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Sniper had noticed that Medic seemed to be studying him from a distance.
Medic would be sitting opposite him on the dining table, observing the way he ate his food, and making notes in a little notepad in ballpoint pen. Sniper would ask what he was doing, and he would just say, "Oh, nothing. I'm just doing research."
Sniper would ask, "Research on what? My eating habits?"
Medic would simply look at him and smile. It wasn't unnerving enough for him to stop eating entirely, but he'd look at the other mercenaries around the table and see what they thought of this. Some raised their eyebrows, some didn't seem to notice, so Sniper just continued to eat.
Sniper had seen Medic observing him during the fortnightly game night. Sniper usually sat in the corner, in the same seat, and held his cards in one pile, not spread out in his hands unless it was his turn. Medic had placed his cards on the table, much to the joy of Scout, in favour of making notes in his notepad again. Needless to say, he lost. Scout spent the entire time convincing people to show him his cards, and Medic- well, he didn't seem too interested in the game.
Sniper didn't play many offence cards. He preferred to collect them, silently earning in the background as the louder mercenaries argued over each other and destroyed each other's inventories with attacks. Medic peered over at Sniper, noticing this technique. "Collecting cards over time and hiding in the background so you'll silently win, are you, Sniper?"
"Wanker," he said back, dreading Soldier's realisation of this fact. Soldier was far too good at this game. He would mercilessly batter peoples' inventories until they had no cards left to their names. The people who won these games the most were probably Soldier - for his inane number of successful attacks, Scout - on account of his tendency to cheat relentlessly, and Engineer - as he had the strategy skill of an empire.
Spy would have been good, but he had the aura and reputation of a sleaze, a trickster, a manipulator, and a swindler. No one trusted him enough to let him get out of last place. Medic didn't care much for card games, and neither did Heavy. They weren't competitive unless they were in the mood for a showdown, so they often ended up in the middle or near the bottom.
Demo was often too drunk to focus on what his cards said- that's why Scout often sat by him, as it was remarkably easy to take them from him. Pyro enjoyed the games, but was often out-played by the best players, earning them a place in the upper section.
Medic had also stared into Sniper's eyes on multiple occasions. It was unclear what he was trying to do. It had begun to be vastly uncomfortable. "What are you doing, mate?"
"Testing something," Medic simply said, a little too joyous for Sniper's tastes.
"Testing what?" Sniper asked, making hand movements to convey his confused and irritated state.
Medic wrote something down in his notebook. "Eye contact." Then he walked out without saying another word.
Sniper had no idea what he was trying to do. First his eating habits, then his card game strategy, then eye contact? What next, the way he walked? He was laying in the bed in his van, completely pitch black, or else he wouldn't be able to sleep. All of Medic's actions today were ridiculous.
Sniper knew that Medic tended to orchestrate insane, dubiously-ethical science experiments. He had left strange things in the communal fridge before, saying that his lab's fridge was full. Sniper did not like sharing his section of the fridge with a human eye wrapped in clingfilm, or a bottle of unidentifiable viscous liquid. It was a miracle he hadn't gotten food poisoning yet. Or anthrax.
It was in the late evening when he decided he had enough. It was time to confront Medic. He walked to the lab, greeted by a view of the doctor poring over various documents and ripped-out sheets of paper. He raised his head. "Ah, Herr Sniper. How are you doing?"
"Fine," Sniper said dismissively, crossing his arms, "why are you studying me?"
"Because I have a hypothesis," Medic said.
Sniper observed the way Medic's hands tapped on the counter. "Enlighten me."
"I suppose I have enough data to reveal it to you without spoiling the experiment," Medic said, "I have a hypothesis that you may be autistic."
Sniper blinked.
"You think I'm-"
"Autistic, yes."
Sniper took a moment to process the sentence. "… What makes you think I'm autistic?"
Medic leaned forward in his chair, swivelling it to face Sniper more directly. "Many observations of mine. A notable one can be triggered the moment I say the word demographics, mein freund."
