Chapter Text
It’s not often the Mercenaries do “spring cleaning.” Hell, that word barely has any meaning in their language. It’s just one thing the Administrator threw out one day and then everyone did it because it offered a bonus to the paycheck. Something, something, Government Issued Health Inspector. Good news is that it no longer smells of piss and gunpowder in the barracks; Bad news is that it smells like chlorine and the air tastes of cilantro. By how it stands right now, it’s impossible to tell which is worse.
The Medic, for as Doctorly as he might have been one day, long ago, did not really care to clean the base. It would just get dirty again in due time, and at most, this was a good way to get rid of some clutter and leave the rest for mercenaries to trip over and get injured to. Everyone knows this — probably why he’s the only one cleaning the dark operating theater because no one else wants to get tetanus over a spare nail lying on the floor with him around.
Figures.
His medical coat and gloves are… somewhere. Along with the stock Medi-gun. Can’t be too bothered right now with finding them because being elbow deep in pills, rusted syringes, and liquid medicine requires a steady hand. He’s Mad, not stupid.
Still, some aspects of schooling have remained with him, even as he sat before the cabinets on the ground: Cleaning the medicine was remarkably faster than everything else he’s gotten done. A decent pile of scraps, twenty years or so expired, have been collecting at his side for the last half hour. Most of their labels have been scratched off, but with the mold growing on some, discoloration and swelling on others, it’s pretty easy to tell what’s expired most of the time. So far, it’s everything.
Some might think that these would have been thrown into the trash, but no. He chuckled at the thought, squinting over a bottle he doesn’t have the eyes to read. That would be wasting it. Tossing the last bottle to the side, hearing it roll down the pile and onto the floor, Medic closed the cabinets. Now he just needs to clean everything else.
Hulling himself up off the ground, he took a moment to re-orient himself among the surgery equipment, eyes drawn to a little birdie, stationed in the only sliver of light the windows provided. Fresh blood drips off the bird as it preens, before fluffing up and hopping down from the cold, metal surgery table in the middle of the room and flying around a bit. No one knows where it keeps finding the blood, but the doc just assumes it found a corpse off somewhere and refused to tell anyone. Maybe it bathes in the rot.
“Idiotischer- Archimedes!” Mumbling, he began towards the bird, bemused at how it got in the room. He locked the door—did it fly in from a window? Did he even leave a window open? “Why are you out here?” Because it was a bird, Archimedes just cooed, slowing its flight to meet the medic halfway, and landing on his shoulder. “It’s dangerous.” Scooping the bird off his shoulders, Medic tried in vain to catch where it might have entered the room from, and to keep his anger at the bird for its intelligence. Smart enough to sneak in, dumb enough to not know the dangers birds face in these sorts of fumes.
With a sigh of concern, the face he was making dropped into a tired smile. It was just a bird, after all. “Yes, now let’s put you back in your cage.” Agreeing with himself, Medic began for the door.
The immediate outside hallway of the operation theater was somewhat cleaner than the inside. Walls still drying up from being scrubbed, and wooden floors soaked in more water and cleaning solution than they should be. The building creaked, groaning as the solution provided from Mann Co. seeped into its fibers. It’s sanitary. Almost medically so.
Ugh-
Nostalgia.
Never mind that. Archimedes’ safety is more important than the limits of hospitals at the moment. Despite the ‘Cleaning’ being accomplished on the other side of the building, the floor’s been a tripping hazard for months now, so the thing they least need is natural bumps in the wood rather than things they can move aside. There’s one specifically, right by the turn into the mess hall, that’s tripped up everyone who’s tried walking at night. It’s probably been caused by the leak in the ceiling, which is a story in and of itself. Scout’s got a tally going for whoever tripped the most, but it hasn’t been accurate for a while now.
Speaking of the Scout, where is he? It was the man’s nature to be annoying-
Where is everyone?
