The Scout’s look of utter confusion and bewilderment was impossible to miss as he headed to the breakfast table. “Uh,” he began, scratching the back of his head. “Is it just me, or did somebody paint little targets on all da urinals in da bathrooms?”
“I did.” The Sniper raised his hand in a lazy two-finger wave, then brushed away the liquid that sprayed on his shoulder from the Demoman snorting his drink up his nose. “Bit ‘f an experiment for th’ Doc. I’ve found that I piss a lot cleaner—”
“Dagnabbit, Slim!” the Engineer exclaimed in dismay. “Not over breakfast!”
“—when I’ve got something t’ aim at,” the Sniper continued over the Engineer, ignoring him. “Doc wanted t’ see if it was true, all soientific loike and all that.”
The Scout raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t dat what we got janitas for?”
“And aren’t you ze one always giving zee Sniper a hard time about Jarate?” the Medic wanted to know. “You do remember zat little tour we had wiz ze blacklight, ja?”
“Oh, yeah.” the Scout shuddered at the memory. He was never, ever, ever touching anything in the Spy’s room, ever. Hell, he was never, ever, ever so much as stepping foot in the Spy’s room. Different strokes for different folks and all that, but the Scout was so not into another man’s spunk.