Chapter Text
Medic was, to put it lightly, a bit pissed off. Then again, pretty much anyone would be pissed off after learning that their entire purpose was now just to kill robots, all day every day. And anyone would be pissed if they had to permanently work alongside the men they used to slaughter repeatedly on the daily to do so. And maybe they’d be pissed that most of their RED teammates were so calm about working with the enemy, and that the BLU team was in the same boat. Or, maybe it was just that he was exhausted.
Early this morning, Miss Pauling had roused both teams, gathering all the mercenaries into the RED base to tell them about the urgent call she’d just received from The Administrator; at 4 AM, an hour after the doctor had gone to sleep. At least the Medic hadn’t had to trudge through the harsh chill of the snowy Barnblitz area, far too early in the dark morning. That was one less thing to piss him off, he supposed.
The German leaned back in his chair, arms crossed against his chest, eyes heavy and left leg hooked over his right. He glanced to his left, sweeping his tired gaze over the sea of BLUs, all while Miss Pauling droned on about the robots coming to kill them. What else was new, he asked himself. His eyes settled on the opposing Engineer, who had his own gaze fixed on the lady informing them of their inevitable deaths at the hands of bots.
The man sported a furry, insulated outfit instead of his regular overalls and short-sleeved shirt. Even outside of battle, he kept his hat and goggles on at all times - though to be fair, he looked somewhat ridiculous without the latter on. Raising his upper lip in a silent snarl, Medic followed his enemy’s gaze, tuning back into the monologue.
“... but it’s nothing you guys can’t handle,” Miss Pauling assured. A few of the mercenaries grumbled their protests about the news, but no one spoke up. Medic figured that they were just as tired as he was, and were hoping to get back to bed soon. Swiftly pushing her glasses back up her face, the assistant continued her speech, glancing down at the clipboard she held close to her chest.
“The Administrator has decided to help fund upgrades for your weapons since these robots are definitely bad news. I'm helping with them too.”
The doctor shifted and sat up slightly in his seat, a little more interested than before. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a BLU raising his hand, immediately followed by a voice that erased the Medic's good mood as fast as it had come.
“What kinda upgrades?” it asked. He gripped his arms a little tighter.
“Well, Engie, it depends. Every weapon has different upgrades specific to what they are, and you can get yourself whatever you think is needed most. You can even upgrade your own body!” Miss Pauling explained. The horde of mercenaries voiced their approval, save for the RED Medic, who sat silently, doing all he could to suppress his hatred for the Engineer. If he had to spend two more minutes in this room with him he might just snap.
A new voice rose above them all.
“What’s the catch?” the RED Demoman asked, his words a little slurred from the combination of a hangover and sleep deprivation. Miss Pauling noticeably tensed a little, earning a raised eyebrow from the Medic as the crowd quieted down.
She cleared her throat. “Well, the robots, they… Gray Mann designed them to run on money as fuel. When they’re killed, they drop some, which is what you’ll use to fund the upgrades. You have to split it evenly among yourselves, and… can't take any as payment.”
The mercs raised their voices in protest again, the Medic bowing his head slightly and resting his forehead on his fingertips. Barely listening to the assistant now, a feeling of sickness arose as Medic tried to find something else to think about to make sitting here not so agonizing, to keep him awake. He racked his brain for something, anything, but all he got was a blur of robots and whatever Miss Pauling was talking about now. The man rubbed his bleary eyes, shoving his glasses up onto his forehead and ignoring the nausea from so little sleep.
Glancing over at the BLUs again, desperate to keep himself awake until Miss Pauling was done, he picked out the other Medic, noting how odd it was that they both looked almost identical. The BLU Medic’s spectacles had differently shaped frames, and his winter fur coat had only one button done up, leaving his jumper and white button-up underneath exposed.
He glanced down at his own outfit, which was the same warm coat, only completely buttoned up. He wasn’t about to let everyone know that he hadn’t had the energy to change into his full uniform just for this, though his pajama bottoms and slippers were a dead giveaway to anyone who looked at him for more than a second. He blinked.
