A PHYSICIAN'S TALE Introduction This is a labor of love. I am not usually a fanfic writer, but I decided to go with it because I am a fan of TF2 and I've been needing the writing practice. This will be a tale of Medic's psychological development and offer some creative back-story on the RED team. I do hope you enjoy it, and of course, all comments and critiques are welcomed. I look forward to hearing from all of you. Thanks. This will be updated every two weeks if all goes according to schedule. --------- CHAPTER ONE: "The Most Uncomfortable Looking Man in the Terminal" He sat alone with his hat turned down and his eyes fixed on the glass of vodka and seltzer. The bar at the terminal was smoky and crowded. Soviet faces glanced at him and made passing comments in languages he didn’t understand. He felt pressured by some unknown history in these people. They knew he was an outsider. His manner was tight. His clothes were impeccable. His bags had already been checked, and the only thing he waited for was for the boarding call. The Doctor ruminated on Prague in winter. He had never been here before. It was an old and grand city, now repairing itself from the ruins of war – what had sprung up was equally as magnificent as what had been before, he imagined. He had seen photographs his father took of a summer vacation here studying the migratory patterns of the local pigeons. It was the early twenties then. The war had been lost. His father had instilled in him a need to love the beautiful things in nature and to reject that which destroyed the beauty. And now, so many years on; he thought of his father and his own birds and his own practice and his own life. There was much he had accomplished. The Doctor smiled into his drink. He was nearly fifty and ready for a change; a time to say goodbye to his country filled bullet holes, checkpoints, and barbed wire. Something new was on the horizon. A place called Australia. The eight o’clock flight to Perth would have three stops on the way and leave him jet lagged and sick for days afterward. The Doctor was frightened at the prospect. Leaving for so long, leaving so much behind. He thought of the things he had carried with him: his books, his research, his papers for the company, his birds, and his bust of Hippocrates. There wasn’t much else he wanted. The Company would provide. Mann Co. had told him before he started packing that his research and his patents drew enough interest to the Australian Empire that they would grant him an extended work visa and a package and wages simply too good to be true. He would be handed a golden ticket; a way to reverse his fortunes and to set out on a venture that would benefit all mankind. So out of the ordinary, he thought upon receiving their instruction. This was all very secret, of course, but from what he could gather, it was research of interest to the Australians, the British, and the Americans. God knows if the Russians were participants. The Doctor imagined that the Russians at this point were conducting their own experiments with their own packs and men and material. He had heard stories of the Stasi across the border: the whisking away of people in the middle of the night to disappear forever into the Russian forests and steppes. The gulags were no secret to many. With Stalin dead, however – With Stalin dead, there was a chill that fell over Germany. The Doctor himself felt that same chill after all of this. Stalin was dead. God help the man who comes after him. But things could have been worse, he thought. Things could have gotten much worse. The Americans could have lobbed all the bombs they had at the Curtain. The Australians could have declared a naval blockade. The British could have launched a surprise aerial attack – He put it out of his mind and went back to staring into his drink glimpsing what little he could of the future. His birds, they assured him, would be well cared for. There was no worry with animals being transported. He fidgeted thinking of what Archimedes was doing in the hold of the plane. He imagined the bird would be clever enough to get through the packaging crate and find itself free in the wind over the Indian Ocean – followed by the plane plunging down over Sri Lanka. No, no, can’t think of that now, he shook his head. No use to think of plane crashes. This was a new beginning. This was an escape from everything that had happened before. This was the end to the doldrums and the unsuccessful practice. The unsuccessful practice was of course, his research. He had spent all his time trying to figure out a way to save lives. He had failed on many levels and sacrificed many birds to the process. He had guilt over every lost animal. Even if it was a test, even if the method was meant to save countless lives from the ditches and trenches and tank blasts, he still regretted every single one he was forced to sacrifice. The bird who lost his skeleton in the middle of a presentation in Hamburg haunted him. He was demonstrating the power of Australium when used as a form of treatment. The mixture was too powerful. Countless birds later, he had something. A concentrated beam of Australium that could deliver a compound of healing force that would restore a nearly dead man to life. He had yet to do human testing. He had written out the design and the patents, and here – here was the Australian Empire herself saying that his research was a credit to humanity and here was a method to use it –not only to use it but to perfect his machines. Australium had made the Empire rich beyond all Empires, rivaling even the United States in political savvy. And this brought about some whispers about Australia’s intentions. Some fingers pointed at Sydney over the recent assassination of America’s Kennedy. But the lone gunman; that nut of a Russian defect, he died without confessing the crime. Fitting, the Doctor thought. Blood begets blood. Violence brings on only more violence. He knew the lesson well. He stared deep and could see Australia in the ice chips. He imagined the team he would be working with. They called themselves RED. Reliable Excavation Demolition. It was a code name, of course, all overseen by the various governments and intelligence agencies putting on this little game of research and development, but there was something lovely in the name. It flowed so well in English. The doctor spoke four languages. German, French, English, and Latin. He had very little practical use for the three outside his native tongue. He rarely spoke to foreigners. And here in a foreign land, with absolutely no ability to speak the language anyway other than with muddled phrase book passages and gesticulating fingers, he felt even more lonely. Prague’s eyes were upon him. They both confused and accused him. He felt it. He stared harder into the drink and tried to make sense of the war game operation. That’s what Mann Co. called it. A war game operation. It sounded preposterous. But field testing would be required to pioneer the next great inventions and the next era. He wondered: what would this era bring? He thought of his own applications being assembled for him in the Australian labs (on loan, and paying him royalties for every production of course), would he find them enough to believe that he was contributing to something great? He was only