“The RED Sniper”

The new scout begins rapidly tapping his foot on the floor, fretting with his hair.

That, and the hurt and confusion of someone he respected and looked up to flippantly saying something so scathing towards him. Like the remark didn’t even take thought to produce. That it had already existed, and only gone unsaid.

He replies flatly, managing to look down his nose at both coworkers, despite one being over an inch taller than he is. Letting out a quiet scoff in regards to the smaller one’s attempt at intimidation.

“Stop that,” his gloved fingers snap a few times in front of Scout, nose wrinkled with disdain. “you are fluffed up like a chicken.”

The room smells like coffee and regret.

He doesn’t quite settle. Forcibly lowering his posture but still stiff. Shoulders flat, elbows angled to where the coat flares slightly to the sides. Stilled where the normally restless shuffle of his feet implied pent up energy.

Resembling a dog that sizes up an opponent it can’t take, gaze flicking around for signs of an opening despite knowing the futility of picking a fight.

Be the bigger man. Repeated to himself like a mantra. Be the bigger man. Don’t start it. Let them come to you. Ma didn’t raise you like that. Make ma proud. Be the bigger man. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Be the bigger man—

Fist flashing out from the pockets of his winter coat, he makes a run for Spy while his back is turned.

He’ll be nicer when the problem no longer lingers like an acrid taste on the back of his tongue. Probing at his mind, constantly firing off ‘what if’ scenarios. Until then, he will not be happy.

Maybe there will be a time he will grow closer to the new mercenaries. But being on uneasy footing with mortality as a whole; he refuses to be burnt twice so quickly.

Whether Scout notices, Mundy may. The stiffness of his own shoulders, fishing for something in his pockets. A lighter, but no smoke. He simply opens it up, and lets it burn. Fixating on the flame as he thumbs over the engraving, then stows it back away.

“He ain’t the one playing chicken.”

“I am going make something useful out of my time. I suggest you do the same.” He says icily, shooting a glance back at Sniper. “That includes you, bushman. Chickening out with the excuse of recovery isn’t a good look. Just take care not to freeze.”

I’ve got nothing to prove to you. It seemed to say.

Something churns in his gut, the same unease that effected the three mercenaries in significantly different ways. He does notice the stiff, almost abruptness in the movements- the large gap between them, maybe he notices the broken bridge- and despite that, because of that. He does not turn his back to the man.

A warm hand clasps Scouts shoulder, and instead (insistently) turns him away from the Frenchman, keeping his eyes trained on Spy. Despite the opinion that the words said pushed the line of ‘too far,’ a physical spat wouldn’t take them back. The wordless glower was the only response he gave their temperamental teammate. A spark of something heated in the spiteful coldness between them.

Sniper shakes his head and reined back, pinning Spy with a look of detachment. Muttering something low underneath his breath once again, this time it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone other than Scout.

Pack safety—Don’t split into groups, is the contradictory mindset. Fragmenting a team makes coordination difficult.

Whatever that meant.

Focusing on the weight pressed into his shoulder, Scout squeezes his eyes shut. Willing away the frustration clawing up his throat and wanting release. A deluge of insults would do nothing but cement him as the immature newbie. So he swallows the pent up rage and bites his tongue.

A small comfort was taken in the form of Mundy’s scowl, even as it’s reigned back into a more professional look. Letting a long exhale past his lips, he mirrors the expression of detachment as best he can, taking the more experienced Mercenary’s cue as the Spy’s unhurried footsteps exited the room.

The two are left in blissful silence for a moment, ‘he ain’t worth it’ ringing in the younger mercenary’s ears. Sustained for a while, the quiet is cut short just as he begins to overthink it.

@askredengineer

A mixture of voices surges into the halls, heated debate echoing before being abruptly shushed.

“I’m just saying that we—”

The bassy undertone of Rusty’s voice carries through the uneven walls; even after they’d quieted. Otherwise inaudible but clearly fraught with unease.

@askredmedic

“Herr Engineer, with all due respect—zis cannot get to ze others.” Is the staccato of the Medic’s high-strung voice, dipping below the threshold as they move someplace more private.

Scout casts an alarmed look over his shoulder, blinking at Sniper. Toeing between running after the voices or being good—not eavesdropping when his mind insists he should.

Impulsive. Repulsive. Repelled despite the strong word never being spoken aloud. Against his better judgement, Scout mouths the words for permission.