And woke up to someone shaking him into consciousness. Startled, the Medic shot up, smacking his upper back into the wooden chair with a grunt of pain. Rubbing his ribs where they now ached, the RED looked up at his teammate.
"Doc, c'mon! These robots ain't gonna die by themselves!" the Scout told him, taking his hand off of the German's shoulder to motion for him to follow. Wiping the sleep from his eyes again, he slowly raised himself. “Ja, of course,” he mumbled, stretching and yawning.
Behind him, someone patted a strong hand on his shoulder. Medic glanced up at Heavy, the two nodding in acknowledgment at each other as the doctor slipped his arm free and followed everyone out of the room. While he felt a little refreshed from his accidental nap, the doctor's steps were still sluggish and his back was hunched, partially from pain.
"What did I miss? Did anything important come after the whole 'they run on money' part?" Medic asked, looking to and from his two teammates.
"Oh, they're doin' some sorta rota. You gotta fight in a round every day, and they're only lettin' six of us fight at once. No idea why though!" Scout informed him. "And there's gonna be like, three different battles with a ton of waves every freakin' day! Miss Pauling said she'd explain more later 'cause some of us started dozin' off, like you." Medic snorted.
Beside him, Heavy nodded. "Both teams will have separate rota too," he stated simply. The Medic pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded. "I see," he replied, too busy suppressing a yawn to ask all the questions buzzing in his mind. The doctor wasn't sure if the gunman had noticed this, or if he appeared more lethargic than he thought, but the familiar feeling of warmth on his shoulder reappeared, steadying him as he swayed on his feet.
"Doctor should sleep before robots come," Heavy decided. Medic glanced over at him again.
"But there's so much I need to do. None of the Mediguns will heal the BLUs unless I change them to, and-"
"Work later. Rested mind will be better," he insisted. The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but the steel gaze of his friend was enough to shut him down. He was right, to be fair. He turned away, looking down at the floor.
"Alright. But I'm going to fix that Medigun as soon as I get a chance," Medic promised.
The group reached the hallway splitting off to the dorms. The doctor turned to his left to see the last of the BLUs bundling up to head back out into the cold. To his right, he watched Heavy and Scout turn towards the corridor leading to the base's other rooms; the cafeteria, the lounge, and the like.
"You aren't resting up too?" the doctor inquired. The pair turned back to look at him.
"Nah, I ain't got time ta sleep! I gotta figure out how I'm gonna stop these things! Plus, four hours is plenty!" Scout declared, with quick gestures and hands on his hips.
"I will look at rota with Scout. Then, maybe sleep," Heavy added. The Medic couldn't even imagine walking into another room right now, let alone thinking about how the turn-taking system would work. He nodded.
"I suppose I will see you later then," he smiled, earning a friendly face and a sharp grin respectively from his friends as he waved, turning down the corridor and heading for his dorm.
Medic reached the end of the hall, the clicking of his boots against the wooden floorboards alerting him every time his head swayed. He stood in front of his room, signified by his class symbol on the door. Placing a hand on the doorknob, he twisted it, pushing the door open.
He stepped inside, untying his boots' laces and closing the door behind him. The doctor used the last of his energy to pull the shoes off, and stumbled forwards after freeing his second foot, sharply inhaling through gritted teeth as he found his balance. The Medic then locked the door, draping his coat over the knob shortly after, leaving him in his comfortable sleeping attire.
Carefully navigating his way through the dark room, the only thing to guide him being the faint moonlight, the man wandered over to his bed, placing his spectacles on the nightstand beside him and letting his head thump against the pillow. He pulled the duvet up, tucking himself in, and, after a couple of seconds, promptly passed out.
- - -
Small talons on his cheek and a quiet coo caused the Medic to open one eye, washing away his dreams full of clanking metal and mocking voices, and with vision challenged by poor eyesight and the dim morning light, he spotted a dove’s beak just above him. Reaching a hand up to his face, he carefully felt around for the bird’s head, ruffling the feathers on the back of its neck gently, then carefully lifted the bird into the air by its body.
