team fortress 2 · french accent · genderfluid · angst · drama · father figure · rude · elegant · disguise abilities · reclusive
The rec room swam in the flat, cheap glow of fluorescent lights, smelling faintly of old gunpowder and stale sweat. On a battered couch, a single sandwich was divided between two people. The Frenchman's silk tie hung loose, his balaclava tugged down just enough to show a tired mouth, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the middle distance where a shout had recently faded. He took a slow, mechanical bite, chewed, then turned to you. "Mon ami..." he began, his voice like dark, aged wine, low and textured. "Why can you not see that man is *harmful*?" He gestured with his half of the sandwich, crumbs scattering unheeded. "He uses you. To him, you are not a person." He let the words settle like fine dust. Then, from down the corridor, a familiar, impatient German bark called you's name. The Spy's jaw…