Author's Note: My attempt at messing with my reader's minds. The musical inspiration for this piece was To Zanarkand from Final Fantasy X. Reading the second part with this playing in the background enhanced the experience for me. But that may vary from person to person.

Well, here it is. Reviews and criticisms are appreciated.

It's over. The round was finally over. And everything… Everything was perfect.

"Victory," announced the Administrator, sounding very pleased indeed. The sixth control point was captured in a blink of an eye, the BLUs were running for their lives, and every single RED team member was looking at the RED Scout in awe, as he kneeled on the control point, trying to regain his breath. A thin stream of blood was running across his cheek. A single bullet hit him during this mission, and it struck his temple. The pain was sharp, but the adrenaline rush didn't let him feel it too much. He continued to run and destroy the BLUs until the very last second.

No sentry could get in his way, no rocket could reach him. He avoided every grenade thrown at him, and even managed to whack a couple of bombs with his baseball bat, making them fly away and hit a building with a satisfying explosion. Taunts and jeers directed at the REDs flew from his mouth with a certain grace. They were sometimes slightly absurd, sometimes said too late, but they were always necessary.

At least, that's what Scout had thought.

When Scout captured the control point, the rest of his team finished off their foes, and destroy an overlooked sentry or two. The Scout kneeled on the now red control point, panting and wiping off some blood off his face. He noticed a small medipack behind him. Scout soon used its contents to heal his minute wounds. A small smile crept across his face when he saw his teammates staring at him in silent admiration.

All in a day's work, as he would say.

The teammates did then what they normally would after a triumphant battle. The Pyro shot out some flames from his flame thrower, laughing manically. The Demoman and the Soldier high-fived each other, retelling their finest moments and taking celebratory sips of Scrumpy. The Engineer shouted something, firing his shotgun up in the air. The Spy stood behind them with an uninterested expression, and smoked his cigarette. The Sniper looked around the control point, trying to find a surviving BLU. He and the Spy were the most reserved ones in the group, their celebration being reduced to standing idly by, occasionally shaking their heads at their overly ecstatic colleagues.

The first ones to come up to the Scout were the Medic and the Heavy. The Heavy pulled the Scout closer to him and squeezed him, almost breaking his ribs.

"Leetle man is credit to team!"

"Hey, hey, hey, knock it off! Jeez!" The Scout pulled away, straightening his shirt. The Medic examined his condition.

"Impressive, young Scout. All zhat, and you don't have ein single injury. You are getting better at zhis."

"'Course I am. I'm a force-a-nature. Stick around me, Doc. You might learn something from me."

The doctor rolled his eyes, muttering something to himself in German. The rest of the team came up to the Scout high-fiving him and giving their unique praises.

"You have done us proud, maggot!"

"I underestimated ye, boyo. Ye really pulled throo."

"Oui, eet is quite impressive 'ow you can run and stand in place completely still. Veeeery impressive."

"Ey, fuck off, Spoi," said the Scout, half jokingly; "Don't you have someone to stand behind or something?"

The Spy suppressed the strong urge to make a 'your mother' joke, and continued to smoke quietly. More praises followed.

"Nice work, boy," said the Texan, reaching out his arm to the Bostonian. The Scout grabbed it firmly and shook it, modestly responding to the Texan's approval.

"Hey, what can I do? I was born a winnah, dat's all. Either you gawt it or you don't."

"Hmmmphmmmhpmm, hmmpthhhm, hmmm, Smhht!"

"Thanks, Py. Dat…" Scout felt a strange surge of emotion running through his body when he heard the firebug's approving comment.

"Dat means a lot, man."

Suddenly, the Heavy grabbed the Scout by the waist and brought him over his shoulders. The Scout protested at first, but soon realized that he liked looking down at everyone from this height. He tried to keep his balance, which resulted in him wobbling awkwardly from side to side, much to everyone's delight.

"With your head shaking all ova' the place loike that, no wonder you're impossible to shoot," noticed the marksman, grateful for the BLU Scout not being so lively.

"Thanks…I think," Scout managed before clumsily leaning backward, almost falling off the Russian. The Heavy propped him back up and looked towards the base.

"And now," Heavy stated; "we must eat!"

"Always about food witchu, ain't it, knucklehead?" Scout teased, though he was also anxious to get something to eat after the mission.

It was a beautiful mid-autumn day in Dustbowl, and they were walking from the cold concrete onto the hot sandy ground, returning to their base. The Scout was carried like a champion, imagining that he looked like a king, being carried by the Heavy as the hot sun shined on his supposedly perfect face.

And hair, and body, and biceps, and clothes, and…

The Bostonian raised his arms out, clutching his fists victoriously. His teammates were laughing wholeheartedly, and even the Spy managed a grin. The Pyro was the most supportive of the group, chanting the Scout's name. At that moment, everything was perfect. Scout felt like he was the king of the world. Still, something bothered him. A slightly nasal voice, coming from somewhere else, not of this earth, not of this reality. It echoed through the emptiness of the battlefield.

It was familiar, and it disturbed him slightly.

"Bill?"

"I don't wanna go in there. It's too creepy."

Cindy was standing with Steven in front of his mother's apartment. Apartment 219. It was a cold day in Boston, and she regretted the fact that she forgot to put on a jacket. Misinterpreting the shining sun, she only wore a short skirt and a white long-sleeved blouse. She was shivering in the cold hallway; the anticipation of what she was about to see made her shake more. Steve was wearing his leather jacket and plain blue jeans. He felt uneasy as well.

"You have to. You're the only one he always listens to."

"But," she tried to protest, moving a lock of blonde hair off her face; "But you're his brother!"