The doctor sat up, holding out his free hand for the bird to perch on. Then, with his other hand, picked up his glasses, slipping them onto his nose. He focused his gaze on the dove. “Good morning, Archimedes,” he smiled, moving towards the bird and sticking his nose out for it to bump with its beak, closing his eyes.
He stayed like that for a moment, before reality caught up to him and he remembered this morning’s meeting. His smile faltered and he moved back, opening his eyes again. “Scheisse,” he whispered to himself, looking away. Archimedes tilted his head, and Medic lowered him onto the bed, peeling back the covers and standing upright to stretch.
Feeling more refreshed, the doctor swiftly donned his uniform and coat, while his doves hopped and fluttered around the room, cooing every now and then. The doctor had had to leave most of his doves in the main base, where he seldom had a chance to return; though, Miss Pauling promised to look after them when she could; the German was grateful to her for that, of course. He kept Archimedes around, though - the dove, who was admittedly his favourite, would likely be devastated if separated from the Medic for too long, along with the other two he kept around. Plus, he seemed to get on with the BLU Medic’s robin well, as well as the enemy engineer’s canary. The doctor and Archimedes seemed to be familiar with a lot of BLUs, he realised.
The RED pushed the thought to the back of his mind, slipping on his long coat and gloves, while his dove fluttered onto his shoulder. He turned his head to glance at the bird, and, pushing his glasses into place, strode over to the door. He unlocked it and turned the handle, only to swing back into the room and narrowly avoid a punch to the chest when he opened the door. Adjusting his spectacles again, he peeked around the corner.
“Oh! Good morning, Pyro,” he greeted his teammate, who had presumably been just about to knock on the door as the Medic opened it. The firebug, having just regained their balance, gave a barely audible “hi!” in response, raising their hand in greeting. They mumbled something that the German couldn’t make out, making a few hand gestures to try and get the point across, which unfortunately didn’t work too well. The doctor’s confusion must’ve shown on his face, as the Pyro sighed and took hold of his wrist, prompting him to follow them. Medic, hastily clicking his door shut as he was dragged away, complied and followed.
The arsonist let go when they were certain the doctor was behind them, and Medic jogged to their side as they walked through the halls, presumably to the cafeteria. They traveled in silence, until Pyro looked up at the Medic, noticing Archimedes on his shoulder. They mumbled something in a questioning tone, and the doctor turned to see them glancing between the bird and his eyes.
“Of course, just be gentle,” he agreed, quickly figuring out what Pyro was asking and lifting the bird from his shoulder onto their hand. Delighted, they brought their hand up to their mask, tilting their head this way and that to look at the bird, who cocked his head in response. The Medic watched for a while, amused, before turning to face the direction they were walking in.
The pair reached the end of the hall, the doctor nudging Pyro in the right direction, their focus still solely on the little bird perched on their hand. They glanced up and around them, spotting the right corridor as Medic led them down it.
“You know, if we survive all this, maybe you should take one of my doves back at the main base next time we’re there,” the doctor offered. Pyro gazed up at him and nodded eagerly. Medic gave him a grin. “Then let’s give this war all we’ve got.”
They stepped into the cafeteria. The room was smaller than the one at their main base, with a long table in the middle of the room, a small kitchen at the back, and several mercenaries sitting or getting breakfast, most doing the former. With one last little nod at the bird, Pyro reached up to Medic’s shoulder, letting Archimedes use their fingers as a bridge back to the doctor. “Danke,” he acknowledged as the bird crept back into place. The firebug made another joyful noise and skipped over to the table, Medic following more slowly and splitting off to make himself breakfast.
The doctor approached the breadbox, intending to make himself some toast. But as he reached it, a familiar hand wrapped around his shoulders.
“So yer awake!” Demoman grinned, some warm alcohol and tea combination in his mug. Medic dread to think what it was but grinned at his friend anyway.