Looking around the long hall, Medic hesitated at the unnerving quiet in this section of the building. There should have been something. Something more than the rumbling in the distance. Confusion crossed Medic’s face pas he registered the previous sentence: Rumbling? Yes, a shiver running though the ground, something big in the distance, moving closer to the hallway where Medic is standing-
Soldier’s voice booms as the rumbling gets louder. A hearty, American, “CHARGE!” Along with hoots, hollering, and an electric buzz getting closer.
Maybe it would be best if Medic stayed in the operation theater for a moment more.
Yes, stepping back through the still open door, he was barely able to close it behind him as a mass of bodies fly past. This was just the usual for the barracks: Screams for the Engineer to stop something, something akin to fireworks being set off as the thing zoomed past, and the sound of a large machine crashing into the end of the hall in a burst of soap and wood chips. Medic went back outside to check on the damage. You’d be curious in this situation, too.
Literally half the team was unconscious, with a ginormous hole where the end of the hall once stood, leading to outside dustbowl, and the quiet rolling of Engineer’s hardhat. In the huff of smoke, it slowly rolled into view, stopping at Medic’s feet. Where he expected to be a fire, no signs of the pyro were in the scene, only faulty wiring and an overcharged amalgamation of a lawnmower and a carpenter’s sander buzzing around like it’s still being piloted. It’s not crudely put together, either.
“… medic…” The Scout’s voice was heard in the heap, rubble cracking and piling up around the masses.
Smash cut to five minutes later, and the dying teammates are stationed inside the operation theater, using the quick-fix and slowly undoing the damage. At least the floor to the mess hall floor was no longer a tripping hazard. This has got to be a new record for how many people he’s had to cover for outside of battle — Everyone else is probably getting this idiotic pay bonus done without issues. Except Pyro, but they’re just Pyro. Worse, it’s ‘everyone’ else, and that means two other people.
From the men he’s managed to pull out of the disaster, the first man he’s healing is the Demoman, mostly because the Scotsman’s barely sober enough to stay awake, so he’s out of question for yelling at. On the other hand, Spy tried leaving the moment Medic began helping people back to the theater — He didn’t get far, having broken a leg in the crash. Now he’s strapped down to the operating table, and without a cigarette. Torture, he’d say.
That leaves the three Americans. It’s always something with them, isn’t it?
“-And this was necessary?” The first words spoken since his being called to the scene.
Off to the side, The Scout huffed, leaning by the operating table “uhh, Yeah.” He pulled on the Spy’s arm a bit, Never mind his broken nose making him sound dumber than he was. “The health dummy’s gonna come by in a day or two.” Swatting at the blood pouring down his face, he cracked it back into place once the Demo was fully healed, making himself seem bigger and more important to get healed quicker. You could hear his voice crack, even if he just slung his arm around the soldier, who clearly wasn’t expecting it. “You don’t expect everything to be spotless by then, d’ya?”
“The Machine, I meant.” Emphasizing the ‘Machine’ part, Medic looked over to the Texan, not leaving much room for Dell to squeeze by with what the he considered ‘common words’. “Was the machine necessary?”
“Y’all gotta admit, though.” His accent was almost as bad as the Scout’s, but at least spoke slower than the man beside him. Currently leaning against the operation table himself, a hand was to his shirt, holding up his chest with struggling breaths. “It’s a beaut, ain’t it, too? Faster than manual labor.” Rolling his shoulder in an almost mocking manner, he gave a teasing smile as Medic just took him at his word.
When the Demo was done, he moved onto Engie, despite the ongoing protests from Scout, who now insisted on hopping in-between the medi-beam and Medic’s ‘Patient”. Most of the Engineer’s ribs were shattered in the explosion, so the Scout could wait for five minutes, because everyone else is more important than him. It was more annoying, if anything, with Engie having to slap some Southern Hospitality into the Scout, which lead to a mini tussle and yada yada- The long and short of it is that eventually, Medic was able to heal Mister Conagher before much else got punctured or bruised, then he moved onto the spy. The conversation continued on beyond his ability to care; the fumes were getting to his head, already aching even before the explosion. He could only imagine how Archimedes was holding up, spying the bird picking at Spy’s bindings.
