Title: Scout's "Off-Duty" Delights Scout was havin' one heck of a day. The sun was beatin' down on the RED base like a flamethrower on full blast, and the kid was cookin' in his boots. So he reckons, "Hey, why not take a lil' dip in the pond out back? Cool off the engines, y'know?" "Ev'rybody, eyes up!" Scout hollers, crackin' a sly grin as he peels his sweat-stained clothes off and flings 'em into his dented, sticker-plastered locker, emergin' like a pale stick figure tryin' to play the part of a Greek god or somethin'. "The legendary Scout's goin' au naturel! Don't get too jealous, fellas." He struts past his bewildered teammates, all skin and cocksure swagger, like he's got the Champion Belt on and they're all punchin' bags. "Ya might wanna shield yer eyes from the dazzlin' glory, ladies and gents!" Step by step, in the buff, the Scout makes his way out to the peaceful pond. He tiptoes, grimacing as the rocks and twigs on the ground give his bare soles a real hard time, but hey, can't break the cool demeanor for somethin' as small as that. Finally at the pond's edge, he jumps in with a bombastic cannonball, hollerin' the entire way down. SPLASH! The water ain't exactly crystal clean, but it's refreshin' enough for Scout, who lets out a loud "Ah!" as he surfaces, shakin' droplets from his slicked-back hair with a wild doggish shake. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" Settlin' in, Scout kicks back, bobbin' like an apple at a Halloween party. His skin's all goose-pimpled from the nip in the water, and the lazy summer breeze. He tilts his head back, soakin' in the brief respite from the battlefield... When suddenly, the urge hits him. The pressure had been buildin' during that intense last match, like somethin' fittin' to blow the hatch off the sub, if ya catch my drift. He glances around. Nah, none of the guys are in view, and the fishies don't mind. So he lets it rip. PFFFFFFTTT! The bubble brigade marches up to the surface, poppin' with a symphony of plops. Scout's face morphs into an instant mask of relief, his eyebrows kinkin' upward, lips partin' in a delighted gasp, cheeks puffin' out and then deflatin' as he sighs out a lazy chuckle. "HeAVENLY," he sighs in that thick Boston brogue. 'Dead' fish suddenly belly-flop to the surface. "Aww, what's the matter lil' dudes? Can't handle the aroma of excellence?" Scout chortles, wavin' a hand over his nose. "Guess it's a bit much even for the local wildlife." A particularly plump trout floats by, catchin' Scout's eye. An idea sparks like a flare gun goin' off. "Well, ain't you lookin' delectable?" Without a shred of hesitancy, Scout snatches up the fish, shamblin' outta the pond and leavin' a trail of dripping footprints. He rubs his hands together with the sort of glee usually reserved for a kid in a candy store, not a grown man about to play grillmaster. "Time to add 'gourmet chef' to my already impressively long list of talents." With the craftiness of a Spy and the delicate touch of a Heavy handling his Sandvich, Scout builds a modest campfire. Sticks, leaves, and the practiced flick of a lighter--voila, flame on. "Who needs a fryin' pan?" he mutters to himself as he skewers the trout on a stick he's ripped off a bush, holdin' it over the flames. "This meal's gonna be as rustic as Saxton Hale's chest hair." The fish starts to sizzle, and Scout rotates it with the expertise of a carnival worker on the Tilt-A-Whirl. "Look at that beauty cook," he says. "Pyro ain't got nuthin' on me. Now this is what I call, catch of the day, baby!" By the time the fish is done, Scout's all but dancin' in anticipation, his stomach growlin' louder than Soldier's war cries. He takes a bite, and it's almost enough to make him forget about the game, the payload, or even the cart. "Bon appetit, ya frickin' genius," he grins, salutin' himself. "Nothin' like a little pond-to-plate cuisine to complete the perfect day of relaxin'." Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a few of his teammates peekin' around the base, drawn by the scent of cookin' fish or just plain curiosity at what the Scout's up to this time. "What're you chuckleheads lookin' at?" Scout calls, with a mouthful of trout, wavin' a charred, flaky fin in their direction like a mad conductor. "This is a private dining experience!" Who knows, maybe next time they'll all join in on Scout's "relaxation" strategy. But for today, this victory meal is all his own, and not even the most pungent pond fart could ruin this moment for the fastest man alive... or at least, the fastest man at the RED base. End.