Chapter Text
Russia, 1920. Vyazemsky Uyezd.
Max Emilien Verstappen had somehow earned the privilege of serving as a military doctor during one of the darkest periods in the country's history. Having graduated from medical university before the fall of the Empire, he had eventually found himself stranded in this forgotten corner of Russia.
The hospital occupied the town's former Railway Gymnasium—a four-story building with several annexes standing beside the locomotive depot.
Max walked through the wide ward lined with rows of iron beds.
A stained white coat hung loosely over his military tunic. His worn leather boots clicked against the floorboards.
He inspected the patients with practiced glances.
Typhus victims. Men torn apart by shrapnel. Soldiers whose minds had broken long before their bodies.
A month ago, every single one of them had needed him desperately.
Now the medical staff could manage without constant supervision.
The smell of carbolic acid burned at his nose, and he quickened his pace toward the exit.
On his way out, he nearly ran into Dorian.
With a faint smile, he handed her a ledger.
She merely nodded.
Stepping onto the front porch, he found Kimi sitting on the stairs.
The boy spent his days hauling water from dawn until dusk, seemingly determined to tear the tendons from his arms.
Max sat beside him and lit a papirosa. After taking a drag, he passed it over.
"How are you holding up, Comrade Kimi?"
Kimi smiled tiredly and inhaled the smoke.
"Shoot me, Doctor."
Max only chuckled and patted him on the shoulder before taking the cigarette back.
"Certainly."
His gaze drifted toward the tall fir trees growing around the grounds.
"It's nice when things are quiet, isn't it?"
Kimi laughed and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic.
"Now I carry ten buckets instead of twenty. Practically paradise."
Drunk on the rare peace of the moment, neither of them paid attention to the distant vibration of the rails.
A locomotive whistle split the air.
Kimi nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Christ, that's loud."
Max crushed the cigarette against the railing and slipped the butt into his pocket. His movements were slow, heavy.
"Go get Helmut and Lewis. I'll meet our guests."
Kimi hesitated.
"You forgot? Helmut's gone for a while."
Max frowned.
"What do you mean, gone?"
"He left for Smolensk. To beg for more bandages and... other things."
Max rubbed his temples.
"Then find someone else. But bring Lewis. Please."
His voice had risen an octave with stress.
"I'm going, I'm going!"
Kimi shouted as he sprinted back inside.
-
Max and Lewis walked at the front.
"We've only just managed to fit everyone in," Lewis argued, struggling to keep pace. He gestured toward the plume of smoke rising above the approaching train. "We don't have room for more."
"Then we'll put them on the floor."
Max didn't slow down.
"Or would you rather leave them to die?"
Behind them trailed Kimi, Oliver, and six orderlies carrying stretchers.
"I'd just started enjoying myself," Kimi muttered darkly. His damaged tendons gave his movements a strange, birdlike quality.
"And now I'll have to scrub the entire building again."
The train screeched to a halt.
Metal clanged. Doors flew open.
"Prepare yourselves," Max ordered. "Initial examination only."
The worst casualties were brought out first.
From another carriage, Lewis and the orderlies practically dragged wounded men onto the platform.
Max began sorting through them.
He pointed out those Kimi should load onto stretchers and send to the hospital.
Fractures.
Fever.
Concussions.
Nothing unusual.
A few gunshot wounds to arms and legs.
Max was preparing to leave when a mustached soldier with a broken arm stopped him.
"There's a Wrangel man in there."
Max grimaced and climbed into the carriage.
In one corner sat a tall man who couldn't seem to stand properly. His right leg kept buckling beneath him.
"Your name, comrade?"
Max helped him to his feet and took some of his weight.
The man practically spat the answer.
"I'm not your comrade."
"Then your name."
Max was exhausted. The stench inside the carriage made him eager to leave.
"What should I write down?"
"George."
Once they stepped outside, the daylight revealed clothes soaked in blood of various shades and a long gash running across the man's temple.
"How long have you been on your feet?"
"Three days."
Max looked at him silently.
-
"I understand your point," Lewis said later that evening, "but don't you think treating a Wrangel officer is unreasonable?"
Max looked up from the stack of paperwork and folded his arms.
The endless bureaucracy had already consumed his evening. He didn't mind the distraction.
"Explain your reasoning, Comrade."
"He was shooting at us yesterday."
"And what do you suggest?"
Lewis shrugged.
"They'll probably execute him after the interrogation anyway. There's no point wasting supplies."
Max covered his eyes with one hand.
"Perhaps you're right."
For a moment, the room fell silent.
Then he lowered his hand.
"But the moment he arrived here, he became a patient."
His voice was calm.
"We have a duty as physicians. We either fulfill it—or we are no better than butchers."
Lewis sighed and returned to his paperwork.