What’s he supposed to do now, he thought, as he moved onto the soldier. He’s still got his section of the place to clean, still got these dummköpfe to heal, and if this whole situation is a good of evidence, then everyone before him has done nothing to help. If it’s in their best interest to stay in the theater, lest they kill themselves to heal and risk having to explain why they did in the first place, might as well get some fun out of it.
“Because you’re all here,” The quick-fix Medi-gun crackled off, still somewhat unresponsive even after countless nights of tinkering. While it’s not stock, it still works. “I have quite a few things I need help with.” Much to the scout’s chagrin, the healing was now fully powered off, and set to the side as he gestured to the pile of pills on the ground, back faced to the group.
“Aye?” A hiccup came from Demo’s direction, his fifth morning Scrumpy still half full. Not that he opened it yet. There’s just a hole in the bottom that’s been leaking onto the floor. “Be more specific, laddie.”
“Some help with cleaning the rest of the operation theater would be much appreciated.”
A quick moment of silenced passed. Not because they were being asked to clean, the mercs came to that a bit ago, but it was the face the Medic was making. More the fact that he wasn’t making one.
The Scout was the first one to speak up, leaning back and taking a bit to build the question in his mind. “…you ask us… why…?” Standing up, his hands unconsciously reached for those dog-tags he always wore, fiddling with them as everyone’s attention locked onto the Medic.
“Would any of you like to volunteer?” The Medic smiled as politely as he could manage, looking over his own shoulder and calmly turning his body to follow his head.
It didn’t work. His ‘politeness’ was with eyes a tad bit too wide, with pupils flicking across all friendly faces he could deform; lips curled up too high for joy to be the sole reason to bare his teeth.
“I know that look.” Engie laughed something closer to concern, sitting up straighter as he reached over and felt for the operating table. In a quick motion, he tugged on the last of the bondage, freeing the Spy, whose form fizzled away in a red mesh. Footsteps and French curses fled the scene, with the door back out to carnage being yanked open, and slammed closed in less than a moment. While no one else had a reaction too similar to the Engineer’s, everyone was… a bit on edge, even if one of them didn’t know why.
Medic’s fingers tapped the trigger for the quick-fix, not yet leaving the countertop it was placed on, not quite satisfied with just knocking everyone out himself and playing roulette to find the poor soul to torment. Why not have them say it themselves? He brought his free hand up to his neck, letting the palm rest on his hair, and he looked to the Soldier with inquiry.
“What if it’s for the good of America?”
The Soldier shot up, knocking the scout forward, and barked out a laugh at the mere mention of his favorite word. An almost dog-like excitement surging through him at hearing that he could be of help for ‘America’. He’s an idiot; What more could one expect? “Well WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO? That should have been what came to mind FIRST!” Always too loud for every conversation, he stood in a ready position, hand to his head in a salute, waiting for orders that only he could complete.
“Soldier,” Engie began. With a grunt, he stood and tried to cut the soldier off, offering a hand on his shoulder to try and drag him away. “Don’t-“
“Stand down, MAGGOT!” The dumbass snapped, shoving the hand off him and returning to a salute. “If it is for the betterment of America, I am willing to do anything! I will do whatever’s necessary to keep this beautiful country safe.” It didn’t take much more convincing for the Engineer to walk back a bit, hands up in a placating manner.
“Wunderbar, Herr Soldier!” With something a bit more accurate to the name of a smile crossing his face, the Medic reached back down to grab some of the bottles. His hand gravitated towards one with the label scratched off, “Now,” continuing again, hulling himself up off the ground and standing. “There’s little use for everyone else, so you may-“
When he next looked, only the Soldier remained; the door outside was left slightly ajar.
“leave…” his words tapered off, not really finding a use in speaking to no body. Looks like they didn’t need anymore healing, having been in shape enough to leave and assumedly return to cleaning. “Yes,” Medic continued on a new thought, walking over to the operation table, grabbing the soldier by the shirt collar with one hand.
“You and I, Herr Soldier, are going to make something Wunderbar.”