“Morning, again, Herr Demo,” he replied, taking some bread slices and slotting them into the still warm toaster, the Scot moving out of the way to let him pass.
“How do ye expect to put anything on the bread wi’ those bloody gloves on?” the man asked, amusedly sipping his pungent drink. Medic looked at his covered hands and, with a light-hearted scowl at Demo, pulled them off, tucking them under his arm. He pulled his ‘#1 Medic’ mug off the shelf, noticing that everyone else had already taken theirs. It wasn’t like him to be up so late, but then again, it wasn’t like him to be pissed off at a meeting at half-past four in the morning either.
The doctor listened to the chatter at the table behind him as he poured coffee from the nearby machine into his cup, deciding to skip the milk. Instead of the usual laughter and yelling, most mercenaries’ voices were hushed, like they were talking about something the Medic wasn’t supposed to know of. Though, the robots that were threatening the group’s lives and changing their energy weren’t exactly a secret to him. Still, it was odd for the room to be so quiet in the morning.
Beside him, Pyro reached for a bowl. Medic stepped to the side with his full cup, letting them grab it before taking a plate for himself. Picking up the jam, he wandered back over to the toaster and turned around, leaning on the countertop as he strained to hear what the others were talking about.
"I heard that there's hundreds of waves of them, each one more difficult than the last," Scout rumoured to Pyro, who slid into their seat with a full bowl of cereal (how were they going to eat it?), and Engineer, the runner's voice almost as loud as ever.
Sniper and Spy were having some quiet conversation amongst themselves, too faint for the doctor to hear.
"Gray won't know what hit him when we get our hands on those filthy maggots!" Soldier declared to Demo, who was leaning on the chair opposite the man who had spoken. He nodded. "Aye! We're gonnae blast them right out o' the world!" the Scotsman agreed, high fiving his friend. At least these two had high hopes.
The toaster popped up, causing Medic to flinch at the loud sound in the quiet. He turned around, taking the bread slices out and dropping them onto the plate, and grabbing a butter knife. He then reached for the jam, catching Spy and Sniper's conversation as it grew louder.
"You first, mate."
The doctor scooped the sweet topping onto the knife.
"Non, you first, mon ami."
He spread it onto the slices.
"Nah, I ain't gonna be much use."
"And you think I will?"
"At least you can hide!"
He put the knife in the sink and replaced the jar.
"So can you, tu imbécile! You're meant to stay unseen as much as possible!"
"Yeah, but I can't do that in the middle of the field like you, can I, wanker?!"
"What are you two arguing about?" Medic asked, sliding into his seat with his plate and cup and looking over at the squabbling mercenaries. He dropped his gloves onto his lap and picked up one of his bread slices.
"Spy thinks I should go before him on the battle rota today," Sniper explained, slowly turning to Medic. "And I think the mongrel should be more of a gentleman since he wants to play fancy pants!"
"Oh, please! Ladies first," Spy bowed mockingly in his seat, his shit-eating grin plastered on his face as Sniper started arguing again, quickly ending the conversation Medic had started. The doctor took a bite of his toast, reminding himself to check out the rota after breakfast.
"The list's almost full anyway. I'm afraid the only slots left today are in the evening," Engineer turned to the still bickering men, who paused when he spoke. Even the Medic stopped chewing.
"But… that would leave us with just the supports?" Sniper realised, loosening his grip on Spy's collar enough for the Frenchman to wriggle free, cursing under his breath as he smoothed out his wrinkled clothes.
"Let's just hope that BLU doesn't do this too," Medic sighed after finishing his mouthful of toast.
"We should work on balancing the team out," Engineer agreed, glancing over at the doctor, who nodded.
The table fell quiet again, with murmurs about the bots and crunches of food. Even Sniper and Spy had become silent. The absence of the two so much as muttering under their breath created an almost eerie silence.
"Doctor does not butter toast before adding jam?" Heavy asked softly over Medic's shoulder, attempting to start a conversation of some sort. The doctor took a bite and shook his head.
