battlewitted:
Phil stiffened instinctively at the sudden French accent. He turned around, expecting to be backstabbed by a RED spy, but relaxed considerably when he saw a nice, easy shade of blue instead. “Don’t scare me like that,” he warned.
He grinned a second later, however. It was a pleasant grin, but there was also some reservation that reflected in his eyes. He was clearly nervous about dealing with a spy. True, Phil knew of him, having worked with him only briefly in the past, but this was up close and personal. He was mildly surprised, finding relief in the fact that this particular spy did not know him by name.
“What can I help you with?” He asked. He was trying to sound enthusiastic, but spies usually had some hidden card up their sleeve, and Phil was worried this was going to come back to bite him.
The spy pursed his lips together, biting down a grin that fought virulently against his bid to remain neutral. The reflexive instinct against, what he could only assume was, the collective effect of several countrymen employed in the same venue was nothing short of tickling. Stop laughing.
He took to adjusting his cufflinks--metal, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; walkabout, as they glinted against light--to redirect himself a moment. The scout was far from pleased, and did his best to hide it. Cute. “I do hope you’ll excuse me,” René hummed. “But I find myself in an unusual predicament. Perhaps you could help? You scouts are always--”
There was a nonchalant gesture with his left hand as he thought; an unpleasant ‘pop!’ stopped the spy for a moment, and lips drew down. René cleared his throat.
“--are usually partial to giving other scouts a run for their money, yes?”