Sniper entered from the doorway, stepping inside to talk more clearly. His brain rushed with information at the sound of the word. Sniper did like demographics. Twenty percent of Alaska's population are indigenous, one in five people residing in the United States are Hispanic, forty-two percent of households in Sydney use a language other than English, the oldest continually active synagogue in Europe is located in London.
"I can see you're almost bursting to say something," Medic said, amused.
"I," Sniper started, trying to think of a worthy response, "… am not autistic."
Medic raised an eyebrow. He tapped his pen on his notepad. It was clear he was immensely unimpressed and vehemently sceptical. "Really?"
"Yes. I'm not."
Medic ran a hand down his face. He was trying to think of something. Trying to pull information out of him like teeth from fresh, pink gums. "Hm. Tell me about the Outback."
Sniper sat down in the chair by Medic's laboratory desk. "It's… a region of Australia. Very sparsely populated, contains different climate zones - monsoonal, tropical, arid, semi-arid, and temperate climates."
Medic gestured for Sniper to go on.
He hesitantly continued. "The population of the Outback is over six hundred thousand people. There are ten deserts in the region. In terms of wildlife- there are a lot of birds. I used to go birdwatching out there in the wilderness and I'd see budgies, cockatoos, corellas, in huge flocks! It's a very diverse area of land, there's a lot of variety, it isn't a monolith like what most people think."
Medic nodded.
"The Dingo Fence is a long fence in the south-east to keep dingoes out and to protect sheep flocks. It's one of the longest structures in the world - it stretches five thousand, six hundred, and fourteen kilometres." Sniper paused. He fidgeted with his fingers for a moment. "That doesn't matter- it's not…What are you trying to do, doc?"
"Nothing at all, I'm just asking you about the Outback. I like hearing what you have to say. What about, hm, New York? Do you know anything interesting about that you'd like to share?" Medic asked.
Sniper couldn't help himself from rambling. "It's a very diverse city with a colourful history. I've always found it interesting. From the late eighteen hundreds to the early nineteen hundreds, the Hudson Valley of New York state was the brick making capital of the world. Also- over five million cubic yards of brownstone was transported down the Connecticut River for construction usage."
Sniper continued, remembering more as he spoke. "By the twentieth century, over one billion bricks were sent to New York City by the Hudson Valley every year. It's actually estimated that between twenty-eight and fifty-six billion bricks were needed to fulfil construction needs in Manhattan alone. The history of bricks in big cities like New York is really fascinating, actually. I'd love to visit the brick museum in the Hudson Valley one day."
Medic wrote something down.
"What, uh, are you writing?" Sniper asked, suddenly feeling a little uneasy. He leaned over to try to peek.
"Nothing, mein freund," Medic said, standing up to return some of his documents to his drawers. As he did, Sniper tried to sneak a glance. What Medic had just written down was 'Hypothesis correct - he is definitely autistic.'
Dammit.
Medic was smiling very intensely. It irritated Sniper to his core. "What are you smiling about?"
"Oh, nothing, Sniper," Medic said, brushing it off, "I just like seeing you so enthusiastic about these things. It's lovely."
Sniper felt his face turn red. He needed a distraction. Quick. "I…"
"When I asked about New York," Medic said, "you immediately went to the conversation topic of bricks. Is there a reason for that? Are you particularly intrigued by architecture?"
Sniper was immensely relieved for the change of topic. "Well, I find it interesting how a city shapes a community. Bricks were a staple- they had very high demand for buildings, especially in dense New York. Community was high-rise and wrought in tall buildings to make use of the small space. The construction of houses that were wood-framed was limited in the aftermath of the Great Fire of eighteen thirty-five, so bricks and stone became the dominant building material. Fire spreads quickly in densely packed areas, especially when flammable."
"Very true. Architecture is fascinating," Medic said. Sniper's mind was running with information about cities. Barcelona is trying to become a walkable city. Amsterdam is a city built upon swamps - almost improbable, Venice is built on a group of a over a hundred islands, and sections of the city are linked by several hundred of bridges. The world's first heart transplant was conducted in Cape Town, South Africa. The historical centre of Quito, Ecuador, is one of the largest and best-preserved in the Americas.