a Doctor. A medic in the war would be stitching wounds and treating shrapnel and gas burns. Here he was told he wouldn’t need his kit except for in the lab. The field tests would require only his inventive designs. His personal laboratory would be laid out to his exact specifications. He had already worked it out in his contract. They would provide him with all the amenities of home. Of the things he wouldn’t bring, they would have for him. Even a record player. Imagine that a record player and numerous grand recordings from all over the world. He salivated at the thought. He could listen to six different companies interpretations of Wagner. How each prima donna held her notes – He had packed his violin as well. It helped him on lonely nights overlooking the rainy Stuttgart streets. He played the classics, he felt himself tempered enough to have been a musician – but now the streets are filled with musicians and peddlers of all kinds. Life was somewhat normalized, but the presence of the NATO soldiers constantly set his teeth on edge. This was a form of occupation, even if it was to protect them. Still, his teeth on edge, he managed a lead solo on a Vivaldi concerto and improved the pacing over the years. It would have to do for lonely nights in the Australian outback. The last thing the Doctor packed was the family bible. It contained notes and letters from his parents and his sister. He still had her address in Bonn. He promised to write to her about the wonders of Australia. He promised to send her special goods and some delicious Australian recipes, if there were any to be had. He looked up from the drink at the clock and sighed. Two hours until the flight would board. The weather was dreary. He dreaded the walk across the tarmac almost as much as the flight itself. Is that Vlasta Pruchova on the radio? He strained his ears and picked up the tune. Yes. Yes it is. He smiled. His mood changed. The beautiful and lurid strain of her every vibrato pitch change was enamoring. He inhaled and took a drink, swished, and swallowed. He thought of smoking. He never liked the habit but had many friends who picked it up over the years. He looked around the bar at the blue haze. Here scattered were groups of hunched over Soviets, each looking bleakly into their own glasses; a regular motley assemblage of strangers in passing. Dark strangers. Some handsome, some old, some looking quite poor and seeking refuge. He looked up at the hammer and sickle poster on the wall. It looked fresh. He didn’t care much for it. The Doctor was a classicist. He liked paintings of rich landscapes and fine old cities. The grandeur of nature was his calling. He worked and thought best in open expanses. I might as well learn to paint, he thought. The Australian outback, from what he read, had a rich and wild landscape filled with unimaginable rock formations. Maybe they would inspire him. When the band surrounding Vlasta Pruchova sang its last, the chair next to him scraped and a dapper gentleman sat next to him. “Whiskey on the rocks, merci.†The Doctor shifted his gaze back to his drink and adjusted his glasses nervously. Another foreigner. The man had a distinctly French accent, yet very worldly. Not having any of the pretense or stuffiness of a Parisian accent but rather something more pastoral. This was a man who had seen some other part of the world than cafes and burlesque shows. The man received his drink and turned towards the Doctor. “So, my friend. You are the Doctor.†The Doctor sat up rigid. There was no steel or iciness to the man’s voice, but there was a certain briskness to the introduction that warranted his full attention. “Yes. How did you know it was me?†“You’re the most uncomfortable looking man in the terminal. A sour eyed gentleman wracked with dolor wearing a good wool suit and his hat too far into his drink. Most definitely the German I’m looking for.†The man laughed. He turned his eyes to the Frenchman. A stunning man about his age with long tresses slicked back, piercing blue eyes, and a set jaw. His suit was expensive looking and tailored to wrap every inch of him in luxury. The Doctor knew in an instant that this man was not a typical cavalier Parisian. “Forgive me. I know we’re not meant to know each other’s names, you may call me Spy.†“Ah yes. Quite right,†he offered his hand. “I am the Medic. You may call me Doctor if you wish.†The Spy shook his hand with polite vigor. “Charmed.†“I don’t believe we were meeting anyone else on the flight.†“There’s a man who will be coming on when we touch on Kazakhstan. But I doubt we’ll be seated together. I’m afraid it’s just you and me, my sour friend.†The Doctor grimaced. “How is Paris this time of year?†“Oh for certain it has been so long since you’ve been there.†The Spy narrowed his eyes. “It is quite lovely. Always lovely. But I don’t spend much time there, you see. I have other duties. I travel a lot.†“Do you work for the Allies?†“We prefer not to call them that. And yes, I work intelligence, naturally,†he turned towards his whiskey and ran a hand through his hair. The Doctor approached cautiously. “How long have you worked in the Service?†“It depends, Doctor. The work is good, but I’m a bit freelance these days. I did my time in the world working for different forces. I started off in Section D. I’m sure you know those activities well. I continued on as a foreign liaison for the British and the Americans for a stint. But most of what I’ve done is pretty well classified, you understand. I can’t exactly go into details. That’s now how I work.†The Doctor took a drink. “Family?†“No.†The Spy seemed to pause for a moment to reconsider his answer. “Well, yes. But she’s a lovely woman who lives quite far away. What about you?†“I have a sister who lives in Bonn. She’s quite happy there.†“Your accent,†the Spy pointed at him with leather gloves. “Stuttgart?†“Quite right! Quite right!†The Doctor laughed uneasily. “I’ve known many a man from Stuttgart. Killed most of them, I suspect.†The Doctor broke eye contact momentarily and considered the options for his answers. “Doctor, I don’t wish to get off wrong, but I must imagine that this is one of the first moments you’ve had to be face to face –“ The Doctor adjusted his glasses. “No. It’s not. But, my friend, if we are going to continue on, there are a few things we have to make clear.†“Of course.†“I had no participation.†The Spy looked on wearily. “Oh?†“I had been since 1937 a member of the Catholic Youth League. I was a conscientious objector on the fact that Rome gave no sanction or justification for the war.†“But you were drafted. I can see it the way you conduct yourself, sir.†“During the heavy bombardments I was working as an apprentice medic to the Waffen. I had only the notion to save lives.†“Did you fire a gun?†“When the Moroccan troops marched on our position, I organized our surrender,†he sighed and stared into his drink. “What were the men like?†“Young. Just boys. We all were. We were fighting to defend our city. We had so many wounded and dying from the constant shelling during those days. Women. Children. The whole of Stuttgart was laid to waste. There was nothing of the old city left by that time. The men were exhausted of the war. We had the patriotic spirit drilled into us, yes, but we were tired and too young for this.