**"Scout's Splashin' R&R"** The sun beat down with a relentless intensity on the gravel-worn battlegrounds that surrounded RED base, a rare moment of tranquility hanging in the balance. It was one of those rare ceasefire days that the Administrator had called for...reasons. The battle-scarred mercenaries of the RED team took this opportunity to engage in their various definitions of relaxation, which for most involved weapon maintenance or senselessly demolishing parts of the base for the Engineer to fix later. But not for the Scout. Oh no, the youngest and speediest member of the team had grander designs for his downtime--a completely radical idea. He was going to take a dip in the lake near the base. It was a plan only a bonafide genius (or someone with a few screws loose) could concoct. With a cocksure strut, Scout flipped open his locker, shedding his gear and garments with an exaggerated flair until, with a cheeky whistle, he stood in his all-together. Streaks of his lean, sun-kissed skin were marked with the occasional bruises and scars--a testament to his agility and his inability to dodge every punch. "Hey, look at me, Ma!" he quipped in his thick Boston accent, addressing an imaginary audience as he admired himself. "Fit as a freakin' fiddle!" Passing by his bemused teammates, he gave dem flicks of charm and flexes of muscle. "Ay, Heavy, keep those eyes on the sandvich, big guy! Ya might strain somethin'!" Scout jested, catching the eye roll of the Russain behemoth who was contentedly munching on his lunch. The Sniper, perched with a book in hand, chuckled behind his shades. "Blimey, Scout, you've got the modesty of a streaker at a footy match!" Snorting at the comment, Scout retorted with a grin, "Just appreciatin' the natural beauty, Snipes! Not my fault I got plenty to appreciate." At last, upon reaching his destination, Scout waded into the cool embrace of the lake, replendent in all his birthday-suited glory. His pace was an impromptu dance, moving to the rhythm of nature as he sloshed through the clear water, his giddy laughter reflecting off the gentle waves. Scout's shadow played across the lakebed as he finally submerged himself up to his neck, sighing like a man who had not known peace since the bullets started flying. Unbeknownst to the unsuspecting aquatic residents of the lake, the relaxation was about to take a thunderous turn. Lowering his eyes in a scoundrel's concentration, Scout let out a pent-up fart that rippled through the water. "Frrrapp!" went the water, as bubbles popped at the surface. The Scout's face contorted to what can only be described as a symphony of relief and mischief--a sly grin followed by a victorious chuckle. He could only bask in the comfort that followed, watching with glee as fish came belly-up, victims to the unholy stench. "Sorry, Charlie!" Scout hollered, plucking an unfortunate fish from its now unsanitary habitat. "That's what I call natural selection!" With the trophy in hand, Scout swaggered back to dry land and fetched some twigs for a makeshift campfire. The sun began to sink lower, painting the sky with splashes of fiery orange and purple, an awe-inspiring backdrop to Scout's culinary conquest. "Now ain't that a beautiful sight," he said more to himself than anyone else, as he skewered the fish and held it over the crackling flames. "Scout, you Renaissance man, you've outdone yourself." As the fish cooked, turning golden and aromatic despite its grim demise, Scout glanced back towards the base, half expecting the Soldier to come charging out with a shovel, ranting about lake monsters or the Spy to sneak up with sarcastic quips about his "uncultured palate." "Too bad they're missin' out," Scout mused. "This fish is gettin' grilled to perfection. Bon appetit, moi!" The evening waned and the Scout, satisfied with his grilled catch and feeling utterly refreshed, decided it was time to re-up the tempo. He stood, stretched, and took one last look at the lake, now a glassy mirror reflecting the dusky canopy. "Not like those goons to appreciate the finer things in life," he commented as he walked back towards the base, a whiff of accomplishment trailing him. "But hey, who needs 'em when you've got style, speed, and the best-damned fish dinner this side of Boston?" With that, the Scout strut his way back to his team, ready for whatever madness the next battle would bring--and secure in the knowledge that when it came to relaxation, nobody did it quite like the Boston Brawler himself.