It seemed to be a reoccurring theme, this base and all the bits of information and secrets passed between the patterns behind the curtains. Something they weren't telling him, vague mentions from others who continued to bite their tongues as if they said something wrong and move on. Not that he'd done so much conversational sleuthing, nor would he really want to. But maybe it was the subtle jab from the prickly Frenchman, a lingering sense of dissent and discontent. Snipers brows furrow and his jaw twitches as his teeth grind in thought. Subtly, his eyes flick to Scout again and he gives him a slight nod. If Spy finds it in his heart to find his cordiality for his teammates, Sniper might feel more inclined to take his advice from before. But, he leads with his head when scoping up and down the hallway, stepping out quietly and waiting for Scout to follow. Sticking his nose where it doesn't belong seems to be the only way he'll find the semblance of an explanation.

new RED Sniper headcanon reference sheet ! not that there’s much difference from Canon

full sheet below! censored appropriately

@thecozycamper + VERSE 002 MANN VS MACHINE

" Cheap, 's what I call 'em, " he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow after finishing an upgrade. " Cheap-ass copies, tryin' to mimic the shell of us. No soul, no spark, just cold, clankin' metal. "

He hadn’t entirely realized the lengths the physical similarities had went. Not until it’d been right in front of him. The others surely found themselves up close and personal with their ‘cheap-ass copies’ more often, dismantling them by the dozens of relentless waves. As it went, his support came from a story off the ground and several paces behind them.

They hardly compared to their inspiration. Scraps welded together that clanked loudly with the jarring motions, ungraceful metal that more so shambled than walked. But there’d been multiple of them. Sneaking up behind the perched marksman, alerted by the sound cloaks falling. One took a bullet to the wires in its throat, another took his large knife in-between the gaps of its metal plating, the third had worked its thin blade into flesh of his bicep before he hauled it over the edge of the roof and let gravity finish the job.

He’d propped against the warm surface of the Engineers dispenser, letting the red vapors creep across him as it reached for the wound in his arm. It’s here, he belatedly realized he wasn’t muttering to himself like he often would whilst alone in a distant nest. The toe of his boot poking out to turn over a severed robot head of his own likeness; the sideburns, the simplified shape of his long face, even down to the thin scar that cut across his left cheek. His expression had pulled back into a disturbed grimace.

There hadn't been a robot version of him before, and while he felt mostly indifferent toward it, there was a certain pride in knowing his genius couldn’t be easily replicated. That pride took a hit when Gray Mann decided to make a mechanical copy of him.

The thought of that old man stealing his family’s technology and using it against him didn't sit right. Then again, with Industries.TF peddling his family's creations on the open market, maybe it shouldn’t have been so surprising.

He tightened the last bolt on the dispenser and glanced over at the kicked robot head lying a short distance away. A faint scowl crossed his face. " Well, s'why they come in numbers. " The words weren't praise; his tone made it clear how little respect he had for the knock-offs.

"Nah. Shouldn't bother the Doc with somethin' this small." He swung the firearm back onto his dominate shoulder, tipping his hat with two fingers. "Dispenser did the trick, cheers to ya'."

Wonders of modern medicine. Usually he wouldn’t have bothered leaving his nest for a (in his opinion) minor injury, he’d have backtracked for a small med-kit or sat back and sutured it himself- if that. But unlike the consistency of the battles they’ve faced against man, the breaks in between the waves of robots were less lenient. The self reliance he prided wouldn’t help in the long run, nor would a bad arm if he ended up in that position again.

He’d give the robot head another grim look, head tilted as his gaze flicked over the discard piles of lifeless parts and bodies. The ground spattered with oil and strewn with wires. In the silence of creaking metal, resounding voices of battle-weary men, and preparation for an on-going war- something akin to a chuckle came from the Australians gravely throat.

The new scout begins rapidly tapping his foot on the floor, fretting with his hair.

That, and the hurt and confusion of someone he respected and looked up to flippantly saying something so scathing towards him. Like the remark didn’t even take thought to produce. That it had already existed, and only gone unsaid.

He replies flatly, managing to look down his nose at both coworkers, despite one being over an inch taller than he is. Letting out a quiet scoff in regards to the smaller one’s attempt at intimidation.

“Stop that,” his gloved fingers snap a few times in front of Scout, nose wrinkled with disdain. “you are fluffed up like a chicken.”

The room smells like coffee and regret.

He doesn’t quite settle. Forcibly lowering his posture but still stiff. Shoulders flat, elbows angled to where the coat flares slightly to the sides. Stilled where the normally restless shuffle of his feet implied pent up energy.

Resembling a dog that sizes up an opponent it can’t take, gaze flicking around for signs of an opening despite knowing the futility of picking a fight.

Be the bigger man. Repeated to himself like a mantra. Be the bigger man. Don’t start it. Let them come to you. Ma didn’t raise you like that. Make ma proud. Be the bigger man. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Make ma proud. Be the bigger man—

Fist flashing out from the pockets of his winter coat, he makes a run for Spy while his back is turned.

He’ll be nicer when the problem no longer lingers like an acrid taste on the back of his tongue. Probing at his mind, constantly firing off ‘what if’ scenarios. Until then, he will not be happy.

Maybe there will be a time he will grow closer to the new mercenaries. But being on uneasy footing with mortality as a whole; he refuses to be burnt twice so quickly.

