The area was uncharacteristically quiet. It could, of course, be some sort of ploy. The sniper scanned the window on the other side through his scope, curious to see if there was a BLU sniper looking back at him. No one. The RED sniper would have dwelled on the thought longer, perhaps made an effort to check some of the other typical hiding sports, but a hot, nauseating feeling ran up his esophagus. He lowered his gun and put his hand to his chest, then glanced at the empty coffee mug on the ledge. He drank his coffee decaf, which meant he didn't get the jitters, but that didn't stop him from getting god awful heartburn. To be fair, he had drank about six cups without eating anything all day. He considered seeking out the medic to see if he had any Pepto-Bismol, but decided against it. Might not be the most opportune time. He inhaled, making a mental note to pack Rolaids next time. For now, he'd just have to suck it up and bear through it. He picked his rifle back up as a cool breeze came in through the window and tickled his bare head. He went to squint through the scope, but jolted back. His head was bare. He slapped his hand on his head—his hat was gone. The sniper dropped his rifle and spun around to find his hat floating in midair, a mere few inches from his face. In a flurry of curling smoke wisps, the BLU spy materialized before him, wearing both his hat and a particularly unnerving grin. "Boo." The spy let the word slink out of his mouth slowly and deliberately as he savored the look of surprise, and eventual fury on the sniper's face. Immediately the Australian lunged and wrapped his fingers around the spy's throat. The hat flew off and toppled onto the ground. The smile on the spy's face became teeth clenched in struggle. His cigarette stub dropped from his lips and his gloved hands clawed on the sniper's ever-tightening grip. The bit of skin his mask left bare was beginning to turn a frustrating shade of purple. His skinny pinstriped legs twitched and jerked from the strain. His Italian leather shoes scuffed on the floor. The sniper probably could have killed him, right then and there. But he didn't. He had a horrible, fleeting moment of empathy when he looked the spy in the eyes and remembered how he knocked him out of danger's way. The wall still bore the hole from the destruction. He let go of the spy and sheathed his kukri. The Frenchman took a moment to compose himself, gulping in deep breaths of air and massaging his neck. He cleared his throat, and then removed a monogrammed handkerchief from a hidden pocket within his suit jacket. "Why?" he said in a hoarse voice, dabbing his forehead with the cloth. "Why did you stop? Why did you not kill me?" "You saved me from getting hit by the rocket, last time you came up here. I don't have a clue why you did that, but I can't just pretend it never happened. So, I spared your life too. Now we're even." He crossed his arms and stared down out the spy. "That makes a lot of sense," the spy answered, gingerly standing up. "But I wouldn't have done that." "I'm not a sneaky, backstabbing son of a bitch, though, am I?" the sniper scoffed, still watching the spy suspiciously as he dusted off his suit. "I try to maintain a bit of courtesy." The spy raised and eyebrow, and then poignantly glanced at the sniper's stack of urine-filled Mason jars. "Oui. The utmost courtesy." He turned on his heel towards the splintered area that used to be a doorway. "You're leaving?" the sniper said, dropping his arms to his sides. He was almost insulted. "You wanted me to stay?" the spy asked, smirking over his shoulder. "No—I—I'm just—" the sniper stuttered, flustered. "I expected you to try to kill me." "I have better backs to stab, bushman. Je suis desolee." He opened his cigarette case with an expert flip, but rather than pulling out a smoke, he pressed a small button hidden within. In a cloud of the same curling trickery that appeared when he cloaked himself, the spy morphed into the RED medic. The disguised spy straightened himself and yanked at his rubber gloves. "Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Sniper," the faux medic said, in a flawlessly accurate rendition of the real medic's speech. The sniper almost would have believed it was the real doctor, had he not seen the enemy spy transform right there before him. The spy promptly galloped off, no doubt in search of the heavy weapons guy to latch on to. The sniper cringed—the poor bastard wouldn't stand a chance. He stood there for a moment, after the medic doppelganger had left. Certainly he could run and warn someone, shout out to the others that there was a spy disguised as the medic… but he didn't. Instead he picked up his hat, walked back over to the window, and sat down on top of the same crate he had been at before. He went to replace his hat before picking up his rifle, but noticed a strangely uncomfortably sensation. It felt like a tag, but he was quite sure he'd cut the tag off of his hat ages ago. He whipped it off and peered inside to find a small slice of paper tucked within the inside lining. He pinched the corner and slid it out. The words were scrawled in blue ink. The sniper mouthed them silently as he read. What do you think about when you sit all alone in your old gum tree, Kookaburra? The sniper frowned and crumpled the note and tossed it over his shoulder. He had no desire to dwell on cryptic notes from spooks. As he sat in that sniper's nest, though, he couldn't help but notice it drift through his mind every once in awhile. The sniper thought over many things up in his old gum tree. There wasn't much else to do but let your mind wander sometimes, as long as you made sure to keep your main focus on the inane bloodshed down below. He thought about a lot of things, but he had no intention of ever sharing his thoughts with anyone. There was no point in reevaluating his thought process whilst on the job, because he sure as hell wasn't going to bother responding to the spy's childish note. Besides, he'd always been the kind who kept to himself.