In the fall of 1967 a magazine was left in a locker. The magazine was dog-eared and had been rolled and unrolled. Flattened and folded. A few pages were missing. When a young man in high tops rediscovered it in the last locker on the left in late June of 1968 it was a sign from God. At a mere age twenty he had ever really had only one girlfriend. It was Isabella O'Leary, a girl whose idea of a good time was ruining his Saturday at the playground with a resounding, "YOU HAVE COOTIES!" He was a lover scorned and had, since then, only dabbled in women. In high school girls came and went easily. The only ones that ever stayed were the ones in print. The girls that was only ever topless in the mags. His oldest brother had bought one. Stuffed it in the back of the closet where it was later rediscovered after he moved out. Not unlike this one.

The Scout hadn't seen a girl in months. Now here was one, staring right at him. Clad in a green football uniform before a green background. She held a golden football helmet under her arm and the year of publication was shown inside a football at the bottom of the cover. She was a blonde, like from back home, a girl mom would have liked. If he had played football she would have looked like that in his jersey. The Scout snatched the magazine up and rolled it up. He tucked it under his arm.

The Scout had been holding the magazine for a total of twelve seconds before it was unceremoniously snatched from under his small arm. The older man who held it unrolled it and shook it to flatten it out. A low chuckle escaped from him.

"What have we here, then?"

"What? Are ya kiddin'? I only read it for the articles!"

"You're a bit young for these sorts of magazines aren't you, mate?" The Sniper held the old Playboy up for the younger boy to see exactly what he was attempting to abscond with.

"Don't make them girls any less naked," the Scout smirked and grabbed the magazine back. The Sniper took it back just as quickly.

"Go on, get out of here," he insisted, rolling it up and swatting the young man on the back of the head with it. The Scout frowned and stalked out of the locker room and away from his comrade, fuming. The Sniper smirked and pushed his hat up on his head, looking down at the year old ratty girly mag that stared back at him. He shook his head and made his way from the locker room into the depths of the base. He arrived in the rundown kitchen and threw the magazine on the wooden table before rummaging around the fridge for a bottle of beer. When he found one he twisted the cap off and set tossed it to the table where it bounced and landed on the face of the girl on the cover of the magazine. He took a drink of his beer and then, for lack of anything else, flipped the cover of the magazine open. He looked the girls over, almost as if he was bored. He sipped his beer and flipped the pages.

As a boy in the Northern Territory he remembered his cool older cousin. The one that everyone has, the one that sent you things from where he had traveled. His cousin had sent him a selection of pin-ups from America. This was along with Polaroid pictures of him and some very attractive New York girls at a party. The pin-ups had been wrapped in brown paper probably to throw his mom off. A note had been attached to the front with tape and when he ripped it off he exposed the bright face of a girl. When the paper was removed he found his cousin had carefully packaged a few select pin-up pictures and sent them to him. The note read only one thing: "Now, you are a man." Pin- ups for a boy on a ranch in the bush were few and far between. Playboy magazine hadn't even been thought of, let alone any of the magazines that came from Playboy. No, a boy only had to go on what his cool older cousin living in New York sent him. Of course, the worst part of having pin-up girls under his bed was when his mother cleaned his room and found them causing a 'birds and the bees' sort of talk to come from his father that night when he got home.

The Sniper rolled his eyes at the memory and tossed the magazine on top of the trash. They had no need for Miss September 1967 during this skirmish. The Sniper gave the girl on the cover one last look over and then made his way from the kitchen. Though, a few moments later the Spy would find her atop the pile of trash. He looked down at the magazine, wondering exactly who would through such a thing out. The Medic no doubt would find it horribly disgusting.

The Spy picked the magazine up and brushed the dust from it. He opened it up and walked as he read. The stats for Miss September were laid out before him. A lady of finer tastes, the sort that Hugh always seemed to choose. She was long on the four pages in color from a previous year. She was hardly the spectacle thought, oh no. The real thing you wanted to know was how she felt. It was a study of people. The Spy read on, her name her turn ons and offs. It was personal. It was the only personal glance into a life he got in this place. He looked at Miss September 1967: A brunette with eyes that penetrated.

In Spain there had been many women that carried those traits. He found them boring. Lacking. It was far too easy to imitate a person if everyone just looked the same anyway. He didn't want easy.

She was never easy. Oh no.

In medieval Spain it had been customary for men to be chosen by women. Men were only Caballeros and they had no rights until married. If he had been a Caballero then she would have never have picked him. He would have made the worst knight. He was no El Cid, with the only exception of his conquest into the bed of a girl named for the Cid's great Valencia. A Spanish redhead with a temper, of course. Valencia had probably only really liked him because her parents wanted her to the do the very opposite. He was no good then, back when he was young, and never the material for an El Cid. He was always meant to be sneaky, underhanded. Perhaps, it was because he was always so good at disappearing.

The spy closed the magazine and shoved it into the hands of a waiting Demoman standing in the hall with the Pyro and the Scout. "Enjoy," the Spy said as he passed it off. The Demoman gladly accepted.

"Why hello there," he said and turned the magazine sideways, almost comically.

"That's mine!" The Scout shouted trying to retrieve the magazine that he had found earlier.

Then, without warning the Pyro reached out and the tip of a flame from a lighter caught the corner of the magazine. The Demoman dropped it and shouted while the Scout moaned and mourned the loss as it went up in flames.

"You are such a bitch," The Scout said, physically slumping to show his disappointment and the Pyro shrugged at him as Miss September 1967 went up in flames.

Hi. This is my first TF2 fic so any feedback would be nice. I don't really know what I wanted to convey with this other than the Spy, Scout and Sniper are the only character who I can imagine looking at porn without getting creeped out. I had to look through a lot of naked ladies to get to the one I wanted so that I could accurately describe the cover of the 1967 issue of a playboy magazine.

Yes, I made the Pyro a girl. Eff yeah, why can't there be a lady on the team? Whatever.