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Like father, like son
“I admire your taste in wine, but your taste in… ‘ome décor… is repulsive, my dear Medic.” Slowly, Spy’s tongue licked over his lips, savoring the rich aroma of the ruby-red drop he caught.
“Ah, vraiment extraordinaire! Château Margaux, is it not?”
“Of course your tongue never errs, as usual.” The Medic chuckled. Spy addressed his words of praise to the bright lamp on the ceiling, his gaze carefully avoiding the jar standing on the table. The obscure centerpiece, a pale human heart floating in a liquid of the same color of the wine the two men enjoyed, didn’t seem to catch the Spy’s fancy. Deciding that the wrinkled nose of his guest had amused him enough for tonight, Medic took pity on his friend. Tossing and catching the container with one hand, he thoughtfully studied the cabinet, selecting a worthy spot for his treasure, leaving the doors long enough open for Spy to catch a glimpse. The three rows of preserved human organs in thoroughly cleaned glass jars were enough for the Spy to turn the sweet and full taste in his throat sour.
“Well, what brings you here tonight, old friend?” With a sigh the Medic sat down. A stinging pain in his back troubled him, especially after the working hours of long days of a cold winter. It had started a few years ago, but didn’t came as a surprise. For a man in his early fifties he was in a sharp physical condition as his job as a field Medic demanded it. He could still keep up with his team mates, but running across a battlefield, hauling his equipment around to protect and heal the other mercenaries had taken its toll. His bones felt the chilly cold or moist heat before he would set a foot outside, and lately, a rest under the calming blue ray of his medigun only vanquished the pain for a few hours.
“I haven’t heard of you for a while, since they sent you with another team to Europe. Say, since when are you working as a Spy again?” he continued, pouring some wine into the empty glass in front of him. He offered his friend a refill, but the Spy put a hand over his glass.
“Ah, Europe! I wish BLU had deployed us closer to France! Anyway, since when I am a Spy? This is my third year, and I loathe it. And this, my dear friend, is the reason why I am here.” He pulled off his mask, and pointed at a tiny dark spot on his cheek.
“A freckle?”
“A freckle? A freckle?!” Spy jumped up, knocking his chair over, slamming the hand holding the mask on the table. “This! Is not! A freckle!” He bowed over the table, as close to the Medic, turning his cheek towards him.
“This is an age spot! On my face!”
“I’d appreciate if you didn’t upset my furniture. I ask you to calm down and sit, then we can talk about this… annoyance.” The cold tone of the Medic voice that suddenly dripped with a strong German accent. Over the years, the brilliant blue eyes had become dulled, but for a second they showed the old, ice-cold glare Spy remembered from their fights together. This was enough of a warning.
“I apologize.” The French took a deep breath and picked up the overthrown chair, taking a seat again. “Well, mon ami, what I wanted to say…” He cleared his throat, abashed by his own loss of composure. “This is unacceptable, as you can imagine. This is why I need the help of your magical hands once more.”
“So it’s that time again. I should have guessed.” A lenient smile appeared on the Medic’s face; the dangerous air that had surrounded him only seconds before had vanished. “This should be a matter of minutes. Removing a spot of this size will not even leave a scare. Seriously, I’m flattered you traveled across half of the world to see me, but Europe has fine doctors, too. Any of them should have been able to perform a procedure like this.”
“What do you know!” Spy flared up again, but a look at the Medic’s stern face helped him to keep his countenance. He bit his tongue and silently counted to ten. Releasing his breath, he put up a smile.
“It is not only the spot. My knees trouble me, as does my left hip. Ah, and my eyes! Our Medic said I should consider reading glasses. Me! Glasses! Can you imagine that!”
“No, not at all.” Medic hid a smile, remembering a certain young, cocky man with a thick French accent, who once mocked him for his glasses.
“See? What a moron. Well, and I hate to admit it, but my stamina is troubling me.”
“Well, you aren’t 20 anymore. I can tell you, it gets harder and harder to keep up with the others every year. We aren’t getting any younger.”