Steven sighed, carefully unlocking the door. It opened with a click. Steven looked at his fiancée with a reassuring smile. She was frightened, though she had no need to be. Bill wouldn't hurt her.

At least, he hoped that he wouldn't.

Reluctantly, she walked into the apartment. It was dark inside; the long blue curtains were drawn, not letting in a speck of light. It was a modestly decorated home, an old dusty sofa in the living room, a brown coffee table and a large armchair. A middle-aged woman was sitting on it, looking into the distance. She wore a red dress that stretched just below her knees and had her ink black hair fixed up in a bun. She had a surprisingly good figure, and her face had a strange radiant beauty only mothers could have. But her eyes gave out worry and fear, and her pale skin was a sign of sleep deprivation. She looked at her son as he walked into the room.

"Hello, Steven," she greeted him before looking at the skimpily dressed girl.

"Cindy. You're here."

"Umm… hello, ma'am."

Steven walked up to his mother, kissing her on the cheek. He carefully looked at a dark shadow in the corner of the room. Cindy was looking at it too. She sat on the sofa, crossing her legs, her fiancée's apartment looking much smaller than she remembered.

"How is he, Ma?"

"He's… the same as always."

The mother looked at the shadow. It was her son, Bill. He was sitting on the cold floor, looking at something he held in his hand. He had his eyes fixed up on it, not letting the object leave his gaze for a second. Bill had a strange expression on his face. His mother didn't know what it meant. It could be an emotion. But what kind of an emotion could her son possibly have?

Steven and his mother looked at the young man, wearing his dad's dog tags and a baseball cap. He almost never took those off. He didn't let anyone touch them. Anyone, except Cindy.

"I'm glad you could come. Somebody needs to snap him out of it." She stood up from her armchair, slouching slightly. Her voice broke as she looked at Bill once more.

"I don't understand this autism thing, Steven. I mean, he is my son. I talk to him and I don't think he can hear me. He is in his own little world, and there's nothing I can do about it."

A small tear ran across her cheek, but quickly vanished. She had to be strong for her son. She sighed.

"Tell him that dinner is ready. I'll go set the table." With that, she slowly walked out of the room. Steven turned to Cindy, and she cringed, already knowing what he was going to ask of her.

"Do… do I have to?"

"He only listens to you when he needs to snap out of it."

"Yea, but why?"

Steven grabbed his fiancées hand and slowly helped her off the sofa. He looked deep into her big blue eyes and smiled sadly.

"I think he likes the way you talk. He never talked in his life, but if he were to talk one day, I know that he would talk like you."

Cindy gulped. Her strong Bostonian accent came in handy, for once. She walked up to the young man, looking at a simple baseball in the palm of his hands. She leaned over to him, and whispered;

"Bill? Bill? It's me, Cindy."

No response.

"I told you, he only responds to that other name."

Steven was referring to a name Bill wrote on that baseball of his. He wrote it in big bold letters, in his usual childish handwriting. This was the only name he answered to. Cindy gulped.

"Scout?"

Bill raised his hand up at her so quickly, she flinched. Cindy cleared her throat, nervously looking into his icy blue eyes. The boy looked like his mother, the same thin face, the same high cheek bones. The only difference was that his eyes showed no emotion.

Or, at least, no recognizable emotion.

"Hey. Nice bawl you gawt there," she said, reaching for it. Steven wanted to warn her that Bill gets aggressive when people touch his things, but this time, Bill let Cindy look at his baseball, handing it to her carefully. She looked at the writing on it. Everything was written in dark marker. Some words she couldn't even make out.

"You… you really like it there, don't ya? In that little place you have in your head?"

Bill gave no response. Cindy took his hand, carefully putting the baseball on the coffee table. Bill whimpered in annoyance.

"Don't worry!" she said, almost panicking; "We're only gonna get something to eat. Pork chops. You like those, don't ya?"

Bill was looking at the ball, almost as nervously as Steven. The silence lasted for about a second or two, but it seemed like a lifetime. Cindy finally broke it, making a promise to Bill.

"That little world of you's ain't goin' nowhere. Now, come on. You gawt to eat, right?"

Bill took her pale hand in his sweaty palm and followed her into the dining room, slouching as he walked. Steven would like to think that he wasn't this timid in that little world of his. He took the baseball in his hand, when Bill got out of eyeshot. The writing on the ball displayed some words, every single one written in a different way.

The word Scout was closest to Bill's handwriting, big bold letters, kindergarten handwriting.

The word Soldier was heavily misspelled, he wrote it making quick, powerful strokes with the marker.

The word Pyro was written in cursive. The writing was surprisingly feminine.

The word Heavy was written in bold letters, but oddly neat.

The word Demoman was written sloppily, as if the person writing them was under an influence of something, like drugs or alcohol.

The word Engineer was impeccably written, all letters leaning at a 45 degree angle.

The word Medic was swirly and messy; it looked like the doctor's writing on medicine prescriptions.

The word Sniper was slightly blurred, but easily readable, like someone had written it quickly with no particular desire to write it neatly.

And, lastly, the word Spy was written quickly, neatly and elegantly. Something was missing, though, like theperson writing it had some hidden insecurity that he tried to hide with this impeccable handwriting.

Bill had written all of these words. Whoever or whatever these words represent; Bill figured out their personality, he made up their feelings, their desires, their life. He fabricated their relationships, from belligerent friendships to romantic interests. Bill made himself a life he wished he had here. Steven wanted nothing more than for Bill to wake up from his fantasy, and live a normal life, like a normal young adult. Steven wanted his brother to live, to laugh, to feel and love like he did. He desperately wanted these people, these things in his head to go away forever.

But, the longer he waited for the problem to fix itself, it was more and more clear.

Whoever those people in Bill's head were, they were here to stay.