"So, Sniper," Medic said, trying to explain, "I think you are autistic."
"Right." Sniper still denied it, rolling his eyes at him.
Medic noticed the exact way he rolled his eyes. He carefully spoke, a small smirk on his face. "Hmm. Do you know a common trait in autistic people regarding eye rolling?"
"What?"
"They sometimes take the term to mean literally rolling their eyes in a circular motion."
Sniper paused. He leaned forward, arms on the counter. "Well, that's stupid, doc. That's what eye rolling is."
Medic did an example eye roll, moving his eyes quickly to the top and then back to their regular position in the centre of the eye. He was smug.
Sniper shrunk back in his seat.
"There's really nothing to be ashamed of, Sniper. It isn't a bad thing at all, and it's not something you can keep denying-"
"I already told you, Medic, I am not autistic. I've lived my entire life up to this point absolutely fine," Sniper groaned.
Medic sighed. "Tell me about your childhood. Were you often solitary? Did you understand the social cues of the other children your age? Were you interested in very specific topics that seemed niche to your peers?"
"I," Sniper swallowed, "yes. That's true. I hid in trees when I was young. I threw rocks at the other kids when they came close. None of the teachers seemed to realise that I liked being alone. They always came up to me, always tried to convince me to come down from the tree, Mundy, and they made the others play with me during break time. In creative writing I always wrote about things no one else liked- like trees and deserts and rocks. When the other kids were on about the latest trends, new music, going to the beach, I was holed up in the garden categorising bug species."
Medic brought his hands together and intertwined them. "That settles it! You fit the criteria, Sniper, and believe me, I know."
Sniper frowned. The light in the lab was cold and bright, almost piercing. His glasses did little to subdue the harsh glow.
"When was the last time you made eye contact with someone?" Medic asked, noticing Sniper's averted gaze.
Sniper scoffed. "I make eye contact all the time."
Medic met Sniper's eyes. "Prove it."
Sniper looked back, trying to hold eye contact for as long as he could. It felt remarkably intimate, as if their souls themselves were observing each other. Medic had a small smile on his face, as he was clearly amused by the situation.
"You look vastly uncomfortable," Medic told him, waiting for him to break the eye contact. Sniper averted his gaze, pulling his hat down onto his face a little.
"It just feels too intimate. It kind of hurts," Sniper explained, shifting his gaze to the surface of the table, "it's a strange feeling."
Medic raised a hand in triumph. "Aha! And that, mein freund, is a symptom of autism. You cannot keep denying the possibility."
Sniper tried to think of a way to divert the conversation.
The doctor flexed his hands, analysing something in his brain. He pushed his glasses further up his nose bridge. Then he spoke. "There is a behaviour called stimming. It consists of repeated movements and repeated behaviours for sensory stimulation, to keep calm or to express joy-"
"I don't stim," Sniper said simply and dismissively. He crossed his arms.
Medic's expression was deadpan. "Are you sure? Then what is it called when I see you swing your leg repeatedly when you sit? Or when you hum the same song to yourself all day? Or when I notice you tapping repetitively?"
Sniper hadn't realised he did those things, let alone regularly. "Everyone does that, mate. Is a man not allowed to hum anymore? Is that illegal now?"
Medic rolled his eyes, bringing his fingers to his nose bridge. "I mean to say it is more common in autistic people, and they do it more often."
Sniper shrugged. "I don't stim that much."
"More than the rest of the team. You stim more than Pyro, for God's sake."
"No I do not! Sure, I tap things, I swing my leg, but that's normal. I don't do it an excessive amount-"
"Oh, don't you?" Medic asked, a small amount of irritation in his tone. "What about when you hummed the Australian national anthem around us for five days straight?"
"The Australian national anthem is bloody beautiful," Sniper exclaimed, "it's one of the best anthems out there! And it's catchy. I can't get it out of my head. I heard it in primary school every single day, it's ingrained into my brain at this point."
