Category: Uncategorized

redheav:

oldboyjensrps:

Starter for @redheav

Red Base Midafternoon

———-

Being introduced to the mercs has been the most stress inducing, closest to the cold embrace of death experience Messenger had had in at least a few months. One on one stealth delivery was bad enough, but being tied to a chair with all nine ridiculously murdery men staring her down while the Administrator lectured them on the financial costs property damage (property being sort of a combo of the tv and it’s carrier) would have for them was doubleunfun.

Ultimately though, it was a relief to finally have clearance to enter the base and make direct deliveries. Mostly on account of Scout. With the volume of letters he got from home one would think he would have a permanent address or like a fucking PO box. Of course not. Of course she had to figure out how to track a guy jogging through the desert and try to hit him with a mail pack from up on a Mesa or behind a building or some shit: a feat she’d only successfully pulled off once. But now, with base access, she could finally do the unthinkable: deliver mail directly into his hands thank FUcK.

At least… that’s how it was supposed to go. Awkwardly standing in the base hallway with a growing sense of dread, Messenger cupped her hands around her mouth and tried hollering again.

“Scout! Mail call! Mail for The Scout! You’ve got mail! The mail is for you, the Scout!”

Please Jesus, God, and Buddha: let him actually be here.

Heavy had only just begun to doze off in a chair in the rare moment of peace when the shout echoed through the base halls. With a start, the Russian was on his feet, trying to locate the source.

To his concern, the voice was not one he immediately recognised. Though it seemed familiar, that didn’t mean he could trust whoever it belonged to.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Heavy peered down the hall towards the source of the noise. That’s when he realised who the voice belonged to. 

The Russian drew himself to full height, like a bird puffing up its feathers. He strode into the hall so the messenger could see him. Of course he remembered her, the woman who had delivered photos of his secret American home. 

“He is not here.” Heavy’s voice rumbled through the halls. If he was then the Russian would not have fallen asleep so easily. 

There was a moment’s pause before the giant continued. “Are you sure it is mail and not more photos?”

At the approaching footsteps, Messenger had been ready to turn and sigh in relief at her target’s approach. Instead, the blood drained from her face as she attempted to not look like she was mentally writing her own eulogy.

Of course Scout wasn’t there. Why would mister happy feet ever be somewhere convenient for her life and livelihood? Ridiculous concept, to expect any situation that didn’t have her in pretty serious mortal peril with a very irritated guy she’d taken pictures of sleeping next to his gun. Not uh, that he knew that part. Just… obviously he had a hunch she’d delivered them. Which she had.

Haha… oh boy.

“Oh ah, hi, uh sir hello. It, uh, boy nice weather huh? You look well.”

She instinctively checks the weight of the envelope pack in her hands, and for a moment curiosity overpowers fear. Like a pigeon trying to get a better look and listen, Messenger cocks her head to the side and turns it over in her hands. 

“Huh I don’t actually know… I mean, it could be? Thick packet this time… family must have lots to say..” she realizes her murmured blunder and immediately falls back into terrified awkward friendliness, “uh! Hypothetically! The letters could totally be from anyone, and I know nothing!”

Starter For @donnez-moi-vos-vivres

donnez-moi-vos-vivres:

oldboyjensrps:

@donnez-moi-vos-vivres

—

The bottom line was that The Messenger had gotten incredibly lucky in terms of timing. It was a Friday, most of the BLU team was out and not at Dustbowl which meant no one saw her scooter kicking up, well, dust, on the service road up to their base. Hopefully. She at least made it to the back entrance without a sniper’s bullet through her helmet which could be counted as a good sign. Messenger hid the little yellow scooter in her and Pauling’s covert parking bunker under a rock before taking a deep, steadying breath. Her ascot felt a bit tight, and in her mind’s eye she could see herself being strangled with it. 

Messenger gulped, hit the code for the door, and started her trek to the infamous smoking room. Like anyone headed to their certainish doom, Messenger mumbled to herself while walking on her tiptoes and on high alert.

“Do I knock? I should knock, right? Yeah, yeah I’ll knock. Okay. Good plan Mess, good plan. Knock to let the assassin get prepared and shank you, ‘oh come in I won’t stab you’ yeah, great idea.” 

After an eternity, she found herself outside her destination. The Administrator said that the door should be unlocked… probably. It made sense in a way, no reason to lock the door if everyone knows to leave you alone. Best to just…go for broke.Was it a terrible idea? Of course, but Messenger had limited options and even less self control. Gonna go out? Why not in a flash. 

The Messenger counts to three before lunging forward and throwing open the door, hitting the floor on her knees and raising her hands in surrender while simultaneously making use of her Jersey heritage to hammer out a “don’-kill-have-missive-from-HQ!”

The day honestly couldn’t have been going better for René. Fridays always felt better than other days of the week, since he knew the weekend was coming, and weekend meant ceasefire. Although the day’s battle had been long and grueling, he had managed to get a rather impressive killstreak towards the end of the match. Even if they had lost, his mood wouldn’t have been dampened. Granted, they did end up winning after he sapped the sentry guarding the final point, which was just the cherry on top. 

He was in an uncharacteristically good mood as he reclined comfortably on his favorite armchair, reading a book he started a few weeks ago. It was slow going, chewing through the rather flowery English, but he was managing. There was a pen and paper nearby, sitting atop a very large English to French dictionary. On the paper were many seemingly unrelated sentences, translated back and forth between French and English.

So engrossed he was in the book that he didn’t hear the sound of an intruder until the door slammed open and someone with an American accent very loudly yelled some kind of gibberish at him. A gun was in the Spy’s hands before he really registered what was happening, one finger on the trigger and aimed at the woman kneeling at the now open door. His eyebrows shot up when he realized that she appeared to not want to fight. Somehow, his eyebrows managed to shoot higher when he remembered her face, someone he had seen traveling between bases and had heard about when he ‘accidentally’ overheard the very beginning snippet of the Administrator’s last TV message for him. René had never gotten to see her up close before, which only made him more convinced there was some important business that must be done. The Messenger was here, someone only sent when the exploding TV carriers couldn’t be relied on.

“… You… Have a message, right?”

The gun’s appearance earned a sharp inhale from Messenger: half relief that it wasnt a throwing knife in her throat and half ‘oh boy a gun.’ She her eyes locked with René’s and one hand stayed in the air as the other clumsily unbuttoned her blouse. There were a couple layers of awkward to the situation, but at this point the only intrusive thoughts sticking around concerned cursing her faltering fine motor skills.

“Yep, yep. Direct directive from the Administrator . I mean I think it’s a directive. Probably not just a hi how are you right haha ah… but um, I don’t know stuff before you. She was just really dead specific that it’s for your eyes only,” a slight pause, “Well, I mean your eyes and brain. And the rest of you…y’know, person wise.” He raised hand flops in a hopeless gesture, “Um, I am… going to lower my other hand now to get this open so I don’t take years. Please don’t shoot, it’s just the tv.”

After the warning, she slowly lowered her hand, still maintaining eye contact, and got the last few buttons undone. The little TV was a slightly different model than the ones carried by the usual grunts. Just the slightest bit updated with an extra couple switches on the side.