TEAM FORTRESS SYSTEM OVERRIDE
Gala of the Glitched Heart
The smoking lounge of the RED base was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the silent, judgmental presence of the Spy. He sat in his velvet armchair, meticulously cleaning a silver-plated revolver, when the door burst open with the force of a small explosion.
"Hey! Spook! I need your brain. The romance part. Not the part where you kill people," Scout barked, skidding to a halt on the polished floorboards.
Spy didn't even look up. He let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to age him a decade. "Scout. It is three in the afternoon. I am off the clock, and I am certainly not your 'romance consultant.' Go bother the Engineer. I hear he is very good with... mechanical attachments."
"Engie don't know nothin' about this!" Scout jumped onto the edge of a mahogany side table, leaning in close. "Look, I need to ask someone out. Like, for real. No buckets of chicken, no fast-talkin', no 'hey-ma-look-at-me' crap. I need the fancy stuff. The French stuff."
Spy finally lowered his gun, his masked eyes narrowing. "I have already performed this miracle for you once, if you recall. I gave you a literal script to woo Miss Pauling. You took her on a date. It was a disaster."
"Miss Pauling doesn't count!" Scout waved a hand dismissively, his face turning a light shade of pink. "She doesn't even like men! It was a rigged game from the start, okay? This time, it’s different. I genuinely like this person. I can’t stop thinkin' about 'em. It’s like... like my brain has a virus or somethin'."
Spy’s posture shifted. The sarcasm didn't vanish, but a flicker of fatherly curiosity—the kind he usually buried under layers of cynicism—emerged. He set the revolver down and crossed his legs. "Fine. I shall grant you one final consultation. Tell me about this... paragon of virtue. What is she like?"
Scout’s eyes lit up. He started pacing the small room, gesturing wildly. "Okay, so, first off, she’s—I mean, they’re—smart. Like, scary smart. They can do things with a computer that make my head hurt. And they’re tall, y’know? Like, really tall. And they got this hair... it’s like a sunset, but pinker. And they got these eyes that look like they’re made of gold or somethin'."
Spy watched him carefully. "Pink hair. Tall. Technical expertise."
"Yeah! And she—I mean... she... she’s real sassy, too," Scout stammered, his tongue tripping over the pronouns like a hurdle. "She’s got this way of lookin' at me like I’m an idiot, but also like... like she wants to laugh? It’s complicated!"
Spy stared at him for a long, agonizingly silent minute. He took a slow drag from his cigarette. "Scout. You are describing the Hacker."
"No! No, I ain't! I’m talkin' about a... a girl! A very tall, Brazilian girl with a military background and a penchant for leather dresses!" Scout’s voice went up two octaves.
"Jeremy," Spy said, his voice dropping into a stern, low register. "I am a professional. I literally get paid to see through disguises. Do not lie to me."
Scout slumped, his shoulders dropping. He sat down on the floor, leaning his head against the table. "Alright, fine. It’s him. It’s Ethan. Are you gonna laugh? Go ahead. Get it out of your system."
Spy didn't laugh. He adjusted his tie. "I am not going to laugh. I am, however, going to tell you that if you approach a man like Renan Calisto with a bucket of fried chicken, he will likely hack your bank account and leave you penniless in a ditch."
"I knew it!" Scout groaned.
"Listen to me," Spy said, leaning forward. "You must be elegant. You must be direct, yet mysterious. You do not ask; you invite. You must present yourself as a man of substance, not a hyperactive squirrel on a sugar bender. Do you understand?"
Scout pulled out a crumpled notebook and a chewed-up pencil. "Elegant. Direct. Mysterious. No squirrels. Got it."
"And for the love of God," Spy added, his eyes burning with a sudden intensity, "no more 'bonk' puns."
"So... the whole 'I'm a force of nature' line? That’s out?"
Spy slowly turned his head, giving him a death stare so cold it could have frozen the Sahara.
"Okay. Got it. No nature talk," Scout muttered, scribbling furiously.
The romantic planning was cut short by the screech of the base intercom. Miss Pauling’s voice sounded urgent. "All hands to the briefing room. We have a window of opportunity at the Golden Building gala. This is a high-stakes infiltration. Suit up."
The mission was a classic "Gala Grift." The target was Orson Smith, a corrupt CEO holding encrypted documents that Mann Co. desperately wanted. The plan required the entire team to be present as "guests" to create a distraction, but the actual theft required the two masters of shadows.
