some, if I can have the day off tomorrow, that is.” The kitchen soon filled with the din of everyone's requests.

“Now boys,” Engineer said. Their voices grew louder in response. Engineer gritted his teeth, trying to distract himself by fixing his goggles onto his eyes. At Scout's suggestion that they just let him have all of the food, he snapped. “NOW WAIT JUST A GOSH DERN MINUTE, FOLKS!” he yelled, earning him immediate silence from the rest. “Let's just go over this more systematically, alright? We can't possibly eat all this food---”

“That's bullshit, man. You know how we eat. Heavy could eat a fucking car if he wanted to,” Scout added.

Heavy slapped him on the back again, laughing loudly. “Haha! Little man wants to eat! I say let him. He needs more meat on his girly arms!” He grabbed his arms, twisting them painfully. Medic pinched his nose in frustration.

“Get the fuck off me, fatty,” Scout said, pulling them away quickly, rubbing the reddening areas where Heavy had gripped him. “How about I just bash that hollow head of yours in, you fat punk?”

Engineer stood contemplatively again, staring at the gauge which had risen yet another minute amount during the argument. He felt Pyro nudge him in the arm. When he looked over, he simply pointed to himself, the freezer, and then gave a thumbs up. “Daohay.”

Engineer thought for a minute more, then decided. “Alright then, we'll make all this food here. Hope your stomachs are empty, boys. Gotta lotta eatin' ahead of you.” He walked out of the kitchen.

Scout and Heavy immediately ceased their scuffle, Heavy having picked up the Bostonite by his shirt collar and teasing him. He dropped him immediately, Scout falling to the ground in a sad heap with a quiet groan. “Sandvich!” he called, unlatching the freezer door and peeking his head in, “I am coming for you!”

Pyro reached up above the cabinets near the stove and found his trusty chef's hat. Heavy had already filled his arms with as much food as he could gather and was now marching proudly out of the freezer. He walked up to the counter and dumped all of the food there next to the stove with a mighty crash. Pyro just stared at Heavy, his darkened mask hiding a slight perturbation.

“Sorry, Fireman. But we must save all food!” He marched off again as if on a dire mission for the survival of the whole team.

Scout came out carrying many boxes of food as well, trying to prove to Heavy that his arms weren't as weak as he thought they were. He dropped them on top of Heavy's own pile. Pyro lit the stove and oven as Scout started discussing the situation.

“Man, I have a feeling we're not going to be doing much today. I think my stomach's going to be bursting by the time I go to bed. Hope I don't feel like shit in the morning.” Pyro nodded, grabbing a large piece of frozen beef. Scout leaned against the counter, watching the growing commotion.

“No, Sniper!” Medic called, standing in front of the freezer door with his arms crossed. “You cannot drink all of that beer by yourself.”

“Now now, Doctor, I'm not going to drink it all. There's a bit in here for you lot. Here, even your Kraut head can enjoy a beer now and then?” He took a bottle out of the large box in his arms and shoved it into Medic's hand. “Look, nice and cold, a frosty beer for a hot day.” He walked past Scout, who held his own hand out expectantly. “Haha, even the quick little bugger wants his own brew. Here y'go, mate.” He placed another cold glass in Scout's tape-bound hand as he walked out of the room.

Medic followed him swiftly. “You are going to make yourself sick again!” he called, placing his own bottle behind Scout on the counter as he passed by. Scout picked it up quickly with his empty hand and smiled.

“Aww yeah, today's going to be a good day,” he laughed, deftly whacking the cap off of the bottle on the edge of the counter. Pyro just nodded again.

Scout took a swig of the beer. He wasn't an experienced drinker; much like everything else he dealt in, he liked to give off the image of a know-it-all Masshole. His face soured almost immediately, and he spit it out in a fine spray right onto the flame on the stove. It jumped up, blue flames licking Pyro's chin. He gave a sound of immense amusement and clapped a few times, obviously impressed. Scout laughed also as he sputtered. “How can that Aussie drink this crap?”

Engineer returned, one hand hanging to his side, carrying his huge toolbox. He placed it right inside the freezer door, grabbed something off of the shelf, and walked up to Pyro.

“Now Pyro, this here is my favorite gravy,” he stated, pointing at the label which simply read “GRAVY (SAUSAGE).” “You best make sure nobody, and I mean NOBODY, eats this before I can get a bit of it. Can you do that for me?”

Pyro nodded and gave a quiet, “Uh huh,” in reply.

Engineer clapped him on the shoulder with his gloved hand. “You're a good man, Pyro.” He turned his attention to Scout, giving what the young man thought was a glare through his dark brown goggles. “If you even lay a finger on my food, boy, I'll whip you so hard you won't see straight for days.”

“Is that an offer, Hardhat?” Scout joked, smiling widely. “I didn't know y'were a fag. Maybe you should talk t' Spy about that problem of yours.”

Engineer gritted his teeth and opened his mouth as if to say something else, but simply walked away. Scout chuckled to himself.

Soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of various foods and the sounds of Engineer working on the freezer. Scout sat at the table next to Heavy, each with a filled plate of random meats, vegetables, and starches. Two empty bottles sat in front of Heavy's plate. He pointed to one as he stuck a fork full of bad steak into his mouth. “This,” he chewed for a moment, “THIS is horrible! Like drinking my own urine!”

Scout looked sideways at the Russian as he stopped chewing. “Y'know, I'm tryin' to eat here. How can you say that nasty crap when I'm tryin' to fuckin' eat? 'Drinkin' your own piss,' I mean, what the fuck is that?”

