The sun was hanging low, just ticklin' the edge of the horizon when Scout--fast-talker, quicker-runner, and self-proclaimed lady-killer of the rag-tag team known as the mercenaries of RED--decided he'd earned himself a little R&R. Spy was gettin' on his last nerve, and Heavy's sandwiches were startin' to look like Michelin-star meals after the weeks of nothin' but explosive chaos. "Ah, forget this noise," Scout muttered to himself, tugging at his dog tags. "Ya boy needs some quality me-time." So, he moseyed on over to the nearby pond, a hidden slice of tranquility far enough from the base's cacophony of gunfire and explosions. Reaching the edge, our shirtless hero shimmied outta his togs faster than a Pyro burnin' through a field of Spies. Scout stood in the buff, his backside shinin' like the polished hood of a car in the sun, if that car was painted with a few freckles and bruises. And then, as bare as the day he was born--only more muscular and slightly less screamin'--Scout tiptoed like a ballerina into the pond. "Ah, that's nice. That's real nice," he grinned, sliding into the water and leaving ripples across the surface. Settling down in the comfy mud, he dipped his head back, caressed by the cool water, and exhaled a sigh of sheer bliss. The Scout's face--a mask of relaxation and mischief--twisted slightly as he felt a familiar pressure bubblin' up from within his guts. "Oh boy, here it comes," he whispered to himself, a childlike grin spreadin' across his mug. The pond bubbled like a jacuzzi, and with the thunderous harmony of a brass band in Fenway Park, Scout let out a monumental fart that would've made the Soldier salute. The water around him roiled, and a couple of unfortunate fish caught a whiff and promptly keeled over, belly-up. "Whoops! My bad, little guys. Shoulda warned ya 'bout the Scout Special!" he chuckled, not a single ounce of genuine remorse in his cackle. Grabbing one of the expired fish in his victorious hand, he chuckled, "Fish outta water, meet the Scout outta base. A match made in culinary heaven!" The trip back to the base was brisk and refreshing, the cool evening breeze playin' tag with Scout's proud display of birthday suit. He waltzed into the base, grabbed a cold one from the fridge, and returned to his little pond sanctuary. As the fire crackled and danced, Scout skewered his aquatic victim with a stick. "Nothin' like a bit of catch 'n' cook, am I right?" he chatted to himself, flipping the fish delicately over the open flame. "This baby's gonna be delish!" Taking a swig of beer, the Scout watched the fish sizzle. "Oh, we gon' dine good tonight! Might even save a bite for Spook--nah, only kiddin'. That suit-wearin' chucklehead couldn't appreciate a good meal if it backstabbed 'im!" Scout bit into his pond-to-plate specialty, the stars glimmering above, reflecting in the still-rippled water of his serenity pond. It was a night of gentle quiet and Scout-style sophistication--just him, the suds, and the grill. "Ah, this is the life," he declared, with the satisfied nod of a man whose plans, for once, hadn't completely blown up in his face--or anybody else's, for that matter.