Chapter Text
The truck bounces and shakes as it rips down the gravel road, and if his nerves were any less solid, he might've been afraid. Compared to the sprawling, green landscapes and mountains he's used to, the dusty New Mexico desert gives little in terms of interest. Instead, his mind drifts to experiments for the future, on a mostly faceless - and certainly nameless - patient.
Medic has just moved past the applications of chicken oestrogen vs. synthetic oestrogen and onto transplants using baboon organs when the truck abruptly jolts to a stop. The building in front of him is large, plain, and commercial, with a large barbed wire fence surrounding the entire property. About 6 meters away, a rusty camper van is stationed, blinds drawn shut. The RED company logo is stamped on the front of the building like a brand. Medic shakes his head slightly at the thought, fingers twitching.
The tiny young woman who had collected him from the airport - Miss Pauling, she had introduced herself as - hopped down from the driver's seat, her black kitten heels sinking slightly into the rusty ground. She gestures for him to follow her, and her stride is quick, purposeful as they approach the porch; a peculiar choice for a building such as this, Medic thought. Back on solid ground, he quickly realises they aren't the only ones outside, a fact that sends a jolt down his spine.
Of what, he isn't sure because at first, the man on the porch doesn't seem all that threatening.
He's short. That's the first thought that goes through Medic's head. He's not of any monumental stature himself, but even compared to him, the stranger isn't topping any charts. The next most interesting thing is his choice of attire, a strange mix of borderline ragged denim and well-shined metal and fluorescent plastic.
On the shoulders of his shirt - bright red, certainly company issue - are small yellow circles, emblazoned with a wrench. An Engineer's insignia, Medic notes. Explains the hardhat, at least. His goggles, unkind and unyielding, shine like the eyes of an insect. Beneath them, however, is a kind-looking smile and the slightest crinkle of crow's feet.
"Howdy there, Paulin'!" He calls. American, Medic notes, although not quite like the rest of the people he'd spoken to. A slow, steady twang hit every word, pleasant but foreign. "An' who's this handsome fella ya brought us?"
Something about the unexpected comment in the Engineer's honeyed voice throws him off, and Medic is almost certain his face is flushed embarrassingly red. Thankfully, Pauling answers almost immediately, tapping her crossed arms almost impatiently. "He's your new medic, he had some...scheduling issues," she explains, side-stepping the fact that his 'scheduling issues' involved two stolen corpses and the Romanian police. "I assume you can handle him from here?"
"Wh' hell, if you're in such a hurry," Engineer huffs, although it's good-natured. Pauling takes that as her answer, trotting back to her truck and hoisting herself up to speed away. Suddenly, Medic is very aware he's been left in the middle of no where, in a country he's never seen, and with people he doesn't know. Scheiße. Engineer watches him for a moment, and Medic gets the distinct feeling that he's being studied. The expression on the American's face is startlingly blank, but eventually breaks into a grin. "Well, what're ya waitin' for? Ain't gonna get more daylight jus' standin' there."
Medic blinks out of his stupor, swearing quietly to himself, and climbs the stairs to be face-to-face with his new coworker (as face-to-face as they could get, at least). "Ach, entschuldigung, Herr Engineer," he apologies, half-forcing a laugh as he rubs at his arm. "Simply lost in mein head, I did not..."
He drops off to a vague murmur, mostly because Engineer is staring at him with an expression like Medic has just kicked him in the stomach. Shocked, troubled, and perhaps a little pained, but it's barely a flash before the Engineer realises what face he's pulling and schools his face into a more neutral expression.
"Shucks, doc, ya don't gotta call me, uh...all 'a that," He laughs, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Jus' Engie is fine, 's what the other guys do."
"Natürlich," Medic agrees half-heartedly, although he knows he probably won't stop being so formal with his colleagues - it's simply his nature, born and bred. Perhaps it's his imagination, but Engineer almost winces as he speaks. "I suppose I am just 'Medic' now as vell, hm?"
"Got that right, doc," Engineer confirms, "Boss' orders, an' she's dead serious 'bout it."
"Wunderbar." Hashem give me strength.
~~~~~~
The Lab they've supplied him is nice, much nicer than most of the places he's worked in. Large, well-stocked, and sterile, it's miles more advanced than the dingy, dark, dirty spaces he's used to. His boots click on the tiles and echo on the imposing white walls, leaving a ringing in his ears. Things are scattered across the room, half-unpacked from the boxes still on the floor, and his doves still exploring the space on their own. Archimedes watches him organise his tools from the top of the file cabinet, head cocked; it makes him feel a little more at home in the deadened space.