Whether Scout notices, Mundy may. The stiffness of his own shoulders, fishing for something in his pockets. A lighter, but no smoke. He simply opens it up, and lets it burn. Fixating on the flame as he thumbs over the engraving, then stows it back away.

“He ain’t the one playing chicken.”

“I am going make something useful out of my time. I suggest you do the same.” He says icily, shooting a glance back at Sniper. “That includes you, bushman. Chickening out with the excuse of recovery isn’t a good look. Just take care not to freeze.”

I’ve got nothing to prove to you. It seemed to say.

Something churns in his gut, the same unease that effected the three mercenaries in significantly different ways. He does notice the stiff, almost abruptness in the movements- the large gap between them, maybe he notices the broken bridge- and despite that, because of that. He does not turn his back to the man.

A warm hand clasps Scouts shoulder, and instead (insistently) turns him away from the Frenchman, keeping his eyes trained on Spy. Despite the opinion that the words said pushed the line of ‘too far,’ a physical spat wouldn’t take them back. The wordless glower was the only response he gave their temperamental teammate. A spark of something heated in the spiteful coldness between them.

Sniper shakes his head and reined back, pinning Spy with a look of detachment. Muttering something low underneath his breath once again, this time it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone other than Scout.

Sip.

Head casually tilting to the side, Medic takes another sip of the eggnog; unfazed.

"Aw hell, someone's gone and spiked the eggnog," he muttered, heading toward the table to grab the bowl.

Medic crouches by the Scout, checks his pulse, gives a thumbs up, then gets up onto his toes; scooping the guy up to at least lay him down somewhere softer.

Lugging him over to a nearby couch, the former doctor swoops back into the room just in time to catch… What was this, some kind of tantrum? Being thrown by BLU Soldier.

On the battlefield, learning to quickly pick out shreds of context from a mess of words was an essential skill. Efficiency was key when lives were at stake, and impaired motor function from sustained injuries were commonplace. Other times, teammates tended to ramble, or rant, or apologize instead of being direct. Sweeping emotions enveloped entire teams or single people, knocking the rest over like bowling pins in a narrow alley. Throwing matches, breaking down mid-battle, or in this case, outside of it.

Grudges were easy to hold when you didn’t know the enemy. And while the RED Soldier here may not belong to Medic’s team; there comes a sense of obligation to protect those under the broad wing of their team color. Regardless of who may be under it.

“And what if I spiked it?”

The doctor strides forwards, coming to a stop a few paces away from the BLU Soldier. Arms folded behind his back. He hopes it can go unsaid that he’s presenting a hypothetical to point out the absurdity of casting accusations with no proof; but he can’t be sure. Regardless, he’ll handle it if things get messy. Curious to know if the other will take his question at face value before he chooses whether to clarify.

He watched as the doctor faced off against the BLU Soldier in a plain blue sweater, with a pair of reindeer antlers hastily patched onto his helmet.

Both men were clearly aware of the house rules, and Medic seemed intent on taking full advantages of them, maintaining his composure even as the BLU Soldier loomed menacingly over him.

The laborer's eyebrows furrowed slightly as he caught wind of the words Medic had just spoken. His instincts told him this was heading toward trouble.

On the other side of the room, the BLU Soldier was momentarily stunned by Medic’s bold interjection, though his momentary surprise quickly curdled into disdain. The sight of the REDs sticking together, like filthy pests in his eyes, only fueled his anger. His glare burned beneath the shadow of his helmet as he stared down at the Medic, easily several inches shorter and significantly less imposing.

The patriot's mind worked quickly. He knew the RED Medic well enough to have blown him up countless times during the war… but this one wasn’t the same. A spy? No, there was no point in disguise at a party like this. He shoved the thought aside, focusing his fury on the present.

Slipping through loose fingers, his glasses clatter to the floor.

Only a brief flash of indignation betrays how he feels about the fact. Otherwise leveling the BLU with an unimpressed stare.

“I am not surprised. You lot have been known to be careless with emotion. You’d fit right in on zhe BLU team at our battlegrounds.” He continues, slowly raising a gloved hand to one of the Soldier’s arms. Not touching, but warning him of the consequences should he attack. With a plain smile, he says, “Choose your battles wisely, Reh.”

Orange shooting glasses appear over the RED Medics shoulder, a figure that managed to meet the towering figure eye to eye, significantly taller than both of the men if not as bulky in width. The mans long face was curved into a frown, and to anyone else his expression didn't seem to shift much from that look of resting impassivity, but with the closed distance; it's clear to see the narrowed eyes behind the frames.

The RED Sniper hadn't spoken, nor does he reach out to wrestle the doctor free from the BLUs clutches. Eyeing the all but friendly smile the German had on his face was all he needed, if it came down to it, he'd rather wrangle the boisterous opponent out of the unpredictable teeth of his teammate.

If your characters went ice skating, would they excel or fall flat?

🎁 PROMPT 2212

Pine forest.