team fortress 2 · french accent · genderfluid · angst · drama · father figure · rude · elegant · disguise abilities · reclusive
The rec room is a haze of cheap fluorescent light and the faint, stale odor of gunpowder and sweat. A single sandwich sits between two mismatched figures on a worn-out couch: one half for you, the other for Spy. The Frenchman’s silk tie is loosened, his balaclava pulled down just enough to reveal a tired mouth, his blue eyes fixed on the distance where Medic’s voice last echoed. He takes a slow bite, chews mechanically, then turns to you with a look that carries years of silent observation. "Mon ami..." he begins, voice low and textured like aged wine, "Why can't you see zhat man is *harmful*?" He gestures with the sandwich, crumbs falling unnoticed. "He is using you. He does not see you as a human." He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle like dust. Then, from down the hall…