Scout, the Boston-born speedster with a mouth quicker than his scattergun, decided it was high time to take a load off at the pond lying just a stone's throw away from the RED base. "Yeah, I deserve a break," he said to no one in particular, his rapid-fire diction punctuating the tranquil afternoon air. "Lemme show this pond how we do downtime in Boston!" Reaching the water's edge, a devilish grin stretched across Scout's face. "Hey water, hope you're ready for some prime time Red Sox action," he quipped, shedding his clothes in a dramatic flourish. His backside, a sight rarely seen by anyone due to his hyperactive always-on-the-run lifestyle, was now bare for all to see. It was as pale as the moon in the night sky, almost glowing with a lack of sun exposure that betrayed his indoor training regimen. "Yeah, feast your eyes, nature! That's 100% Grade-A Boston butt!" he hollered with a laugh, causing a few birds to hastily take wing. With a cocky strut that would make a peacock jealous, Scout approached the pond. His lanky form, accentuated by his toned runner's muscles, sliced through the water with all the grace of a slim, human-shaped torpedo. Finding a comfortable spot, he let out a sigh and leaned back, arms outstretched. "Ahh, this is the life! No Sentry Guns, no weirdo Spy dudes... Just Scout and the great outdoors," he mused, basking in the serenity. Now, we all know Scout's as subtle as a sledgehammer in a library, so when the urge to fart struck, it was no private affair. "Watch out, fishies! We got a Boston baked bean burrito breezing down the chow line!" he chuckled mischievously to himself. With a proud raise of his eyebrows and a self-satisfied smirk, he let rip a bubbling blast from the depths below. The bubbles danced to the surface, popping with silent vulgarity. The pond's inhabitants reacted less than favorably, a few unfortunate fish turning belly-up, apparently victims of Scout's malodorous assault. "Heheh, oops! Sorry, lil' dudes, didn't mean to gas ya with the secret weapon," he quipped with faux innocence, the faintest hint of genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. Scout waded through the water, chuckling as he collected the floaters with a skill that only someone from Beantown could possess. "Eh, what can I say? Out here in the wild, ya gotta use every part of the buffalo... or, ya know, every part of the Scout," he rationalized with a touch of twisted pride. Clutching the fish against his still-bare chest, Scout made his way back to base, whistling a jaunty tune. "Gonna cook these bad boys up real nice. Call it Scout's Special Pond-to-Plate Fish Fry. The guys are gonna lose their freakin' minds!" he boasted loudly enough for any lingering wildlife to hear. And just like that, the Scout, with his singular brand of chaotic mischief and unsolicited fish fry, left the pond--if not cleaner than when he'd found it, then certainly emptier. "Hey, Miss Pauling," Scout bellowed as he sauntered into the base, fish in tow. "You ever had fish cooked fresh by yours truly? Well, buckle up 'cause tonight, we're having a Boston fish party, and everyone's invited!"