Heavy laughed through a mouthful of food as Medic sat down across from him, his own plate covered in a coil of fine sausages, saying, “You know, urine is quite sterile. Unless you are sick, that is.” Scout's fork clattered to the table as he covered his face in frustration and disgust. “If it wasn't for all of the toxins in it, it'd be quite a good way to keep yourself alive if you were in dire straits,” Medic continued.

“Fuckin' sick,” Scout complained as he rose with his plate in his hands. “I'm goin' outside. Maybe Sniper won't talk about this sick shit.” He stormed off. Engineer pounded on the freezer's engine with his wrench, causing a clatter throughout the kitchen. Pyro was still hard at work, silent as he cooked all of the food he could find. The pile on the counter next to him had grown noticeably smaller.

“It is just medicine,” Medic stated as he gingerly cut a piece of sausage with his knife. “Er soll nicht so kindisch sein...”

“Hm, yes,” a voice said behind him. Medic dropped his utensils, and without turning around to see who it was said, “Spy, du Scheißkopf! I will drain your blood!”

Spy laughed from his nose. “I was just agreeing with you, mon Docteur.” He sat down swiftly, sweeping his legs over the seat of his chair and placing his plate (which was curiously empty save for a small fried egg) onto the table silently.“That boy will never understand the world.”

“Ja, ja,” Medic said, picking up his knife and fork again. “But you do not seem too well-adjusted yourself, Spy. All you are is abenteurlich, cloak and dagger.”

Spy cut a small piece off of the egg, even more gingerly than Medic, his pinkies standing in the air as he did so. “Hm, well, yes. That is the way I work.” He laughed softly.

They ate silently for a few minutes, except for a few moments where Heavy chewed loudly and moments where something sizzled on Pyro's pan. Soon Spy finished his small meal. He pushed himself back from the table, looking slightly disappointed. “It seems I am still hungry,” he said quietly, looking around the kitchen intently. He saw a steaming bowl of Engineer's sausage gravy sitting on the counter next to Pyro. “I'll be just one moment, mes amis,” he said as he vaporized in front of their eyes.

Medic sighed as Heavy was scraping the meat's juices off of his plate and into his mouth. When he finished he sat back in his chair and sighed. “So delicious,” he breathed. “I haven't eaten THAT much since I got here!”

Evening came when Engineer finally finished repairing the freezer. He wiped his brow of the small layer of sweat that had formed as he used his other hand to close and latch the freezer door. The engine hummed happily as cold air filled the small room. Pyro had long since finished cooking all of the food. The pans, plates, pots, forks, and knives were all cleaned and put away. “No gravy?” Engineer wondered.

He wandered out to the battlement, where Sniper was sitting in the exact same spot he always did. A dozen beer bottles were strewn about his feet, and Scout laid nearby, his stomach swollen with the huge amount of food he had eaten. He groaned weakly. “I'm never going to be able to take a jog tomorrow. I'm out of shape now!” He weeped for a moment before going silent.

“Scout,” Engineer said. “Did you eat my gravy?”

“What?” Scout asked drearily. “What? No. I didn't touch that stuff. I ate just about everything else though.” He belched loudly and groaned again.

“Best not be lying to me, boy. I'll find out if you are.”

“Man, I'm tellin' ya, I didn't eat your fucking gravy!” His face was turning a light shade of green. “Just...go away.” He burped again as he crawled over to the ledge and leaned his head over.

“Hey, you'll be alright, kid,” Sniper said, still watching intently the BLUs across the moat. Engineer walked back into the base.

He walked slowly through the base's maze of corridors to his room, opening the door lazily as he flipped on the light. He looked at the ground in front of the door, and there sat an empty but dirtied plate, covered in a light coating of sausage gravy. A note sat on top. Engineer bent over to read it:

“-Your Lover Spy.” A crudely drawn heart was next to his signature. Engineer threw it to the ground and groaned as he collapsed onto his bed face first.

Scout retched over the edge of the battlement; Sniper still hadn't moved an inch. The BLUs were now having a barbecue in front of the base, their own Engineer cooking racks of ribs over a small flame. Their Demo and Sniper clanked two beer bottles together.

“Lucky sods,” the RED Sniper said, taking a final swig from his last bottle of beer. A hum appeared on the borders of his hearing, growing louder with each passing moment. Soon it grew to a drone.

Scout sat up and wiped his lips. “It came outta my nose,” he said, spitting over the edge onto the ground.

“Open your mouth next time,” Sniper said. “Now be quiet and stop your bitchin'.” The droning rose to a buzz as a huge cargo airplane, emblazoned with the RED corporate logo, soared over the base. A huge box fell out of its back, a parachute breaking its fall. It landed with a thud in front of the RED side of the bridge.

Sniper hopped down from the ledge, nearly landing in Scout's puddle of vomit. He walked over to the wooden parcel and read the stencil on its side:

“FOODSTUFFS”
>> No. 3645
Ain't nothin' like an RC and a Moon Pie, neither, boys
I totally cackled with delight when I read this. God, I love that shit...
>> No. 3657
oh gosssh <3 you're a dear, scoots

Fuuuuck adorable stuff is adorable. <3 I D'AWWW'd hard at Pyro and his chef's hat.

Hnnngh, endless thanks for the repost scootastic, and sorry for taking so long to get through it. Write moar fagget, keep doing that and I will keep reading. :F
>> No. 3659
P.S. your characterizing is fantastic but your plot needs moar bigass tasty-lookin trays of nachos.
>> No. 3660
also butts
>> No. 3661
lessthan three


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