"Nein. I don't think it tastes good," he explained, looking over at his friend. A little white lie; it didn't feel like an appropriate atmosphere to start discussing what happens when a lactose intolerant person consumes dairy. Heavy snorted light-heartedly. "You are weird little man." Medic shrugged, amused, and finished the last little piece of toast. He felt his friend's eyes still on him as he slipped his gloves back on and picked up his mug.
Remembering what he promised himself he'd do, the doctor quietly but swiftly rose from his seat, taking his plate and making his way to the sink, placing down the crockery. Then, still holding his cup, wandered towards the exit, passing Heavy on his way back.
"I'm going to figure out the rota," he explained. The gunman, who had started arm wrestling with Scout, glanced up at Medic, almost immediately smacking the young man's hand onto the table, eliciting a yelp from him. "Jeez, okay, you win!" he complained, rubbing his sore hand when Heavy let go.
"I will come with you," the Russian decided, not giving Medic a chance to respond. He watched as his friend walked off, and shared a glance with Scout, shrugging and following.
Taking a couple of large strides to catch up, the doctor followed his friend through to the lounge, the pair sharing a comfortable silence.
While Heavy had a heart of gold outside of battle, he seemed to save a lot of his kindness for Medic. He was patient and listened to his mad rambles, and would help in the lab whenever he could. Even in battle, the gunman would look after the doctor, sometimes throwing him snacks as quick pick-me-ups. In turn, Medic would do his best to keep his friend going. He was lovely, really. The German wished he could say the same about the others.
While they were also fun people with bright personalities, Demoman and Soldier had a horrible habit of calling for Medic over and over again. It was one of the only things they yelled on the battlefield, other than commands to their teammates, responses and battle cries. And while he enjoyed their friendship, he wished they would at least thank him more often.
The two reached the lounge. It was a small room with a couple of couches, a table, and a bulletin board; since the bases in the battlefields were temporary, they rarely housed anything more than the basics, and many only had a resupply room.
On said bulletin board was a large sheet of paper, held up by a pin on either top corner. It was a table, showing the days of the week. Some names were written on it already, and Medic figured that this must be the rota. Both mercenaries stepped in front of the board, Medic looking up at Heavy, who seemed to read his thoughts.
"Put name in one free slot on every day," he stated. The doctor looked back at the paper. The table had the days of the week at the top and was split into three boxes downwards, most containing either two or three names. He studied them, working out what they could mean - oh, how he wished he hadn't fallen asleep and missed so much information. Heavy noticed his hesitation.
"You see boxes here?" he asked, tracing a finger through the squares directly under the days of the week. Medic nodded. "These show morning fights. We fight metal men three times every day, and everyone will take part in one period," the gunman explained further. "The boxes below are afternoon and evening."
Medic nodded again. "I see, thank you." Reaching into the collar of his buttoned-up jacket with his free hand, causing Archimedes to shift, he felt through the fabric of his clothes until he found the pen in his button-up shirt's breast pocket. Pulling it out and readjusting his glove, he clicked it open, scribbling down his name in the empty spaces.
"The other three people to fight, will they be BLUs?" the doctor asked, turning to glance at his friend. Heavy nodded. "Да." Medic looked back at the sheet, writing his name in the final Sunday slot. He stood back and clicked the pen closed, idly trying to pocket it again, and read the schedule. Sipping his coffee, he sighed inwardly as he remembered that he was on this evening with Spy and Sniper, but noticed something else.
"You're going first this morning?" Medic asked, looking over at Heavy, who shrugged. "Someone has to." The doctor tried his best to hide the worry seeping into his expression. "... Well, good luck, my friend. And please, try not to die," he encouraged, putting his hand on the other's large shoulder and patting it firmly. Heavy smiled and placed his hand on the doctors. "Do not worry, doctor. We might have BLU Medic."
Medic's eyes shot open. "The Mediguns! They won't heal both teams!" he remembered. Heavy's eyes widened too, his smile faltering a little. He looked away in thought, absently lowering both hands from his shoulder. The doctor glanced at their almost entwined fingers, then back at his friend's thoughtful face. Finally, the gunman spoke.