†“How did you convince them?†“There was one young man, a very young boy. He was part of the Youth movement. This boy had stars in his eyes. He was beautiful and torn to shreds by a grenade. His insides were all out, and he had the same eyes as the rest of the boys. I couldn’t – I simply couldn’t – by god, let him die. I stitched him as best as I could and sat back against the wall in the pillbox and looked at the rest of the unit. Same stars in their eyes. Same wonder. Same lack of faith in the war. Even our commander. It was too much. The French were pressing on us and there was no turning back. I wanted to go home just as much as these boys and the whole idea of never giving a single inch, never giving a single thought to our lives for Germany – it was too much. I told them so. They agreed without much haranguing. We gave ourselves up and the city was eventually taken.†“You saved their lives. How honorable.†“It wasn’t much. But it was something I had to do.†“But what about before, Doctor?†“I helped where I could – but there were some things that could simply not be done.†“You were a conscientious objector.†“I treated the sick, my friend. That’s all I could do.†“If a Frenchman fell into your camp, how would you have treated him?†“The same as any patient, sir. The same as anyone. If you are sick and require healing, I would work to the utmost to see that you were healed.†The Spy reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette case. He picked out a long slender cigarette and lit up. He offered it out to the Doctor who politely refused. “You may say this now –“ “You could have asked me the same in 1944 as now. The answer remains unchanged. Under God, I took an oath to my country and to my faith and to my profession. I would not engage in anything that would harm life. And though there was little I could do at the time to work against it, there was nothing I could do to support the system I lived under. My father also forbade it.†“Your father was a military man?†“The first war, sir. He was a sergeant. He saw action against the English after Belgium. He never spoke of it, but he told me all I needed to know that war was horrible and without the just cause, there is no right to it.†“Forgive me then. I do not wish to speak ill of an honorable man.†“I would have treated you, and I will treat you the same as any patient injured, sir.†“You promise me that?†The Doctor made the sign of the cross. “To the utmost.†They fell into a silence where each man was left to his drink and undisturbed by the other. For a time, the Spy seemed to ruminate on the radio and on the Doctor’s words. “Tell me, Spy. What about you? The war, I mean?†“I watched them march on Paris. I was young then. The Vichy Government formed, and myself and a few colleagues decided to take our stand against it. We had our dignity to preserve, of course.†He took a long drink and stared deep into his years. “Yes. Dignity. We made contact with a British agent who gave us the necessary tools to begin carrying out our missions in the north of France. We bombed railway stations, set fire to German caches, and observed military points on the Channel.†The Doctor raised his eyes at this. “Sea Lion –“ “We knew all about the intents of the Germans, and radioed back positions of aircraft during the Blitz. I helped blow up a radar tower. But that wasn’t my finest moment.†He cackled lightly. “You Germans really didn’t know what we had in store for you by the end.†The Doctor gave a thin smile. “Your friend, Rommel. He decided to visit his wife for her birthday and left the sea at Normandy unattended –“ “You didn’t!†“I was on the Desert Fox for nearly six months watching him intently. I must say, it was quite delightful to see the man bumbling about that morning. He so enjoyed his summer naps in the courtyard. It simply wasn’t to be.†The Spy drank down the rest of the whiskey and raised a finger for another. He muttered some Czech at the bartender and exchanged a few passages the Doctor couldn’t relate. “You saw the liberation? Never caught?†“A few of your officers went missing at my hand. Their information gave us what we needed for the effort. But yes, I served my country well for her liberation. I came to her aid when no one else would stand up. There were a few like me in your country. Very few. Too few.†The Doctor lowered himself into his drink once more. “There wasn’t much that could be done.†“You have no need to defend yourself, mon ami. You are not a man of weapons. You conduct yourself like a soldier but most definitely as one of a support class. You do not have the steel required to be in the front. You have courage, yes. You have tenacity. But the cold heart that the Germans required of their most brazen and bristled? No. You do not have that.†He paused for a moment and stared up at the clock. “What you have is something I have not seen in a German for a very long time.†“What do you mean?†“An apology on your lips. I can read it. You are sorry for what your people have done and sorry for what you could not do.†The Doctor swallowed hard. “I apologize for treating you so roughly. I understand that you’re an honest man.†He put a hand on the Medic’s arm. “And honest men are indeed, extremely hard to find.†There was nothing else to say on the topic, so the men returned to more cavalier subjects. They discussed Mann Co. and the arrangements the company had made for them. “—But I am certain I’ll be able to have access to croissants. They do have foodstuffs and cooks there you know. And we are given our apartments and steady access to whatever we need,†the Spy said, four drinks into the bottle. The Medic by this point, and with nearly thirty minutes to go before the flight, had lost some of his steeliness and unfamiliarity. It was nice to have company he could talk to. “Ah, what I’ll give for some saurkraut in the desert! I’m sure my sister could ship some down –“ “Your sister’s a cook then?†“She makes the best brautwurst you can possibly imagine. She raises the pigs herself! She’s a fine woman who adds a bit of – how do you say – yes, zest to life. She’s an amazing cook. You should be a houseguest at any point, I’m sure you’d be welcome.†“I’d come for the bratwurst and stay for the dornfelder,†he answered with a light smile. “Oh yes, absolutely.†The call for boarding came over in Russian first, and the Spy picked it up with a snap of his fingers. “Drink up, mon ami, our flight is boarding.†The Doctor took a last gulp on his seltzer and vodka and slammed it down with a quick “Prost!†“To your health,†said the Spy. With those last words, they left the bar. The Doctor took a last look at the dismal terminal and knew that a bright and sunny Australian day awaited him somewhere far away from the dinginess of these Soviet faces, and no longer would he see only the gray concrete buildings punctuating a grey German sky. This was a time for new and better things. --------- CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWO
I wish I had a time machine so I wouldn't have to wait so long between updates!
So far, I'm really enjoying this. I'm curious as to where this is going, but I'm really hoping this fic goes in the non-romantical direction. Not that it really matters, with your writing I'd read probably about anything!
Also liking this story, looking forward to seeing more of this.