"Spy and Hacker will handle the primary objective," Pauling announced. "You two are the only ones with the finesse to get into Smith’s private vault without tripping the silent alarms."
Scout’s hand shot up, vibrating with indignation. "Whoa, whoa! Why them? I’m fast! I can be quiet! I can wear a suit!"
"Scout, you couldn't be quiet if your life depended on it," Pauling said gently. "And Spy and Ethan have the most experience with social engineering. You’ll be on the floor with the rest of the guys, keeping the guards busy."
Scout slumped into his chair, glaring at the back of Ethan’s head. He watched as Ethan leaned over to whisper something to Spy, and the Frenchman actually chuckled. It was a dagger to Scout’s heart.
Before they left for the city, Scout caught Ethan in the hallway near the armory. "Hey! Pinky! Wait up."
Ethan turned, already halfway into his disguise. He looked tired but amused. "What’s up, JJ? You look like someone stole your baseball."
"I just... I wanted to say, be careful," Scout said, shuffling his feet. "Spy is... y’know, he’s an old snake. Don't let him talk you into anything weird."
Ethan arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "Jeremy, are you jealous? Because it really sounds like you’re jealous."
"I’m not jealous! Why would I be jealous?! That’s stupid! We’re just friends and all, and I just don't want you gettin' bad habits from a guy who smokes in the shower!" Scout shouted, his face turning the color of a fire hydrant. "I was actually gonna ask you—"
"Hacker! Move it!" Spy’s voice echoed from the garage. "The limo is waiting."
"Gotta go," Ethan said, giving Scout a quick wink. "We’ll talk later, Boston."
In the dressing room of the Golden Building, Spy watched as Ethan stepped out from behind a screen. The Hacker was wearing a floor-length, backless red gown with a slit that ran dangerously high up his thigh. His hair was pinned up in an elegant, messy bun, with two soft strands framing his dark, contoured face. He wore sharp, winged eyeliner that made his yellowish eyes look like molten gold.
Spy stood silent for a moment, adjusting his own tuxedo. "Wow. You really do look good in that outfit. You’re just missing one thing."
Spy picked up a tube of deep crimson lipstick. He stepped close to Ethan, his gloved hand tilting the younger man’s chin upward. He applied the color with a surgeon’s precision. For a second, the air between them was thick with a strange, professional tension—the mutual respect of two predators.
Ethan looked at himself in the mirror, then back at Spy. "Damn, you really know a lot about disguises, huh?"
"I’m a spy," the older man replied smoothly, tucking the lipstick away. "I have to know everything, eventually."
The gala was a sea of gold leaf and champagne. Scout, dressed in a tuxedo that was slightly too big in the shoulders, spent the first hour hovering near the buffet, his eyes glued to the staircase. When Ethan and Spy finally descended, the room seemed to go quiet. Ethan moved with a feline grace, the red silk of his dress whispering against the marble.
Scout felt his heart plummet into his shoes. He watched as Spy led Ethan toward Orson Smith, the two of them weaving through the crowd like they’d been doing this their whole lives.
"I can't believe this," Scout hissed, sneaking through the kitchen doors to follow them into the restricted wing. "I ask the guy for advice, and he tries to steal my date!"
He rounded a corner in the darkened hallway of the executive floor, nearly colliding with a cloaked figure. It was Spy, currently invisible but shimmering slightly in the dim light.
"Scout? What are you doing here?" Spy’s disembodied voice hissed.
"I knew it! You’re movin' in on him!" Scout yelled, forgetting to whisper. "You’re usin' the mission to hit on the guy I like!"
Spy shimmered back into view, looking utterly exasperated. "Ah. So it is the Hacker. I knew your 'mystery girl' sounded suspiciously like a Brazilian man in a dress."
"No! No, you don't know anything! You’re just old and lonely and you want to ruin my life!"
"I am trying to steal a microchip, you imbecile!"
Their bickering was cut short by the heavy thud of combat boots.
"Intruders in Sector 4!" a guard shouted.
Gunfire erupted, shattering the expensive vases lining the hall. The gala’s "discreet" security had arrived.
"Well, so much for stealth," Ethan’s voice rang out. He stepped out from a side office, the red dress flared out as he delivered a spinning kick to a guard’s jaw. He reached into the slit of his dress, pulling out a suppressed submachine gun he’d had strapped to his thigh.