“Mon dieu, you sound like an old man.” Flinching in disgust, Spy dismissed the Medic’s words with a wave of his hand. “What a tragedy, when you used to be so ‘andsome. So dashing. Almost like me,” he added with a smirk.
“Anyway, docteur, you ‘ave, of course, a point. We aren’t getting any younger. Unless we ‘elp it. And this is where you come in. I take it you are willing to perform the surgery.” He didn’t ask a question, he stated a fact, to the Medic annoyance.
He didn’t appreciate it when others took his skills and services for granted, good friends were no exception, and he had a good mind to tell this cheeky Spy to finally accept that he wasn’t immortal instead of trying to dodge his fate.
“Of course I am.” He didn’t hesitate for one second. Yes, although the Spy needed to be taken down a peg once in a while, a change of the usual routine of healing battle wounds was more than welcome. Carrying a big piece of science and aiming it at the wounded wasn’t exactly – challenging. But there was still one question left open.
“Do you have a donor in mind?”
“In mind? In my ‘and luggage!”
- - -
“I didn’t think you were literally speaking when you said ‘hand luggage’.”
“What did you expect? If I had left ‘im to the luggage check-in ‘e would ‘ave frozen to death.”
After another glass of wine they had left for the Spy’s room. During his stay he had moved into one of the guest rooms the base offered to usually high-ranked visitors or officials. The Medic’s eyes wandered from a big suitcase standing on the carpet to the pathetic figure lying next to it.
A young man, not older than 20, Medic guessed, wearing the uniform of a BLU Scout. He was bound by his wrists and ankles, gagged by a piece of sturdy duct tape. Trembling from the strain of lifting his head, the youth gazed at the Medic through deep blue, but clouded eyes, a sign he had spent the last hours asleep, probably drugged.
“Fascinating, he looks like you when you were young,” the Medic remarked, comparing the young man’s fawn-colored hair to the Spy’s. Of course his friends had been dying his hair for a few years now, but it was still the same shade of light brown. “Isn’t he even about the same age you were when you joined?”
“He’s 19, the second youngest Scout ever hired by BLU.” Spy straightened his back and lifted his chin, a proud smile lightening up his face.
“Is that so? Anyway, I’ll run the usual tests of compatibility.” He fished a syringe from the pocket of his labcoat and knelt down. The Scout shrank back when the glistening needle came closer to his arm.
“Hush, this will not hurt much. No need to make a fuss.” With an indifferent expression, the Medic grabbed the shivering Scout’s arm, holding it steady. He frowned at the muffled outcry coming from the scared youth, as the needle poked through the pale skin.
“Go ahead, although I doubt it is necessary. Unless,” the Spy chuckled, “his mother lied to me, ‘e is very compatible.”
Medic stood up, pocketing the blood-filled syringe, casting the Spy a skeptical look. The Scout dropped back onto the floor, shoving himself as close to the wall as possible.
“Your son? And you don’t feel guilty at all?”
“It’s not like I knew about ‘im until a few weeks ago, when ‘e joined the company. If she misses ‘im too much, I’ll make ‘er a new one.” Impatiently waving his hand, he walked over to the cupboard, searching one drawer. When he found a small, unlabeled phial, he tossed it at the Medic. “A sleeping drug, don’t want ‘im to knock anything over, do we?”
“She ‘as a few more of these brats. Four or five, I think, I don’t remember. I don’t know ‘ow many fathers, but this one is mine. Just look at the eyes.” He stood behind the Medic while the German injected the drug into the Scout’s arm, right next to a tiny red dot.
“Yes, the resemblance is uncanny.” Medic looked up at his friend. The Spy’s light blue eyes were flashing with an excited glow, his cheeks flushed as his smile widened into a grin.
“I want them,” he breathed, his chest suddenly heaving as quickly as the Scout’s.
“The eyes? I’m sure to improve your eyesight we don’t even have to implant a new retina, as long as I…”
“I want them!” Spy almost shouted as he knelt down, seizing the Scout by his chin. “I want these eyes. They are mine! The same azure blue! The same pure white! The same keen stare!”