Commentary Thanks for all the initial feedback. I do like the way this story is developing, and hope you will be along for the ride! I believe I will be quickening my pace between chapters, and maybe revisit this once a week. As for the direction of the fic, I'm keeping it non-romantic. Please, enjoy. As always, any and all feedback is read, digested, and appreciated. Now, on to Chapter Two. --------- CHAPTER TWO: "I Just Hope for a Better Sandwich" It was amazing – the Doctor noted – very few people on the flight stayed on to Perth. Now landed at a sunnier tarmac than Prague, he was suddenly overcome by the exhaustion of the journey. The Spy had made himself most pleasant during the trip, and at least by the end, some of the formalities between them had been dropped. The Doctor noted that he had a most charming personality to match his dapper physique. Here was a most interesting specimen in the most interesting of times; a Frenchman willing to bend his ear and lend his charm to a scuffed and bedeviled German. What was it he called him? Sour? The doctor could only smile. The heat destroyed his last moments of concentration. After so many hours, the Soviet faces of Prague became a shimmer on the runway. His eyes strained towards the men with signs waiting. He was told that Mann Co. representatives would be there to transport him to a secret location in the outback--somewhere undisturbed by the trek of the Australian mega-cities, their relentless assault now spanning the entire coastline with warships and civilian centers. Perth looked even more magnificent on first glance than he had ever imagined. He fell in love with this Australian world immediately—a place with no bullet holes or barbed wire. He carried his small physician bag with him. His suitcases would be fetched by a Mann Co. representative and transported ahead of him. Taking another few steps towards the sign holders, he thought of his birds. They must be famished after this long trip. He would have to have someone feed them, if not himself. Their diet was balanced and given at the most regular of intervals. This interruption could not be tolerated for the sake of their health. The trauma of air travel was excruciating for him – he imagined twice so for his birds. They did not have the company of such polite gentlemen after all. The Spy at his side took notice of the cars. “Mon ami, it looks like you’ll be riding with a brute.†The Doctor peered closely at row of black cars behind the sign holders. He and Spy would not be riding together after all. A separate sign holder beckoned the Spy. But his car would not be empty. Under the name “MEDIC†was written the word “HEAVY†in Cyrillic. The man from Kazakhstan would be accompanying him on the journey into the outback. The Medic shifted and looked warily at the Spy, doubting he could make another acquaintance so soon when he had grown so comfortable with the first. There was a growing tension in the Spy’s heart as well, it looked. He grimaced slightly and ran a hand through his hair and put a handkerchief to his head. He lightly dabbed his brow. The Doctor parted with the Spy and was ushered by the sign holder to his car. The sedan, much larger and more luxurious than the French generals’ adorning the streets of Stuttgart had the distinct smell of leather and cleanliness. The Doctor shifted his weight into the backseat and scooted far onto the right end behind the driver. He had enough leg room to stretch. The door clicked behind him and he shifted his gaze to the view beyond the windshield. Mein gott!, he exclaimed. Air conditioning. What a wonder. The car idled. He smiled. This was more comfortable than the plane. The Doctor stretched out and settled back into the plush seats and felt the small protests from the chair as he adjusted. He closed his eyes, having settled the view in his memory. His birds – he must feed his birds. And adjust his watch. The time was most certainly not what he expected. A whole day. A whole day spent in the airplane. He no longer knew what time it was. It was somewhere around morning. He could no longer be certain. The stopover in Kazakhstan was dull. He had gone out for some tea and to walk around the tarmac but could no longer recall the mountains or the sites there. There was absolutely nothing to see but doldrums. And the brute the Spy mentioned. He had seen him, of course. A large man--a man capable of feats of strength, one roughened by the travails through the Russian steppes; this was the Heavy Weapons Guy, he supposed. For the moment, his eyes were closed and the tenseness of his sore muscles could firmly be appreciated. He had worn the wrong clothes for the weather. While in the climate controlled sedan, he was not feeling the illness of the heat, but the giddiness from travelling; he felt he would do his best to control it. He had held off a laughing fit in the plane. The madness of travelling threatened his impeccable character for holding grace under fire. He had experienced this faux-jocularity before. In war. He wanted to laugh at everything—the bombs, the fires, the dying men; this was a form of exhaustion that resembled shell shock. The Doctor ruminated on the feeling and attempted to describe it. Was it painful? No. There was nothing physical about it. It did not stem from the tension in his limbs or the pressure leaving his ears. This was something mental, perhaps serving some sort of blocking mechanism for physical trauma. But this flight was hardly physical trauma, he countered himself. The door clicked open and the large brute stepped in, slowly lowering himself into the seat. He wore a cossak’s dress. A light cotton shirt, American sunglasses, large pants, and heavy boots. He had come prepared for the weather. The man had shaved his massive head. The Heavy was massive in every way. The Doctor felt dwarfed as he felt the seat upset and spurning the Heavy’s advance. He was surprised at the amount of legroom the man did not need, or the amount of space he did not have to move against the man’s advance. The sedan fit him somewhat comfortably . “You are doctor?†“Yes,†the Doctor intoned, his eyes fixed on the big man’s pale blues. “I speak a bit of German. Very well, we should have little trouble then.†The Heavy closed the glass dividing the passenger section from the driver. Hardly any effort was used leaning forward. “This car,†he said, “I haven’t seen such a machine.†The Doctor smiled, “Not many of those in Kazakhstan?†“No. Very few. The commissars drive machines like these, but the best I can compare it to would be a tractor with luxury seats. American made, of course. Such excellent machines do not exist for us on the farms.†“You are a farmer?†“My parents were kulaks. We were very well off. We had a nice farm to ourselves in southern Russia and were relatively unbothered for many years. Then, the Stalinists came and we were taken from our farms to Kazakhstan. The filthy, tiny men reacquisition our property for State use. The farm, of course, failed. There is very little the city-dwellers know about farms. They thought their efficiency could do such wonders. But no, it’s the kulaks who knew the secret of the land. The Muscovites may have taken it, but they hardly knew what to do with it,†the Heavy laughed. He looked down at the Doctor, giving him a once over. “You did not grow up on a farm, no?†The Doctor folded his hands, “Born and raised in Stuttgart. I’m afraid I’m one of those dirty bourgeois Germans you were probably hearing about for years under Stalin.†The Heavy waved his hand, “It matters little to me. There are three things we have, Doctor: The Almighty, the Country, and Comrades. Seeing that we are comrades now, we have those three things in common. I like you. You’re small, but you look useful. I think we are on good terms.†The Heavy clopped the Doctor’s shoulder. “Yes little Doctor, I believe we’ll do well.†The driver settled into the vehicle and released the clutch. In a moment, the car was off from the airport. The Doctor settled his eyes as the Heavy peered towards the driver. “I’m certain there’s no worry,†said the Doctor. “Of course. Habits die hard. Even harder to die are old spying ears for talk.†The Doctor nodded and closed his eyes. He felt surprisingly relaxed sitting next to this large man. The giddiness abated. There was a natural silence to the two men. Neither squirmed. Perhaps they were tired from the plane, the Doctor thought. No longer did he feel suffering from the pangs of jet-lag. His muscles relaxed. The tension drained. He felt himself nodding to the rhythm of the wheels on the pavement. “Tell me about your birds, doctor. I saw them on the tarmac. They are yours, yes?†The Doctor straightened and let out a chuckle, “Oh yes! My birds. I was afraid they would be cooked in that hold.†The Heavy turned towards him, “Nothing to worry about. They were quite well when I saw them. I gave them a few small bites of bread. They looked hungry. They’re very well behaved though.†“Thank you,†the Doctor beamed. It was one thing for him to notice them, and an entirely kind gesture to feed them. This wasn’t a brute at all. Whatever last nagging thoughts the Doctor had concerning the man abated. “What are their names?†“Archimedes, Pericles, Icarus, Odysseus, and Galen,†he replied with sing-song in his voice. “Greek! How excellent! I take it you are a learned man. Do you know much Russian literature?†The Doctor straightened his posture and gave a small cough before replying, “I’ve studied some of your classics: Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy. Not much in terms of poetry, but I have come across a leaf of Mayakovsky in my time. I found him haunting.†“I will have to recite you some poetry. I had much time to memorize poetry. Mama insisted on it. She used to receive smuggled books from the underground writers. Now that our Man of Steel is dead, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to speak out loud. I need the practice, you see. Much of those books were banned.