The big double doors open, swinging to slam against the wall, and it sends all of his birds scattering. With a deep sigh, Medic sets down the scalpel in his hand with perhaps a bit too much force. Turning to meet the eye of the intruder, he finds mild surprise when only one dark brown eye stares back at him. Where the man's right eye should be is a soulless black eyepatch.
"Evenin', doc," he greets him, and again, Medic is caught slightly off guard. Unlike the three Scots he'd met in a bar during his brief stay in Luxembourg, the man before him now has dark, satin brown skin and dense black curls. Regardless, his accent is doesn't lie - and also happens to be very strong, and a tad slurred.
"Guten abend," Medic responds quietly, perhaps still slightly disgruntled about the door-slamming, but it quickly drains when he realises that a concerning amount of blood is pooling on the previously sterile tiles. "Ach, vhy didn't you say somezhing!" Herding the man towards the gurney, Medic grumbles under his breath as blood continues to slowly drip onto his floor. "...been here for four hours and vone of you already managed to get injured!"
"Sorry aboot tha', doc," the Scotsman half-shrugs, hopping up onto the metal table at Medic's insistence. Unhooking a flask from his belt, he takes a deep swig before speaking again. "Jus' 'ad an accident wit' an empty bo'le. Tripped an' fell righ' on it."
Medic just hums vaguely, cutting away at the now-ruined sleeve of the man's shirt. This close, the smell of whiskey and brimstone is overpowering, the way rotting tissue or infected flesh is. It burns his nose just to be this close; he can't imagine how the man lives in it every moment of the day. Likely too drunk to realise it, Medic thinks idly as he peels cotton away from flesh, dropping it into a hazard box to be disposed of later.
Finally, he can really see what he's working with. Shards of a brown bottle, slick with blood, are imbedded all the way up to his shoulder, at least twenty pieces in his forearm alone. Sighing, Medic snaps his gloves on and pulls the bin closer. "Zhis vill sting," he says bluntly, and it's all the warning he gives before he starts pulling the bigger shards out with his hands.
His impromptu patient barely winces, so Medic figures it's safe to continue without any painkillers - if there's any he can even offer, considering how heavily the man smells of alcohol. A conversation for another time, perhaps. They lapse into a tentative silence, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass into the bin and the slosh of liquid in the flask. After a few minutes, though, the silence begins to get on Medic's nerves, and he takes a deep breath before speaking.
"So, vhat should I call you, mein freund?" He queries, hands moving almost robotically between wiping blood away with spare gauze and pulling glass out. He doesn't bother to look up as he speaks, but from the corner of his eye, Medic can see his coworker grin.
"Demoman, atchya service," he declares, lifting his flask in a little mock salute. "Bu' Demo suits me jus' fine. I'd shake ye 'and, bu'..." He lets his sentence drop off and half-shrugs again, and Medic just hums in acknowledgment.
"I see," Medic mutters. Certainly explained the chemically gunpowder smell lingering on his person, although it seemed a bit irresponsible to be an alcoholic in that particular line of work. Then again, he doesn't even have a medical license anymore, so Medic isn't one to judge about career qualifications. "So, how long have you been on zhe base?"
"T'ree days, give 'r take," Demo nods, taking another sip from the flask before continuing, "one 'a ta firs' ta 'rrive."
Medic hums, sifting through his tools and plucking a pair of forceps from the tray; his latex gloves have gotten too slippery from the blood and the pieces of glass too small to just use his hands anymore. "Vhat is zhe rest of zhe team like?" He asks, turning back to continue on the chunks of glass still sticking out of Demo's arm.
"Och, nae so bad," Demo chuckles, eye squinted as he chooses his next words. "An eccentric bunch, fe' sure.
"Scout's a noisy little bugger, an' 'e's practically a baby 'pared ta some of ta guys. 'e's good at runnin', I'll give him tha'. Fast as a bunny, tha' one. Nae ta brigh'est in ta 'ead, t'ough, 'm nae sure ta wee lad can read.
