Alright, so there's this pond, right? Real peaceful-like, tucked away just off the ragged edges of the RED base where the land starts lookin' more like a postcard than a battlefield. Now, Scout - the fast-talkin', bat-swingin' hot shot from Boston - gets an itch one day, you see, an itch that's got nothin' to do with dodgin' rockets or crackin' skulls. "Dang," he mutters to himself, squintin' out the barracks window at the glitterin' water. "I'mma take five. Catch me some of that nature stuff." He's out the door before the words are cold, not question marks or maybes 'bout it. Scout hits the edge of the pond, and, being the subtle kinda guy he is, flings his clothes off with all the grace of a dog shakin' off pond water. His backside, liberally tanned by many a sun while runnin' bases, glistens in the sunlight--a cheeky testament to his days of hustlin' and gunnin'. He's lean, lanky, muscles like coiled springs from his heels to his shoulders. "Hey, look at me!" Scout hollers, just in case the birds and bees ain't payin' proper attention. "About to make this pond my hot tub!" He struts into the pond, all elbows and knees, splashin' water like he's teachin' it to dance, or at least makin' sure it knows who's boss. With each step, the water climbs higher, lapping at his skin which goosebumps like it's been introduced to a celebrity. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about," Scout says, grinnin' to no one and everyone. He stretches out, wadin' to where his feet just barely touch the pond's floor, lets out a contented sigh, and then... Bubbly, ripplin', and downright comedic, Scout brings forth a fart so robust it could earn a badge for public disturbance. The bubbles percolate to the surface, bursting into existence as brief monuments to his gastrointestinal prowess. "Aw, jeez!" Scout flinches as a couple of unsuspectin' fish flip belly-up, floatin' lifelessly in the aftermath of his less-than-fragrant bubble brigade. "Guess my brand's too rich for the wildlife, huh?" Chucklin' to himself, he mock-tips an imaginary hat to his victims, "My bad, fellas. Didn't mean to gas ya." But hey, waste not, want not--and Scout's no fool. He collects the fish with a victor's smirk, the bells of opportunity ringin' dinner-time in his crafty noggin. "Talk about a catch," he boasts, nudgin' one of the unfortunate swimmers with his toe. He hoists the bounty and wades back to shore, grabbin' his clothes but not botherin' to dress lest he dampen his newfound supplies. Humming a ditty of mischief and mischief-adjacent victories, Scout bounds back to base, feet kickin' up dust, mind already waterin' at the thought of his not-so hard-earned meal. "Hey boys, guess who's servin' up the fresh catch of the day!" he announces upon barging into the kitchen like a harbinger of good eats. And for the night, at least, the pond remains tranquil, the only reminder of Scout's brief respite being the still-floating fish and a mysterious, lingering aroma that not even the frogs care to comment on.