Chapter Text
Sodium-orange light spilled in planes across the sticky linoleum floor of Red’s communal kitchen.
The green digital numerals of the stove clock read 12:03, and the Heavy Weapons Specialist quietly inspected the contents of the open refrigerator.
He appraised his options.
A somewhat hardened piece of cheap cheddar, improperly sealed whole wheat bread, and a half-skin of summer sausage.
This, of course, in tandem with 6 cases of cheap beer.
Slim pickings, but enough to furnish a midnight snack.
Mikhail always found himself struggling to accommodate his appetite. He subconsciously ate whenever possible: Times of hunger early in life ensured a constant awareness of available resources. Nary a crumb went to waste in his Mama’s kitchen, and Mikhail recalled times when he was forced to pick the final kernels of Гречка from his bowl. His new life in America no longer needed such precaution. Of course, old habits die hard; in this case, old metabolisms, or whatever term their Medic would use. His thoughts wandered as he gathered ingredients and closed the refrigerator.
Arranging two neat slices of bread on his plate, Heavy began assembling his snack. 4 rounds of sausage completed a base layer with expertly distributed cheese cuttings on top.
Should go shop soon, he noted to himself while discarding the cheese’s plastic wrappings.
He ate right there at the counter, feeling no desire to wash dishes at midnight.
Heavy turned away from and leaned against the kitchen top while chewing his creation, pondering.
Suddenly, Mikhail began to hear some sort of quiet melody.
He paused his chewing to listen.
A classical piece… sounds like Tchaikovsky?
..
Violin. Ah- a missed note. Not a recording.
Is there anyone within 100 miles of here that plays Violin?
Coming from the hall..
Mikhail listened in silence.
Curiosity overtook Heavy as he swiftly gulped down the last of his sandwich. The man made his away through the dimly lit kitchen, and peered down the hallway of living quarters. This particular hallway housed half the team- support, and some of the defense classes, which included himself.
He doubted that their Demoman had the dexterity to play violin. Sniper preferred living in his camper, and Heavy himself was disqualified. That left the obvious suspects: Spy and Medic.
Spy was adamant about his sleep schedule, but Heavy knew next to nothing about their team’s healer. Probably because of his irrational fear of doctors.
What he did know wasn’t helping either. Their medic was the worst kind of doctor; Dangerously curious, more than a little manic, and most damning of all, German.
Mikhail refused to dwell on that last point.
He’s heard terrible stories (and screams) from his teammates in the month since his arrival. The Engineer told him that their medic never used anesthetic. Scout ranted about his “totally psycho” practice, and of course, rumors of war time affiliations circled.
Mikhail knows that rumors are rarely fact; he’s already encountered some about his own affiliations. Americans have a hard time distinguishing between white and red Russians. That has been his only exposure to the doctor since his five minute intake exam.
Mikhail recalls the doctor’s appearance and behavior during that session. Although Medic’s surprisingly clinical behavior didn’t reflect the base’s rumors, Mikhail couldn’t shake the eerie gleam in the teuton’s gaze. Wire framed circular glasses concealed this for most of the visit. He further considers the strangely outdated tastes of the Doctor’s attire. Waistcoat, Wehrmacht haircut, military jodhpurs, and sleek riding boots. Likely a former military man. Hairs raised on his arms as Mikhail considered the implications of this detail.
Was he really?
…
Is he?
Heavy would keep a close eye on the man.
But for now, he had a mystery to solve.
He carefully proceeded toward the second to last door at the end of the hall. The music grew louder as he approached, and the Heavy espied a faint light from under their Medic’s door.
The melody was now clearly a tune from the Swan Lake ballet. Mikhail respected anyone who recognized the merit of his country’s arts.
Before he could even consider where to go from there, the door suddenly swung open.
“What are you doing up at this hour, Mr. Krepostyev?!”