†“Do you have favorites?†“Eh, one woman,†he looked out the window and then back down towards the Medic. His eyes lingered on the driver. “Anna Akhmatova. She writes beautiful poems. Stalin did not appreciate her work, and I’m amazed they have not removed the thorn. She has quite a following outside the mother country, I’m told. I hope she lives long enough to see it,†he ruminated and fell into quiet. The Medic was reminded of a book of poems he saw in Munich. He made no mention of it, having forgotten the title. “Can you recite something for me?†“Not now, I am sorry. I’m afraid for the moment we must focus on our own family. This RED team.†The Doctor murmured his agreement. Heavy motioned and turned his eyes towards the road, “Tolstoy said ‘each unhappy family was unhappy in its own way.’†“I’d drink to that if we had anything.†The Heavy reached into his duffel bag at his feet. He drew out a bottle of vodka. “You can make do with this? I believe you may be unaccustomed to drinking from the bottle, but I’m afraid this is all we have. I have a bit of bread and cheese as well.†Heavy uncorked the bottle and handed it to the Doctor. He then drew out two small wax paper wrappings and untied the strings. Inside one was cheese and a small knife. The other held a prayer rope and a small loaf of bread. The Doctor took note of the cross having been made of the same woody rope as the rest of the prayer knots, tied with such delicate care. The man’s fingers were large. The delicate nature of the prayer knots puzzled the Medic for a moment. Heavy took note of the Doctor’s eyes. “My little sister made this for me, for my journey. We will pray together at the same time of day, her in Kazakhstan, and me here. We will still remember our family.†He began cutting a loaf off and fitting it with small bits of cheese. “My mother made the cheese. We have strong goats. Please. Drink.†The Doctor took a deep swig on the bottle. He laughed at the unaccustomed lack of manners and dabbed his chin with an open palm. “Do forgive me. I forget myself.†“Not at all, little Doctor,†he took the bottle back and tipped his head for a gladiator’s gulp. “God protect you.†They shared this small lunch and looked out on the rolling hills developing into sand. They were in the outback. Here were only rocks and small colorful vegetation. Every so often, the Doctor could pick out a flight of birds on the horizon. The morning sun was crossing into midday. The Doctor still felt sleepless. Had he slept on the plane? Did the Spy let him off for a moment in lieu of conversation that felt so continuous – to let him rest? He didn’t think so, at least, there were such natural pauses in the conversation that if there were moments of rest, he didn’t think on them now. Dreamless. Monotony punctuated by the sound of engines whirring busily in a static rhythm – The flat landscape of the outback gave him inspiration. Yes. I will paint, he thought. “What do you think of this family, Doctor?†“I have only met you and one other man. A Frenchman. The Spy. He seemed very polite.†The Heavy took another swig and a bite of the bread and cheese sandwich, “I was told there would be nine of us. I am not sure what sort of family this will be.†“We can hope for the best.†“I just hope for a better sandwich.†The Doctor took a bite of his own sandwich. “This cheese is excellent.†“Thank you. It will go well with the other fillings once I have more meat to work with. We did not sacrifice our goats, you see. We needed them. We had few cows as well. We don’t eat well in Kazakhstan.†“You certainly kept up your strength. You look to be in very good physical condition.†The Doctor thought on Kazakhstan for a moment. Wasn’t this were the gulags were? The collective farms? The mass imprisonments? How had this man done so well in such harsh conditions— “The Steppes makes you do one of two things, Doctor. It will drive you mad, or it will make you hard. You can best guess what it did to me. I love the winters. I imagine I will miss them in this desert.†“Your family back home. Just your sister and mama now?†“No, my father still breathes. It will take a division of tanks to kill him. Imagine my strength wrapped up at least twice to make up that man. I fear him, honestly. He is good man. Strict man. He has a certain character about him that you can’t help but lower your eyes. He is the strongest man in the Steppes, and you have to be! The Steppes are no place for children or tiny men. When he was a kulak and I was young, he taught me how to become strong. I can fish, hunt, and live off the land with this strength.†“And your mother had you memorize poetry,†the Doctor leaned towards him as the road dipped deeper into the outback. “Yes. She told me that my strength is only as sharp as my mind. I am a simple person that way. But I know that there is poetry in hunting. She had me memorize these poems to keep them safe. Like Akhmatova and Gumilev, we do not know the countless poets we lose to the Motherland and to the Muscovite censors and circles. It’s why I know the Bible. We cannot lose that.†The Doctor reached into his bag and brought out his family bible. It felt large and weighty and covered with years of fingers and thumbs. He opened it and handed it to the Heavy. “I have Orthodox Bible with me. Perhaps I teach you some Russian. We will have much time to practice. And I know Genesis begins the same way in all languages: ‘in the beginning God created heaven and earth’. So there is where we start, yes,†the Heavy laughed to himself. “Yes. We have a good start.†“I must ask, where did you learn to speak German? You have some odd phrasings, but I must say you speak excellently.†“Little Doctor, if everyone is as polite as you, I see no problem with our family,†he replied, taking another bite from his sandwich. “Do you know any English? I know there are a number of English speakers in our ‘family’,†The Doctor wrapped his mind around the word ‘family’ carefully. He liked to imagine it would be just so. “My mother had me read a few books of English. Authors were Proust, and Eliot. Thomas Hardy. Jane Austin. It wasn’t easy to access, but she was able to get these books and helped me translate. She wasn’t always a farmer’s wife. She grew up in Leningrad. It was hardly a match in heaven for her to marry a kulak. But she did well and I learned English well enough to speak it. Have you had practice?†“We’ll see how well I do once I face the family.†The Heavy switched over to English, “We go together to face them, yes?†“Yes. Yes we do,†The Medic switched over as well. “What do you suspect about Family? This RED? We have heavy weapons, a medic, and a spy. What else there needs to be?†The Doctor thought for a moment. He would be a medic. Not just a doctor, but a field medic. He considered this, “If there are nine of us, I suspect there will be a mix of different class types suited for a squad.†The Heavy put up a hand, “Slower, Doctor. I can understand but I process slowly. You speak very rapidly.†The Medic laughed and coughed. “I’m sorry. I ended up using a lot of English during the occupation.†“Of course.†They switched back into German. “Did you bring specialties from home? Weapons, I mean,†asked the Heavy. “I brought a few designs. One of the men who work with Mann Co. is helping construct them. This man, I’m told, is an absolute genius – has a certain skill set that can help him build almost anything. He’s helping with the final application of a few of the weapon sets.†“You will be healing? I understand not with scalpels and stitches.†“I have brought some specialized tools that will do all the work for me. Hopefully once everything is finalized, we’ll be able to run some tests. It may require some – err – biological improvements to you and the others.†“That does not sound pleasant.†“Quite painless, I assure you. Medical science has advanced beyond the last war. In peacetime, I don’t have to concentrate on sawing limbs and tourniquets. It’s all a bit more advanced here, if my laboratory is laid out right. Since you are dealing with heavy weapons , what did you bring?†“Oh,†the heavy let out a laugh. “Soviet machinery. It would have won us the war quite quickly. None of that dancing around Stalingrad for me. No. This is something a bit different. Let’s just call her Sasha, okay? She is a beautiful gun. Would have marched straight into Berlin with her, but she was too young then.†The Doctor’s eyebrows quivered. “I’m not exactly sure what to say to that.†“You will see, Doctor. You will see. Have faith.†They shared more bread and goat cheese and swilled the bottle until it was nearly finished. The Doctor, satisfied by the meal leaned back in his chair while the Heavy watched the countryside and the driver in parts equal. His wariness was undeterred by his own jetlag. His senses remained keen with the alcohol giving an extra alertness to changes in the speed. The Heavy didn’t seem to relax, but his breathing was regular. The Doctor watched his chest heave and ho. The man’s muscles tensed and relaxed with each jostle of the car. They were reaching the far outskirts of the land and all around them was nothing but sand punctuated by large boulders and nameless vegetation. The Doctor, slow to accept the relaxation of the drink finally succumbed to sleep. --------- CONTINUED IN CHAPTER THREE
I love this. Having Heavy converse with Medic in German was interesting, and showed how much of an intellectual Heavy is. He's not as practiced with English, and so his character is often not as expressed due to his limitations. I also really enjoy this interpretation of the Team meeting. I've always been fascinated how this group of mercenaries both ended up working at RED as well as how they learned to work well with one-another.