"Sure, sure," Medic said, writing another note down, "it's definitely not because you are neurodivergent."
"Finally you agree with me-"
"I was being sarcastic, Sniper," Medic remarked, flabbergasted at this point, "and that is another symptom of autism."
Sniper groaned, resting his head on the table. "I…"
Medic set his notebook down onto the table. He was grinning, proud of his observations and subsequent analysis. "Mhm. Another symptom ticked off. I think we've finally come to a resolution."
Sniper glared at him. The bright lights struck his eyes harshly, like icicles, and he detested it. He was used to it, regardless, and could act completely normal while under the lights.
"Are you okay? What's wrong?" Medic asked, concern creeping into his expression.
"Fine," Sniper said, pulling his hat a little down.
The doctor noticed this. "You… The lights. Are they bothering you?"
Sniper did not want to reveal this. He sat up straight, pulling his hat back, and stared as close to Medic's eyes as he could muster. "No. No, of course not. I'm fine."
Medic stood, making his way around the table, looking far too empathetic and concerned for Sniper's liking. Sniper needed to distract him- stop him from getting close enough to analyse him further.
"Paris was the first city to install street lights, actually, in the nineteenth century. Before that, they used gas lamps," Sniper said, racking his brain for anything of worth in the hope that it would distract the doctor in front of him.
"Sniper, you can be vulnerable with me," Medic said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "you can tell me anything. In general, it's common for autistic people to struggle with sensory issues. It isn't shameful or weak-"
"I am absolutely fine, doc. No words in the dictionary could describe how absolutely fine I am at this current moment in time," Sniper told him. At that moment, he remembered that as a child, he used to search for words in the thesaurus like 'happy' and 'sad', trying to figure out which specific synonym he felt like the most at the time. He still remembers the words on his tongue: crestfallen, jovial, melancholy, infuriated, anxious, petrified, joyous. He did not want to mention this to the medic. Sniper would never hear the end of his ceaseless, far too enthused rambling.
"Okay. But you can come to me if you need anything. I'm here- we all are. If you're upset with us for anything, just tell us. If any of them do something abhorrent, leave it to me- I'll just saw off their toes while they sleep, or surgically implant a colony of wasps into their ribcage. Or even remove their atrio-ventricular valves so they die slowly and agonisingly!"
Sniper nodded, a little grateful underneath all of the repression. "Thanks, doc. Will do."
Medic rubbed his shoulder. "And, to be honest, you're not the only autistic mercenary on the team. This new discovery of mine will bring the official percentage of autistic people on this team up to forty-three!"
Sniper thought about that for a moment. Medic really did like his percentages. He was always poring over his medical work, diagrams of thyroids and femurs, experiments of blood and urine. He frequently lost sleep over excitement regarding new medical discoveries and trailblazing. Maybe he'd forgotten to include himself in that official percentage.
Anyway, it was late, and all Sniper wanted was to sleep. He sighed. "I'm gonna call it a night, doc. I need to be in good shape for the battle tomorrow. When I don't rest enough, my aim is off, and I'll never hear the end of it from the Administrator."
"Right, get some rest, freund," Medic said, "I need to finish up my notes and then I can sleep."
Sniper walked to the doorway, peering back at him to say really, mate?
"It will only take me twenty minutes!"
Sniper sighed, looking around the bright, fluorescent laboratory. "Come on, mate. I think sleep is more important than your experiments."
"For your information, I am working on the dissociation in blood- I am going to figure out all sorts of things regarding blood types and the reintroduction of blood previously removed from the human corpus-"
Sniper's eyes were tired. He blinked slowly.
Medic cracked. "Alright. I can do more tomorrow. I'll sleep. No need to worry, freund."
The light outside the base was dim, blue, and sparkling in the night. Sniper made his way to his van and prepared his routine for sleep. It had been a long day. A long week. They all needed some sleep.
Sniper watched the stars dance in the black sky outside.
They lit up, piece by piece.
Drifting into silence.