A certain amount of property damage is expected by the people who run the Game.

So they were all sitting around the common room one night, everybody's fucking drunk, yeah? Same old, same old. Now, you know, they ain't got a lot to do, so they get to talking sometimes, and they had this new Soldier who used to be a scientist or something. How the fuck this guy - I mean, he was fucking brilliant - ended up as fucking cannon-fodder in the goddamn Game, who the hell knows, but he's talking all this science bullshit.

"Most of an atom is nothing, you know. Tiny, tiny nucleus in the center, and the electrons - even tinier - move around it in this big wide sphere. There's very little actual matter in matter."

"Oh now that doesn't make any fucking sense," the Scout protested. "I mean, if shit ain't made of shit, then how come it's fucking solid?"

The Soldier started to answer him, but the Spy cut him off. "Actually, mon lapin, it is not. It is just that usually, the leetle tiny bits of matter, zey run into each ozzer, no? But if you can match ze resonant frequencies, so zat ze leetle tiny bit of matter in one goes t'rough ze big empty space of ze ozzer, you can pass right t'rough, clean as a whistle, as zey say."

That that wasn't really a legitimate use of "clean as a whistle" was less interesting than the sciencey bullshit he'd just spouted, and the Scout - well, he was pretty fucking drunk, and not that big on science anyway, right?

"You're fucking bullshitting me, cockfag, there ain't no way that's true."

"I swear, it is! It is so, is it not?" The Spy appealed to the others, who all nodded solemnly, because they could see what was coming.

"Yeah? Well, fuck, if that's true, what's keeping me from running through that fucking wall?"

"Nozzing! You just 'ave to 'it it at ze right frequency. If you are moving at ze proper speed - "

"Fuck me, I can do that. Watch me, you assholes, I'm gonna fucking do it."

The Scout stood up and retreated (only slightly stumblingly) to the far end of the barracks hall, then launched himself down it toward the common-room wall at the other end. He was pretty fucking fast, you know, and he was at a good goddamn clip when he hit it.

He woulda made it, too - sheetrock cracked and crumbled around him - only he hit a stud.

BONK.

Flat on his back with a busted nose and stunned for a second before he sat up. "I ALMOST FUCKING MADE IT! DID YOU SEE ME? I ALMOST FUCKING DID IT! I GOT HALFWAY!"

The Spy rose from the couch, shaking his head. "Non, non, you 'ave to vibrate ze wall first." He placed one gloved hand on the wall, hummed (covering the noise of his kicking out the far side of the wall), and stepped sideways between the studs through the hole in the drywall.

"Oh, fuck you."

Seriously, you don't mess with a man's hat

He never stood still enough to draw a clear bead on, so the Red Sniper's headshot ended up being a graze above his ear and a hole through his hat.  The hat, that was the big thing.  The wound didn't hurt as bad as some shit he'd had, and all the blood was in his ear, not getting in his eyes, so fuck it - but his HAT.  There was a fucking hole through the brim.

He snapped it off and threw it on the ground, shouting.  "YOU FUCKING FUCKER!  YOU FUCKING PUT A HOLE IN MY FUCKING HAT!  YOU DON'T FUCKING DO THAT!  YOU DON'T FUCKING MESS WITH A MAN'S HAT!"

The referee took over the comm, buzzing in his ear and ordering him to put the hat back on.  "FUCK YOU, COCKFACE, HE FUCKING PUT A HOLE IN MY FUCKING HAT!  WHAT, ARE YOU GONNA COME DOWN HERE AND MAKE ME PUT IT BACK ON?  I DIDN'T FUCKING THINK SO!"

The referee kept on, so the Scout took the comm off, too, and threw it down so hard it almost broke.  He looked up at the nearest camera, still shouting, in silence now because his microphone was in the comm.  The camera crew in the monitoring room got nothing but a nice clear view of him making obscene gestures and shouting - the word "fuck" is extremely easy to lip-read.

This little hissy-fit would probably have gotten him fragged if they hadn't called match just about then - the Reds had snagged the briefcase.

The rest of the Blues blamed the Scout for the loss; he adamantly and volubly denied any responsibility.  "It's the fucking Red Sniper's fault, assfags, he's the one who fucking put a hole in my fucking hat!  You don't fucking mess with a man's hat!"

He sat in exiled ignominy in the common room, pouting and cradling his hat like a baby.  "My fucking hat!  LOOK at my fucking hat now."  He held it up, finger speared through the bullethole.  "You can fucking FUCK my fucking hat now."

"Mebbe YU can," said the Demo meaningfully.

And that was the first time the Scout popped the Demo in the eye.