“Well, not so keen right now.” Medic put a gentle hand on the Spy’s wrist, moving him away from the youth. The Scout’s head dropped, the eyelids fluttering before they closed over the drowsy eyes.
“If you want them so badly… your choice. I’ll test his blood anyway, just to make sure, and to assure he’s completely healthy. Give me two days to prepare anything. We’ll have you young again in no time.”
“Good. The sooner I can go back to my old job the better. Who knows, maybe I can even pass as ‘im and nobody will be the wiser.” Spy chuckled to himself, following the Medic when he left the room.
“Should save you the paperwork, shouldn’t it?” Medic laughed, slapping the Spy on the shoulder, but turned serious. “Don’t expect any miracles. You’ll look younger, and and if we use his heart as well should be able to work as a Scout again, at least for a few years. But I’m not sure I can turn you into a 19 years old.”
- - -
Two days had passed when the inhabitants of the BLU base had fallen asleep, unaware that two men were lying on the operating tables in the Medic’s office. Spy was sleeping peacefully, his breathing calm and regular. His skinny body was covered by a green blanket. Several tubes in his nose and arms would ensure his safety once the Medic would start cutting along the lines drawn on his face.
A collection of fine needles and scalpels of different sizes waited on a small, high table, the steel shining coldly in the bright light of the neon lamps. Three jars stood on a shelf, filled with a translucent liquid. The sharp stench of sanitizing alcohol and formaldehyde filled the air.
The Scout was strapped to the second table, an additional strap over his forehead preventing him from tossing his head. His eyes were wide open and small drops of cold sweat were running down his temples.
“Thank you for your help, my friend. I appreciate your assistance.” The Medic smiled at the bulky man with the broad shoulders standing at the other side of the table. “Please remove the duct tape. Swiftly! We don’t want him to wake up the whole base.”
“Yes, doctor. Is honor to me.” The Heavy put his large hand on the Scout’s head and ripped off the tape. Medic shoved a structure of steel wires and bars into the youth’s mouth, and the scream turned into a gargled grunt.
“There, this should do. Well, I thought after you threw up the last time and lost your appetite for almost a week you’d never join the fun again.” Medic laughed, fixating the dental gag in the Scout’s mouth.
“Oh, I was young. Time passed, years, many years. Five?” Heavy joined the laughter, patting the Scout’s head when the Medic nodded.
“Is waste though. Young Scout looks strong, like good fighter. Too bad medigun does not make copy of body parts. Doctor never feels remorse, does he?”
“Maybe I would, if I was related to him.” The Medic frowned at the sleeping Spy. “But as I’m not, I’m fine. I agree it would be nice – especially for our young friend here – if we could duplicate the material instead of just reconstructing what we have at hand. However! It’s still fascinating what we can do. Are you aware of how fascinating? Thanks to the technology the company provides we can transplant almost everything, assembling a human’s body almost from the scratch, sewing him together from whatever we find. Well, within limits. As much as he wishes, I cannot magically turn him into a teenager again.” He chuckled, preparing the injection that would narcotize the Scout.
“Hush, boy. You’ll sleep soundly, not feeling anything. You’ll awake in a few hours when the first surgery is over.” He pushed the needle into the flesh of the Scout’s arm. “Feel honored, some of the procedures will be performed for the first time. It’s a big step for science.”
The drug took effect immediately, and the Scout’s struggle against his restraints were loosing their force. The Medic waited until the gargling grunts calmed down, then he shoved a tube into the Scout’s mouth.
“What will we do this time?” Heavy asked, handing the Medic a fresh pair of rubber gloves. “Why does he need the teeth?” he added, putting on a pair of gloves himself.
“It has stopped about what he needs years ago, it’s about what he wants. And he wants shiny, white teeth, so he’ll get them. Guilt for risking to ruin his with all this smoking, I presume.” He gave a sneer, letting the latex of the glove snap against his skin.
