That stupid fucking Sniper.

The Scout should have known there was something wrong with him. The man peed in jars, for fuck’s sake! And whenever the Sniper wasn’t holed up in his little nest wasting everybody’s time—the Scout was willing to bet the assmunch just sat up there diddling with himself instead of contributing anything useful—he was such a fucking woman about everything.

They were in the middle of a fucking desert! Of course sand was going to get everywhere! That was what the staff was there for, to clean the messes for them! But no, the Sniper always had to whine and bitch about the Scout tracking dirt into the base. Or fuss over every tiny little scratch the Scout came back with. Or ask, every single fucking time before they headed out the door, whether the Scout was carrying enough water. (Jesus H. Christ, even his Ma wasn’t this big a pussy!)

Then the Sniper got it into his head to be the goddamn laundry commissioner or something. Whatever. For the Scout, it felt kind of skeevy to be wearing stuff that one of his teammates had touched, but at least now there were fewer pairs of underwear coming back bright pink.

The Scout should have realized that the Sniper was fucked up in the head by now, but he pretty much tried to ignore the man whenever he wasn’t mocking him about what a fag he was. After all, what normal dude liked to knit or sew during their off hours?

It was during one of these regular insult sessions that the Scout decided to take a good look at just what the Sniper was trying to stitch pretty princess patterns in this time and discovered, to his horror, the Sniper had the balls to fuck with the Scout’s lucky socks.

The Scout should have punched that asshole in the mouth right then and there, but priority went to rescuing the socks before the Sniper ruined them forever. He just snatched the whole thing out of the Sniper’s hands, screaming obscenities while the Sniper stared at him in dumbfounded silence.