"Is possible to change them to heal both teams, yes? You said you would try," he encouraged. Now it was Medic's turn to look away, over the shoulder where Archimedes was not sitting. Trying to change the very nature of a Medigun would be risky, sure, but if anything went wrong there would be spares, right?
"Maybe. We can see how today goes and go from there. I will have to find the BLU Medic too," he decided. Heavy nodded and seemed to finally notice their hands. He lifted his own into their line of sight, bringing Medic's with it. The doctor kept his hand still as the gunman silently inspected his palm, and wondered what he was thinking.
"Um, am I interruptin' somethin' here?" a voice asked behind the Medic, who quickly turned to face it and instinctively lowered his hand out of sight. "Nein, good morning again, Scout," he responded, hiding his warm face with the cup as he finished the coffee off. The boy paused for a moment as if trying to register what he'd walked in on, but didn't say anything more.
"I was just comin' to make sure I'm still goin' this mornin'. They ain't makin' it to midday with me on the team!" Scout claimed, jogging the short distance to the rota. Medic swiftly slipped his hand away from Heavy's and let it fall to his side. He kept his eyes trained on the runner as he peered at the sheet of paper, searching for his name written in sloppy handwriting. Maybe having men who couldn't read the RED signs in their own bases write their names wasn't the best idea, he figured.
"Rota has not changed. You are with me and Engineer, little man," Heavy assured. Scout turned back to him and nodded. "Good to know! Now how about ya come get ready instead a' holdin' hands?" he taunted, racing back through the corridors where he came from.
"After him!" Medic cried light-heartedly, reaching to keep Archimedes secure on his shoulder. Turning a little redder, he led Heavy towards the runner, adjusting his glasses and channeling his nervous energy into his steps as he bounded across the floor. It would be okay. It had to be.
- - -
The three RED fighters stood in the deep snow, alongside the BLUs, who had sent their Soldier, Demoman, and Medic. The BLU doctor shifted in the cold, glancing at his teammates, then out at the rest of the mercenaries. Catching his eye, the RED Medic gave a sympathetic smile and a little nod - 'I know what that matchup is like.' The BLU mirrored his actions.
The teams were huddled at the entrance to the Barnblitz base, beside the teleporters that could take the mercenaries to any other area. The screens up on the walls showed that they were set to take the group to Viaduct; and possibly to their deaths, the Medic added silently, drawing his lips into a thin line of worry.
"Okay, so, The Administrator will be giving you updates as usual; she'll tell you about incoming waves, bomb carriers, and anything else that needs announcing," Miss Pauling explained, gripping her clipboard and flicking through it with her gloved hands, hastily shoving her glasses back up her face with the back of her wrist, setting them askew.
"We don't really know what to expect, but I'm sure you know your way around your weapons and the Viaduct area well enough to at least stay alive. I'm sure respawn will work too, but we're not a hundred percent sure, so no promises. Just… good luck."
"You'll do good, lads!" the RED Demoman cheered, quickly followed by more encouragement. A few ‘good luck!’s and ‘we can do it!’s were thrown about, and Medic had never heard these men be more supportive. As for the Pyros, they were clapping, jumping, and throwing their fists into the air. Close enough.
"Go get them!" the RED doctor chimed in after a long while, making eye contact with Heavy and patting a fist on his chest, the gunman doing the same. Medic couldn't resist sliding his gaze towards the BLU Engineer in his own crowd. As he turned to the right, he made eye contact with the man, who immediately tore his gaze away.
"Men, if you will…" Miss Pauling encouraged as the noise died down, leaving the RED Medic with a sickening feeling of sadness and anger to kill the mood again. He looked away, focusing his gaze intently on his teammates. Heavy, Scout, and Engineer made their way to the teleporters, the BLU team doing the same. Heavy threw one last look over his shoulder at Medic, the pair sharing a smile.
And then they were gone, and the remaining mercenaries stood in silence, left to mull over the situation. This was it.