just tuning in to say I'm following this, has a peaceful mood to it.
Commentary: I must first make some profuse apologies for not updating this sooner. I have had quite a time with finals for summer semester and making preparations for graduation. I do hope you'll forgive me and continue reading along. Without further delay, I'll have another chapter after this one posted within the next week after the holidays. --------- CHAPTER THREE: "You bet Bessy’s farm we’re going out to whoop-ass..." The Doctor sat down his bag and looked at the machine. It was exactly as he had in mind. The design was flawless to his exact specifications. It hung over the examination table. Such a machine; so exact, so fantastical. A wonder of modern science, and here – here it was – beyond the pale of science fiction and the creative extracts of well-polished minds, here was the Medi-Gun. With this instrument, death was no longer a threat. “Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so –“ he intoned. He walked around the examination table listening to his boots clink on the tile. “—for those who thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, die not.†This miracle. His miracle. His breakthrough. The Doctor stared up at the switch to turn it on. Would it hurt? What does it feel like? He stared down at the examination table for a moment and puzzled. Here was something they could have used in Stuttgart. Here was the machine that would have stopped the bullets and the bombs. Here was an instrument of gods that would have ended war forever – Not so much. The Doctor knew all too well that war was without end. The excuse to bring men back to life would only be to kill them again. Was that not the purpose here? This instrument was being used to prolong futility. Mortality was but a dream in the space between the voids. And he had sent so many to the void. The priests to young boys in the trenches. He was the last intercessor--the last bearer of confessions—the Doctor was the final pair of eyes so many had stared into. And now, staring into the barrel of the Medi-Gun, he wondered how many could have been saved. It’s here now. Down to business. He turned from the examination table with a quick knock of the heels and walked to the corner of the room where the gramophone was set up. He picked through the albums until he found a rendition of Verdi’s La traviata. Libiamo. The drinking song. This would do. Maria Callas duet with Giuseppe di Stefano. Sublime. He moved his fingers with the motion of the orchestral prelude and walked to his work table. He gave a pirouette and gingerly pulled on the top drawer. Inside, he found his bonesaws. There were three to choose from. The proudest one was the one of his design. He called it his “ubersawâ€. It would help power the machine that hung over his head and the other that would rest in his hands. He danced across the floor to another cabinet and opened it with both hands. Inside was a portable Medi-Gun and two others. He mouthed the words “Kritzkrieg†and “Quick-Fixâ€. These instruments all of his design were readily improved upon by the men of Mann Co. They would complete the symphony of pain and scrimmage. He laughed and danced away from the cabinet towards the other end of the room where he kept his desk and his books. They were already laid out. Everything to his exact specifications. The Doctor gracefully dipped into the chair and set the ubersaw down. He reached into the top drawer and rummaged. He found a pair of long red gloves. He laid them out next to the ubersaw and got back up. His personal quarters were through a door behind the operating room. He asked that his uniforms and his working materials be placed in the same room for quick access. He went over to the large vestibule near his door and opened it. Neatly pressed, crisp, white uniforms with matching brown trousers hung in a row on hangers, on the bottom were six pairs of shiny black boots. His eyes gazed at the top shelf where a stack of procedural masks and two hats sat proudly. He took down the first hat and looked at it. It was a medieval plague doctor mask made of fine leather. He replaced it and examined the other. A grim looking hat to match the plague mask. “What a fine joke,†he said. The boys of Stuttgart used to paint their faces with ashes in order to give themselves a ghostly appearance to intimidate the French and the Americans. They used to line their cheeks with charcoal scowls to give themselves courage. There was sense in these decorations. They gave one the feeling of something superhuman and braver than their own mortal bodies. Something to immortalize themselves by. They looked fierce to their deaths. The charcoal hid their cool blue pallor as they lost blood. The duet was in full swing when the Doctor shut the vestibule and took up the ubersaw and the gloves. He did another full waltz revolution and set himself down on the examination table. He pulled on one of the fine red gloves and pulled it tight with his teeth. He unfastened the button on his sleeve on the other arm and rolled it up to the elbow. With nimble fingers he flicked on the machine. The beam targeted him. It felt warm. He suddenly felt the sensation of being able to breathe more deeply. His eyes seemed to dilate. His office took on an appearance in greater focus. He could see the lining in each tile. He felt he could count every dot on the ceiling. He looked above at the observation deck. The station was empty. He could count the chairs in the darkness. His focus made up, he took up the ubersaw in his gloved hand and raised the exposed arm to eye level. His breathing deepened. He put the tip of the ubersaw to his wrist and slowly applied pressure. The music danced around the room. He could hear each violinist individually. His senses were at their height. How would pain feel? With the steadiness of a surgeon’s fine hand, he slashed downward towards the elbow in a single motion. Immediately, he lost feeling in his fingers and his wrist jerked violently. The ubersaw stuck itself in the crook of his elbow. Blood poured from the gaping wound. He had cut between the tendons. No hesitation marks, a single stroke followed by the white hot flash of pure pain. He examined the cut for a moment before withdrawing his gloved hand, gripping tightly on the ubersaw. He gave a quick sigh. His pain reflexes were dulled. The Medi-Gun provided a sort of anesthesia. This could be the rush of endorphins to the system. He examined himself. His breathing was deep and relaxed, his senses still heightened, he was aware yet dulled to the experience of cutting his arm wide open. And now, it began to seal itself – The beam encasing him began to heal his arm. As instantaneously as he had cut it, it began to heal from the wrist progressing downward. He watched the open incision fade into a red line and then disappear. His muscles tightened. His hand awoke to its natural feeling, the blood suddenly stopped running. The whole of his arm, slick with blood was now closed. He set the ubersaw down and quietly swept away the blood from his arm. There was nothing there. No cut. No