"Solider ain't ta sharpes' tool in ta shed eit'er, bu' 'e's very...passionate." Demo pauses then and laughs to himself, as if he's just made an inside joke that Medic doesn't understand. "Jus' nae always quite t'ere, ye ken? Wakes eve'yone up at seven too, bu' nae one can ge' 'im ta stop. 'e's a good guy, jus' a bit odd.
"Pyro is...well, t'ey ain't a bad sort, bu' naebody can talk ta t'em. It ain't for lack o' tryin', neit'er, bu' t'ey refuse ta take ta mask off. Nae sure I wan' ta see what's under it, personaelly...t'ey jus' donnae act quite right. 's a bit creepy some'imes."
Medic nods along, but the double effort of trying to keep up with Demo's ramblings and finish cleaning up his wounds is beginning to give him a headache. Maybe zhe quiet vasn't so bad. Shucking his gloves off, he throws them over his shoulder and they land on the floor with a wet splat. He pays them no mind - the tiles are going to need scrubbed anyway - and the bandages he winds around Demo's arm are starkly white against his skin. All the while, the Scot continues to talk at him.
"I barely ken ta Heavy, ta be hones'. Man does nae speak much, nae sure 'ow much English ta big guy actuaelly kens. 'e ain't stupid, far from, 'e reads 'losophy novels fer fun fer Christ's sake. Jus' donnae seem ta enjoy bein' social, 's all," Demo explains, flexing his fingers and grinning when Medic finally releases his arm. "Braw, mate!" Medic has no idea what he's being told, so he just nod slowly. Although his arm is finally not leaking litres of blood all over the Medbay, Demo makes no move to leave. "Ye met Engie, aye?"
"Ja, vhen I first arrived," Medic confirms, resigned to the conversation he's been locked into. Gathering his bloody tools in his hand, he drops them in the sink. Cool, clear water runs over the dirtied metal, and he ponders his next words. "He vas kind. More charming zhen I expected from a job like zhis."
Demo guffaws, leaning back against his newly bandaged hand. "Aye, ye ain't wrong t'ere!" He agrees, "Engie's jus' aboot ta poli'est, mos' mild-mannered fella in ten meters o' t'is place. 'pparently 'is family's been workin' fer ta Mann company fer years as Engineers. How aboot t'at, eh?" Medic inclines his head, although he doesn't comment; truthfully, the information is interesting, but he doesn't have a proper response at the moment.
"Now ta Sniper, t'ere's an arsehole fer ye," Demo comments, smile drooping. A slight pinch appears at his brow, and Medic hums, inviting him to elaborate. "Man refuses ta acknowledge us 'less we're bot'erin' 'im. 'e's an Aussie, bu' ye'd naever guess i' by ta way 'e looks. Barely 60 kilos soakin' wet, an' lanky as a weed ta boot."
To Medic's knowledge, that is odd for an Australian, but he doesn't let the mild surprise show on his face. He knows first hand appearances mean little. "You don't look like much of a Scot yourself, Herr Demo," he points out, tone light, and the man just laughs. Strangely, it doesn't quite meet his eye.
"Cannae argue t'at," Demo concedes, taking a deep swig of his drink. "Ah, who else...ta Spy, t'at's it." Just at the mention of the man, his face falls into a deep scowl. "A proper tosser, t'at 'un, never met a man mer combative, an' 'is tongue is quick as a whip. Kens everyt'in' aboot everyone, an' yet we barely ken ta guy. Personally, I think 'e migh' be a bit light in 'is loafers, if ye ken wha' I mean."
Medic doesn't "ken" what he means, but he nods anyway. He's just about to ask the man to leave when there's the rustling of feathers and happy trilling, and he turns to see one of his doves rolling around in a blood puddle like it's a dust bath. Instantly, he knows which one it is.
"Archimedes, no!" Medic scolds. The little troublemaker puffs up when he's called, head tilted as if he's done nothing wrong. He lands on Medic's shoulder gently, accidentally smearing blood all over his shoulder and face. "Kleiner balg, vhat vill I do vith you?"
"Looks like ye go' ye hands full, doc," Demo snickers, landing on his feet. "I best be gettin' on, t'en."
"Alvays, mein freund," Medic sighs, transferring the small bird to his desk to walk his patient out - it would be unfortunate for the most mischievous of his doves to escape into the base. Archimedes makes a disgruntled sort of noise, but doesn't attempt to land on him again. "I appreciate zhe chat."
"Anytime, mate."