“Today, we’ll only focus on his face. The teeth, the eyes, a few patches of the scalp to replace the balding spots of his temples. He also wants his nose to look like the boys. Fortunately, I could convince him that a correction would lead to a better result than a transplant.” He chuckled, slapping the Scout’s cheek. When he was assured the youth was deep asleep, he gestured Heavy to have the flat tray for the Scout’s teeth ready. The Spy’s would end up in one of the prepared jars, a new addition to his collection. But they had to hurry if they wanted to finish all necessary steps in one night.
“He’ll need a few days to recover, then we’ll do the rest, by the end of the week. Kneecaps, lungs, heart, left hipbone… Two busy nights await us.” He picked up a pair of tongs and adjusted it to one of the Scout’s lower front teeth. Heavy stared with a mix of disgust and fascination, flinching at the grinding sound when the Medic loosened the tooth by jiggling the tongs back and forth. With one pull, the tooth was finally removed and landed with a clang in the steel tray. Blood dripped over the Scout’s bottom lip, and heavy hurried to adjust the thin rubber tube to have the bloody saliva removed from the opened mouth.
“Not much of Spy is still Spy. Is very vain man. Is not older than 35, is he not?” By the time the fourth teeth was dropped into the bowl Heavy didn’t mind staring at the bloody, gaping mouth anymore.
“35? My, if this isn’t a compliment to my skills! Although he would feel insulted, being thought older than anything but 25,” Medic snorted, wiping a tear of laughter from his cheek, leaving a smear of blood on his skin.
“When he was hired as the youngest Scout I worked for BLU for almost two years already. And as you remember – I was one of the first Medics who applied to the project.” He waited a moment, grinning when the Heavy’s eyes widened in realization.
“But this means…”
“Yes,” the German nodded. “He was 18 when he joined, a bit over thirty years ago. Spy, or Scout, is in his late 40s now,” he explained with a proud smile on his face while he continued removing the upper row of teeth.
“He loved his job as a Scout, as I love my profession. I wonder what he will do when my hands become to shaky to repair his damages of age?” He sighed, the pride in his eyes dimmed by a shadow of wistfulness. “All I can do is to create a masterpiece that will last for more than five years. I hope your short life was a fulfilled one, my boy.” With unexpected gentleness, he caressed the Scout’s cheek. “It will not be in vain, I’m sure your father appreciates the sacrifice of his donor.”
- - -
It was in the early morning hours when the Scout woke up. The buzzing sound in his head distorted his thoughts and he failed to remember what had happened after dinner, when their Spy asked him to join him for a game of chess.
His body felt strangely heavy and stiff, as if he was lying on a hard surface. A dull pain, starting from his jaws, spread through his skull and from there down his spine, a regular throbbing, uncomfortable and so numb it was maddening.
He tried to move his arms, but something held him down, something that felt like sturdy leather. Suddenly, he gasped as images of himself bound and gagged flooded his mind. More images appeared, of an old man in a lab coat, like their Medic’s, bending over him while he was lying on the floor of an unknown room. The dark blue eyes of the Spy with the insane stare, in a face that looked like an older version of him.
His memory returned, ending with the elderly Medic spreading his jaws painfully with a strange steel structure, a giant with a Russian accent observing him, and finally, a needle putting him to sleep.
Struggling against the restraints, he tried in vain to toss himself around and to free himself, but the straps kept him in place. The pain in his jaws grew stronger. The acid liquid of his stomach rose in his throat when the tip of his tongue hit against the mauled gum. Hectically, he felt over the dents and bumps, finding nothing but raw flesh and the taste of blood.
Telling himself he had to be caught in a nightmare, and that panicking wouldn’t save him, he forced himself to breath slower, swallowing hard to keep the bile down.
A bit calmer, he tried to figure out the situation, refusing to think about his teeth.
Something made of a soft fabric had firmly been wrapped around his head and covered his eyes – a blindfold! He heard the buzzing of a neon lamp above him, probably the one he had seen before the Medic had injected the sleeping drug.
Hoping he would find at least a tiny gape that let a bit of the emitted light through, he moved his eyes.
There was nothing left to move, and his piercing scream was silenced by the tape covering his toothless mouth.
- end -