incision marks. Not even the faintest scar. Pure pale skin with bluish veins pulsating through it. The Doctor was delighted. He got up from the table and turned off the Medi-Gun. He advanced to the sink opposite him and began washing the arm and the glove. With this quick work finished, he placed the glove and the ubersaw in the autoclave to his left and set it for twenty minutes. The machine hummed and buzzed. The song ended. It advanced to the next. The Doctor again went to his workstation and briefly rummaged through the scalpels and the needles. He opened the bottom drawer. Here was a gun. A gun filled with syringes. Dirty syringes. Poison-barbed syringes. He shuddered. This – this was not his design. It was perfectly themed for his practice, but it did not suit him, he felt. He was a healer. Although he would be assisting in killing whatever this enemy was, he felt he couldn’t take it up into his own hands. He hadn’t fired a gun in Stuttgart. Could he start firing now? He knew well enough that he would have to carry it for his protection. He figured on this exactly as he figured about the war: there was no respect for doctors on either side. Snipers took potshots. Soldiers smacked them down. There was honor of a different kind on a battlefield: kill or be killed. The reality of the Med-Gun set in. Most unusual, he thought. He could perform surgery with this device. He could keep a man alive beyond reason. He could force people shot half-to-death to stand at attention as though the bullets were mere papercuts. But the very limits of this device had yet to be tested. He would have to test it in tandem with the “respawn†device. He pirouetted away from the work station and refastened the button on his sleeve. His cuff was soaked in blood. The Doctor laughed. There was no pain. No residual effects. Nothing. The Medi-Gun had restored him, even improved him for a few moments before setting him back to pure normalcy. He set back towards the main door and picked up his bag. He took out his bust of Hippocrates and set his head down on the desk. This was his new practice. This was his office. This was everything he ever dreamed. He spun the globe next to his ancient books and watched it. He still felt giddy. There was something almost amusing about the side-effects of the Medi-Gun. They gave him a feeling of rapture. Much like the highs one experiences in combat. But instead of shutting off the senses, it heightened them. The adrenaline was soothing. It subsided slowly. His hearing was returning to normal. The opera progressed. There was a swift knock at the door that startled the Medic back into physical focus. He leaned back on his desk and clicked his heels. “Enter,†he intoned. An American voice answered. The Medic gave a cough and refreshed his mind for translation. The door swung open and in stepped a small man wearing overalls and a hard hat. He had goggles over his eyes. His checkered shirt ran with sweat. He carried a large cage with the Doctor’s birds cooing away. “Greetings Doc. Where do you want this?†The Doctor advanced from the desk and took the cage. “Thank you.†He walked from the man to his private quarters. He set the cage down by the window and opened it. He let the twine fall from the door to the desk and let the birds explore the area. They were well trained and would always return to the roost so he need not worry about losing them. Archimedes, by far the bravest, flew towards the desk in the other room and set himself on the bust of Hippocrates. He heard the American guffaw. He straightened up and advanced back towards his desk where the man was giving a beak-stroke to Archimedes. “Excuse me. Where are my manners? I am the Doctor.†The man extended his arm. “You can call me Engineer. Or Engie, if we’re well acquainted.†The doctor took his gloved hand. It felt cold to the touch. “Splended – Engie.†The Medic’s tongue puzzled over the name for a moment but quickly became acquainted with the strange slang. “I see you have everything you need?†“I must say your company has thought of everything.†Engie laughed. “Shucks, Doc. Heck, this ain’t even my company. I’m just a small cog in a big machine. But, I do what I can.†“Your work –“ the doctor motioned towards his weapon’s cabinet. “I assume you were the man who helped bring my machines to bear. I must thank you for that splendid effort.†“I do what I can. I’ve been using my grandfather’s designs for a lot of this australium inspired technology. With Mann Co.’s help, we’ve built some grandiose machines.†Engie’s goggled eyes traced the floor and looked back at the fixed Medi-Gun with pride. He beamed. “What else have you built, sir?†“Call me Engie, Doc. There’s no need to be so formal.†The Medic shook his head and apologized. “Sorry, Engie. I’m not used to such American swagger and friendliness.†“Bit of a stiff-neck, ain’tcha?†“I guess you could say that. Yes. Stiff-necked,†he smiled. “Well, I’ve built a number of machines that will certainly help swing the tide of battle in our favor. I can imagine you are mighty surprised by the medical fixings, but I’m sure you’ll be mighty impressed by the other things I can build. I’ve got a great case of guns that will certainly do the trick. I’ve used some of your designs for standardized health dispensers combined with ammo crates. You bet Bessy’s farm we’re going out to whoop-ass with these modified devices.†The Doctor gave a quick laugh. The easy going character of the Engie was laudable. He filled the room with a relaxed presence. The Doctor felt he could stop clicking his heels. “Tell me about this ‘respawn device’, Engie.†“It’s your standard biometric duplicator. A marvel of modern design. Powered by the element of Australium and a few other unmentionables that cannot be commented on due to the secrecy provisions of my contract with Mann Co. thus, I can tell you not to worry about the greater scheme of the design, but I can certainly outline the basic benefits it will be providing for you and the team.†“Pray tell.†“Your standard respawn device is a marvel of modern technology as mentioned, researched jointly by the Australians and the Americans after both nations had learned to split the atom in 1945. It’s a combination of experiments that took place in molecular translocation and physical teleportation of atoms. Basically, what’s you is you and the memory of that is stored in this device. A trace memory of your biology is stored and reproduced whenever you have come to experience the sweet release of death. The process is quick as a hiccup. Your organs and whatever’s left of your entrails is transported back to a room where this device is active and looky here, you’re put back together like the day God made ya. Same age, same health, same weight. We’ve been using this technology and testing it out for years so you need not worry your head about little things like ‘what happens when my appendix spawns in my nose’. We’ve got all those kinks figured out.†The Medic hesitated. “That sounds – well – most reassuring. I have to ask: does it hurt?