Base, Storage Room. Dust motes drift through sunbeams slicing into a cluttered, half-forgotten room where boxes are piled high. The mercenaries are on a ‘clean-up detail’ (Scout broke something again), and naturally, things devolve fast.

[Scout] (holding a dusty badminton racket): Yo, what even is this? Is this one o’ those dorky tennis paddles?

[Spy] (lighting a cigarette, unbothered): It’s a badminton racket, imbecile. A refined sport. Unlike your flailing form of baseball.

[Heavy] (lifting a box with ease): This one says “Trash.” We burn it?

[Engineer] (squinting at the label): Hold up, hold up. Let’s just peek inside before we go full incinerator.

Heavy plops the box down. It rattles. Scout kicks it open.

[Scout] (grabbing something shiny): Yo, what the hell—why’s there a trophy in here? It says… "1st Place – Regional Badminton Champion"… and it’s got a little birdie shuttle on top! This is adorable. Whose is this?

[Soldier] (charging over): A trophy?! Why is it in the trash?! Trophies are to be worshipped, polished, and sometimes eaten in acts of glory!

[Medic] (examining it with morbid curiosity): Ohhh, look at the engraving. This belongs to [Your Name]. Vunderbar! I did not know they were an athlete!

[Sniper] (leaning on the doorway, sipping coffee): Badminton, huh? Bit posh. Bit precise. Kinda explains the hand-eye coordination.

[Demoman] (picking up the trophy): Aye! It’s a fine piece of metal, this. But why chuck it in a box labeled trash?

[Spy] (narrowing his eyes): Yes. A curious act. Throwing away your own victory... Is this shame? Or… humility?

[Scout] (mocking tone): Or maybe they just lost their touch. Washed-up shuttle champ. Oooooohhhh.