The fight that followed was a masterpiece of violence. Spy and Ethan moved in perfect synchronization. Spy would vanish, reappearing behind a guard to deliver a lethal strike, while Ethan provided cover fire, his movements fluid and rhythmic, almost like a dance. They traded weapons, covered each other’s blind spots, and moved with a terrifying, stylish grace.
Scout jumped into the fray, his scattergun barking. He felt a surge of competitive energy. He wasn't going to let Spy outshine him. He bounced off the walls, a blur of motion, taking down two guards before they could even level their rifles.
At one point, Spy found himself back-to-back with Scout. He looked at the boy, then at Ethan, who was currently reloading. With a subtle, knowing smirk, Spy stepped aside, deliberately tripping a guard into Scout’s path and then vanishing into the shadows. He gave Scout a quick, mocking wink before disappearing completely.
"Go fuck yourself, you old impotent bastard!" Scout yelled after him, though he knew Spy was giving him the floor.
Scout lunged forward, sliding across the floor to take out a guard’s legs right next to Ethan. They stood up together, shoulders touching as they faced the final wave of security.
"So!" Scout yelled over the sound of gunfire. "You wanna go out with me?"
Ethan ducked a punch, countered with an elbow to the ribs, and fired a burst into a guard’s chest. "Uh... when?"
"Next time we’re off!" Scout shouted, ducking a swinging baton. "There’s this new diner that just opened down the street. It has a whole ’90s theme! Real neon! Real burgers!"
Ethan smiled, a bright, genuine thing that cut through the smoke and blood. "Yeah, sure, Jeremy! Sounds pretty cool!"
They finished the fight side-by-side, the last guard slumped against the wall. The silence returned to the hallway, punctuated only by the distant sound of the party guests screaming below.
"We got the documents," Ethan panted, holding up a small black drive. "Let’s get out of here before the heavy hitters show up."
They turned to run, but Ethan’s luck ran out. His heel caught on the long, heavy hem of the red dress. He stumbled, his balance compromised by his limited vision.
"Whoa!"
Scout was there in a heartbeat. He caught Ethan before he could hit the floor, his arms locking around Ethan’s waist. For a second, Ethan just melted into him, his head resting against Scout’s shoulder, his breathing heavy.
"You okay?" Scout asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"Yeah," Ethan whispered. "Stupid dress. I should have gone with the mini."
Scout didn't say another word. He scooped Ethan up, carrying him bridal-style. Ethan was tall and solid, but Scout’s adrenaline made him feel light as a feather. He sprinted toward the service exit, ignoring Ethan’s half-hearted protests.
"I can walk, Jeremy!"
"Shut up, I’m bein' elegant and direct! Spy said!"
They reached the van parked in the alleyway. Scout stopped just before the doors, his chest heaving. He looked down at Ethan. The Hacker’s makeup was slightly smudged, his pink hair was falling out of its bun, and he was covered in dust—but to Scout, he looked incredible.
"Hey," Scout said, his voice trembling. "Your eyes... in this light... they’re like the sun. Kinda warm. It’s... it’s cool."
Ethan stared up at him, his expression softening into something vulnerable and sweet. "And yours... they’re like sapphires, Jeremy. Really bright."
They both froze for a second, the cheesiness of the moment sinking in, and then they both burst into a fit of giggling, nervous laughter.
The van doors slid open, revealing the rest of the team. Heavy, Demoman, and Soldier were all staring at them with varying degrees of confusion and suspicion.
Scout’s face went nuclear. He practically tossed Ethan onto the floor of the van as fast as a bullet. "You guys saw nothing! We’re professionals! Move it!"
The team remained silent as the van roared away from the curb. Scout sat on the bench, his back stiff, his face so red it looked like it might actually catch fire.
Ethan sat down right beside him. He smoothed out his torn red dress, looking just as flustered. Neither of them spoke. The air was thick with the unsaid, with the lingering heat of the fight and the shock of the confession.
Slowly, tentatively, Scout’s hand crept across the bench. His pinky finger reached out, brushing against Ethan’s.
Ethan didn't pull away. He hooked his finger around Scout’s, a tiny, secret anchor in the middle of the chaos. Scout gave a small, trembling smile, quickly turning his face toward the window so no one could see the sheer, idiotic joy written all over it.
The Tenth Class had finally found his place, and Scout had finally found something better than a bucket of chicken.