†“Heck no. Bit of it has the same properties as this here Medi-Gun. Noticing your cuffs, I see you’ve been experimenting a bit yourself. No Doc, the only pain involved is the pain of initially shuffling yourself off this here mortal coil. When you wake up in the respawn room, you’re fresh as a daisy.†The Medic stiffened and glanced at his cuff, astonished with Engie’s noticing glance. “Well I rather like knowing what exactly I’m dealing with.†“Right, right. I understand we’ll be undergoing heart surgery for the final piece of this here puzzle.†The Medic had almost forgotten. “Oh – yes. The surgery. There’s a bit of an addition that needs to be added to the heart – for the ubercharge. You’ve read over the plans?†“Correct, I’ve seen the reports. Mann Co. has gone over it extensively and we’ve done testing on it. You should have no trouble installing your circulatory circuitry,†Engie laughed. The Engie took off his glove and held up his robotic hand. “I’m quite familiar with adding and subtracting appendages from the human body. This beauty in particular helps out with a lot of the work I do.†Medic raised his eyebrows, “Mein gott! That’s certainly amazing!†“It’s fully articulated, completely dexterous, and absolutely handy for building schematics and systems that are otherwise unfit for normal human hands.†The Doctor marveled at the work. It was just as Engie had said. Here were the metacarpals, all the phalanges accounted for, and a fully functioning thumb complete with the bone structure. It was attached at the wrist to the rest of the Engie’s body, and he assumed that there was some sort of nervous structure that connected it to Engie’s brain. Certainly, if anyone could have found a way to have created such a marvel, it would be this man of pure engineering science. Medic found himself for the first time in a long time in awe of an academic far ahead of his own time. Even compared to the purview of his own science, Medic could see and appreciate the work that he had been hitherto unknowingly doing at the side of Engie. Divided by miles and by secrecy, their work together had conquered death and modern surgery and had made great strides in engineering. The Medic could only imagine what this peculiar engineer had contributed to the forwarding of the sciences within his own physical fields. But the hand convinced him: this was a man of true genius. Pure genius. The Medic extended his arms. “May I examine it?†The Engie brought his hand forward and extended it. The Medic cradled it in his two hands and examined the joints and the intricate metal bones. He made note of each bone and followed it from fingers to the wrist. There was warmness to it. The whole hand seemed teeming with the sort of life that he would find in a real hand. There was some sort of pulse to it – electricity perhaps? The Medic was quick to admit to himself his own ignorance regarding the machine. He let the hand drop and looked into the Engie’s goggles. “Danke.†“Not a problem, Doc,†he placed the glove gingerly back on the robotic hand, stretched it and relaxed it, and returned it to his side. “Perhaps I can help you with your surgeries some time.†The Medic laughed. “Do you have your medical license?†“’Fraid not. I’ve got enough understanding of systems and fixings that I’m sure the human body wouldn’t be too difficult after a time spent puzzling. Problem is, I learn things by taking them apart and looking at schematics. That might not be too handy in the surgical auditorium.†“Well, I suppose I can let you watch at least.†“Mighty kind.†The Engie’s head rose with the music for a moment. “Ah, fan of Joe Green.†“Pardon?†“Giuseppe Verde. I rather like Maria Callas’ voice. Greatest singer that side of the Atlantic. Rather envious of you Europeans and your proximity to finer culture. It’s tough in Texas to find a sweet songbird like her.†The Medic walked over to the autoclave and pulled out the ubersaw and slowly walked back towards the workstation. “Texas? I’m afraid I’ve never been there. I imagine the weather quite compares to the Outback?†“It’s warm, I’ll say that. We get a bit more rainfall back in Bee Cave, but this weather ain’t no sweat. I take it may take some time for your lungs to get adjusted to the air down here. I’m sure you’re sick of the cold winters in Germany.†The Medic paused in his walk and held out his ubersaw. “Yes. It’s going to be some trouble – but I’m sure I’ll get adjusted. Tell me something –“ He handed the ubersaw to the Engineer. “—I understand the basic principle behind this energy source for the Medi-Gun; it’s supposed to power the ubersaw. But, how exactly does it work?†The Engie chuckled, “Now that – that’s going to be a bit of trouble for your conscience. It powers up from the residual australium leftover in the bodies of men from the respawn process. You get australium by sticking this bit into people. I’m not sure how you are with combat, but I’m sure you understand what I mean.†Medic hesitated. “This thing is powered by killing people, yes?†“It’s what we’re here to do. But try not to think of it that way. We’re not actually dying. Heck, mister we just get better and better every time. And hopefully you won’t need to use it. You can stick to your normal bonesaw for protection if that suits your morals a bit better.†The Medic felt a curious smile cross his face. “I think this will suit just fine.†Engie handed back the ubersaw and Medic carefully placed it in the top drawer of his desk. “You’re wearing your uniform already?†“Well, the checker shirt is a bit off, but I’m just getting the feel for the costume. It’s nothing different from my usual. I’m always wearing work clothes,†the Engie turned. “I hope your birds are decent for the weather. It’s a bit of a change for them.†“I’m certain they’ll do well in adjusting. Archimedes here seems to like it already,†he looked for the bird on the bust but found him perched among the lights above near the observation level. “I’ll leave you to your work. But if you ever need anything, just holler.†“Certainly, Engie. Thank you.†The Engineer turned about and left the room shutting the door behind him. The Doctor was once again alone left to ruminate. He advanced towards the gramophone and pulled off Verdi. “Joe Green,†he mumbled. He wondered to himself whether or not swing music would be appropriate. As he was picking through his records, there came a loud booming voice over the intercom. Distinctly female, unsettling. Cold. “Alert to medical bay. One of your idiot teammates has blown himself up. Prepare the examination room.†The Medic straightened and walked towards his vestibule. He pulled it open and took out a crisp white uniform. “Might as well get used to it,†he said to himself. It was time to practice medicine. --------- CONTINUED IN CHAPTER FOUR
This is great.
I really love this story, it's a very leisure and deviant read. Please do go on, you'll have me as your never ending reader!
More please! I'm loving the style and the backstory!
Enjoying this.
Please upload more. It's a shame to see great fics gather dust.
This is fantastic. Brilliant personification of the good doctor and a brilliant interpretation of how they all met. Keep it up!
Please continue man.