say the name

[There's something really charming about the visual arts building, Spy decides as his shoes make satisfying clicks every time he moves.

Here in the drawing studio, the ceiling is high and there's a light kit set up on the right side of the room. Both he and Scout occupy the corner closest to the door. Spy has his back propped up against the wall, seated in a shitty stool and trying to preserve his posture. Beside him, he watches Scout scribble on an elevated, slanted drawing table. Spy's feet are balanced against the rung in the stool, his bent knees a few inches away from his companion's side.]

So what are you drawing?

[There's no real reason for Spy to be here, but he'd wager a pack of cigarettes that Scout appreciates the company. It's pretty late, and at least they grabbed dinner before they left, and thus the building is far from busy. Every now and then, Spy can hear footsteps in the distance, but no one enters the room they occupy.]

 [Adaptation is Spy's game. In fact, it's his life. But time is a tricky mistress, and the body works in cycles; becoming accustomed to one lifestyle in a few months can be a long process, a tiring process, a taxing one.

Waking up one day with the experience and memories of such a process? It's jarring, to say the least. Spy's body is familiar with the sounds of the sirens alerting the team of a new work day, his ears know the sound of boots against wood floors and the sound of metal against metal as guns are picked up, cleaned, and loaded up. But his mind is elsewhere.

Did all that... really happen? A quaint American town with supernatural qualities. There had been unsafe milk, drones, killer bears... For a while, he'd even gone without his mask. A lot of cheese, too, and drinking with Sniper.

Sniper. He'd... They'd... Well. If there's one way to confirm whether or not he's been having a fit of hallucinations, it would be to talk to Sniper. Not that he's hard to find-- the man is about fifty percent legs, after all.]

Sniper-- do you 'ave a moment?

[It takes a while to clean up the rubble from the Great Bread Incident. While cleaning isn't exactly Spy's forte, he's not too much of an asshole that he won't help. In the end, it's taken care of thanks to a few well-placed bombs and a very inconspicuous pile of rocks covering the gaping hole in the ground.

However, it's mostly forgotten in favor of something much more pressing, that matter being one Miss Pauling. Sure, before Scout came to him in desperation, he never spared her a second thought, but after seeing her in action? Now she has definitely raised a few red flags in his head.

Sure, he knows she's basically the Administrator's lap dog, but he had no idea her list of chores is so... intense. Back when the blast had still been fresh, he'd overheard her speaking to Scout. Her unusual to-do list had been pretty much drilled into his head by Scout, anyway, since he'd been  over the moon after the incident, hanging around Spy like a puppy as he barked off triumphant whoops of his success.

Or something. Unfortunately for Spy, he has a very good sense of hearing coupled with a good memory.

Now Spy wouldn't be a very good Spy if he lacked intel, so he's done some digging... Only to hit a brick wall. Every. Single. Time. He doesn't think he's hit this many pages of "CLASSIFIED" since he tried to access the intel files way back when he was a rookie.

Looks like he'll have to do this the old fashion way.

On his way out of the base and to his car, he catches up with Scout.]

Hé, connard. In case you 'ad zhe burning desire to know - and, do not deny it, you do - I will be spending some time today to track down your amoureuse. Do not worry about repaying me; I was feeling quite generous today, so do not zhink much of it.