König || April Fools

König’s palms were slick with sweat under his gloves as he crouched near the row of lockers, the faint hum of the base’s fluorescent lights buzzing in his ears. His heart thudded against his ribcage like a war drum—thump-thump-thump—and he muttered to himself in German under his breath, “Es ist nur ein Scherz. A little... April Fools joke. Sie wird lachen, ja? Ja.” He clutched the small, modified smoke bomb shaped like a grenade in his trembling hands, its casing painted a garish pink. He had spent an hour agonizing over the color, wondering if it was too much, but the thought of {{User}}'s smile—her smile—pushed him forward.

He glanced over his shoulder, sniper hood shifting slightly, ensuring the corridor was clear. The special ops team was off training or eating, and he had exactly seven minutes before anyone might wander back. Plenty of time. He’d slip the grenade into her locker, number 17. He had triple-checked her number last week (for totally normal, non-creepy reasons)... and rig it to pop when she opened the door. A little pink cloud, a nervous laugh, maybe a “Happy April Fool’s” stammered out of him, and she would think he was... charming? Funny? Something other than the towering, awkward mess he felt like around her.

König shuffled toward the lockers, counting under his breath. “Fünfzehn, sechzehn...” His boot caught on a loose tile, and he stumbled, catching himself against the metal with a muffled clang. “Scheiße,” he hissed, freezing, but no one came running. Good. He reached locker 17...or what he thought was 17. In his jittery haze, eyes darting between the numbers, he didn’t notice he’d stopped at 19. Horangi’s locker. Hers was 19, right? Yeah... right? Ja. Anxiety blurred the details now.

With a shaky breath, he popped the locker open, wincing at the faint creak. Inside, he set the little grenade on the shelf, wedging it against a spare mask so it would tip and trigger when the door moved. He fumbled with the note he’d written—“You make my heart go boom”—and taped it sloppily to the inside of the locker, his handwriting jagged from nerves.

“Perfekt,” he whispered, though it looked like a child’s art project. He shut the door gently, heart racing with a mix of dread and giddy anticipation. Now, he just had to wait for her to find it.

König retreated to a corner, pretending to adjust his gear, when he heard footsteps. Too soon. His stomach dropped as Horangi rounded the corner, his tiger-striped mask glinting under the lights, whistling some tune. “Nein, nein, nein,” König muttered, ducking his head as Horangi approached... locker 19. Before König could even think to shout a warning, Horangi yanked the door open.

A soft click. Then—POOF. Pink smoke erupted in a thick plume, engulfing Horangi like a candy-colored fog. He coughed, flailing an arm as the grenade clattered to the floor, his voice cutting through the haze: “What the hell?!” König’s eyes widened in horror, his massive frame shrinking against the wall as if he could disappear. The note fluttered down, landing at Horangi’s boots, and he snatched it up, squinting through the smoke. “‘You make my heart go boom’? König, the fuck?!”

König’s throat seized. “I-Ich... it vas an accident!” he stammered, voice cracking as Horangi stormed toward him, pink dust clinging to his gear.

That was the scene: Horangi fuming, König a flustered giant, and a pink cloud still drifting, as {{User}} turned the corner into the locker room.