The Sniper was going to ignore the Scout using the side of his camper for throwing practice, but the little hooligan soon got bored with that and had the nerve to see how close he could get to the windows without breaking them. Silent as a cat, the Sniper slipped out of his camper and intercepted the next fastball.
“Noice aim.” He smirked. “Too bad you still can’t shoot worth shite.”
Once he got over his surprise, the Scout flipped him the bird. “Very funny, Mister I-Spent-My-Childhood-Wrestling-Crocodiles. Gimme my ball back.”
The Sniper nodded towards the wilderness beyond the camper and began walking towards it, not bothering to check if the Scout was following. “Wot ‘appened t’ th’ machine Truckie was building?”
“Hell if I know,” the Scout could be heard muttering. “The way I saw him going at it, he’s prolly aiming ta turn it inta another failed giant robot project again.”
“Moight want t’ take a page from Demoman’s book and ploi ‘im with so much Scrumpy ‘e can’t go all crazy Mad Scointist.” The Sniper checked for the wind before positioning himself. “Then again, th’ last toime Truckie was off ‘is face ‘e chopped ‘is arm off.”
The Scout shook his head. “Don’t remind me, man, his workshop STILL reeks something awful.” He stretched and then made a ‘come on’ gesture. “You sure you don’t need a glove or nuthin’?”
The Sniper lobbed the ball back at the Scout with an easy underhanded toss. “Never need t’ playing cricket.”
“All right, man, your funeral.”
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