**Please note that the following story includes humorous and exaggerated elements that may not align with everyone's taste. Reader discretion is advised.** The sun was beatin' down on the ol' gravel-dusted base like a Pyro with a vendetta, and lemme tell ya, it was hotter than Miss Pauling in a spy outfit. Scout, Boston's finest example of speed and slight narcissism, had himself a wild urge to cool off - and boy, did he ever need it. "Freakin' unbelievable," Scout mumbled, swipin' the sweat off his brow as he eyed the glistening pond outside the RED base. "I'm about to turn into a human hot dog ovah here." With his trademark grin crackin' across his face, Scout sprinted toward the pond with the kind of gusto that usually had Heavy clenchin' his fists in annoyance. Reachin' the tranquil water, Scout was fixin' to enjoy himself some first-rate relaxation. He chucked his clothes off with all the grace of a Demoman on a bender, revealin' a backside that was... let's just say, more Boston baked beans than prime steak. If the Sniper had placed a bet on Scout's tan lines lookin' like a neon-sign "Kick Me" stuck right above his cheeks, he would've been richer by a couple of jars of Jarate. "Ha! Eat your heart out, Tom Jones!" Scout hollered, admirin' his reflection in the water for a few too many seconds before divin' in, arms flailin' like some kind of deranged swan takin' flight. He broke the surface with a sound that was half cheer and half the gasp of a fish pulled from the sea--pure shock at the water's refreshin' embrace. In the water, Scout was a thing of beauty - if beauty was a lanky dude cavortin' in the buff with more energy than sense. He backstroked, freestyled, and even attempted a butterfly stroke, lookin' like a Scout-shaped torpedo if torpedoes occasionally flailed and choked on water. After wearin' himself out with what can only be described as waterborne gymnastics, Scout floated leisurely on his back, the sun warmin' his belly and a dopey smile plastered on his mug. Complete silence engulfed him, the perfect moment of serenity... at least 'til nature called with the urgency of a Sentry under fire. Without a care in the world--or really, anyone to judge him--Scout let rip a fart that bubbled up like a subaqueous symphony, a mix of relief and mischief on his face. "Aw, man! That's the stuff," he sighed, eyebrows lifted in a mix of satisfaction and surprise while watchin' the bubbles race to the surface. The pond's fish, once swimmin' contentedly, had not signed up for chemical warfare. With dramatic belly flips skyward, a few of 'em floated to the top, taken out by the stench of Scout's relaxed bowels. "Whoops! Sorry there, fellas. Didn't mean to turn this into a no-swimmin' zone--ah, who am I kiddin'?" Scout snickered, not a shred of guilt showin' on his lean mug while scooping one of the less fortunate aquatic critters from the water. "Guess nature's servin' up lunch today, huh?" Buildin' himself a campfire with the skill of a Boy Scout who's only in it for the arson, Scout roasted the fish, the scent of cooked meat blendin' with the smoky air. "Heh, consider this catch of the day, special delivery courtesy of the Boston Boom-Boom," cackled Scout, somehow finding his own pun more hilarious than the Spycrab's awkward waddle. Through mouthfuls of surprisingly well-cooked fish, Scout adopted his best faux apology, still oozing that chowdah-thick accent. "Sorry, boys, but in case ya didn't know, the Scout's motto is: if life gives ya fish--grill 'em!" Laughing with his signature, nearly obnoxious confidence, Scout leaned back, belly full, and decidedly more relaxed than any man responsible for an ecological disaster should be. "Now that's what I call a freakin' day off!" Scout beamed, watchin' the smolderin' embers, oblivious to the fact that his naked pond escapade would go down in RED Base history--or that his team would never let him forget it.