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spidermilkshake · 1 month ago

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SAWBONES (chapter 3)

Yet more for you! And the plot thickens!

3: Meeting Again

Mid-October, 1962

Undisclosed R.E.D. complex in Western New Mexico

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Fritz sat with his pigeons roaming around him a little while, blowing deep exhales into his hands to cool down his tempers before making the great attempt at Getting a Healthy Amount of Nightly Rest. The uprooting was not so conducive to this—neither was the thought of the massive Russian. Helpful? Or merely tolerating; secretly watching for an error or a screw-up? He very much doubted any but the Mercier and their shadowy employer knew his full, bloody history, but that Mikhail seemed easily clever enough to put together whatever clues slipped out. Was a mercenary who got paid to mow down rival combatants really going to be that bothered..? Maybe. It would depend on the Heavy's principles, and Ludwig knew precious little about those. Regardless, the mere idea of the giant was also proving hard to regard with a calm heartrate.

The doctor scooped up one of the chunkier white pigeons and examined the creature's dark beady eyes as it cooed once then sat still. This one was probably also a male by the way it doted on one of its cohorts and occasionally displayed little bows to the other—and this one was also tamer and more affectionate towards humans. One of the older ones, one which had been handled and trained more.

"Susse Ding, you are…" Ludwig purred, and the chunky dove all but purred back as he stroked its head with his thumb. "Come on, to your roosts. Everyone follow… erm," Names! That was something to take his mind to an easier, less flustered place. "Hmm, vhat to call you… hoof… it's going to take a vhile. I hardly know ze whole gang of you!"

The ferocious little male fluttered over from a shelf top, landing with ease on Ludwig's head. Fritz giggled and tried to hold still with his shoulders hiking up involuntarily from pointy little pigeon toes against his scalp.

"Ach!" With his other hand, he scooped and had the feistier bird step up. Standing with a fluffy white dove in each hand, the doctor made certain to deposit each into separate cages, watching as the respective two mates of the birds flew in to join them. "Vell, you two might be easier… ah, ja, and you, little one!" With more care, Fritz approached the sickly bird and offered a flat palm to hop up on—which it did after a few head tilts and contemplative burbles.

"Poor thing…" He smiled with a tint of worry as he recalled the state of this runty dove when he'd first discovered their cramped release crate. Barely moving, eyes crusty, nares crusty, certainly hadn't been able to preen in at least a week—and nearly crowd-crushed under the eleven larger, healthier, panicky pigeons in the stuffy box. With careful feeding, careful drip-dosing of electrolytes and antibiotics, and a separate box with heat lamp and fan keeping the air perfect for the sick bird, it finally had flapped its wings again, started eating and bathing on its own.

"Lazarus!" Fritz whispered gleefully, "Back from ze dead. Ja, zat's fitting for you." He set the little dove in the cage with the fatter, calmer male, "You like zhis name, ey?"

Lazarus let out a brief, squeaky coo, stretching its neck upwards and settling its footing more comfortably. Pigeons generally didn't have much knowledge of Abrahamic religious references, whether Old or New Testament, but it seemed content enough, and the sound was distinct enough for a pigeon to start learning meant me, the bird in a hurry.

One or two at a time, the medic herded the birds into one of the two cages—needing to bait a few in with millet seeds for the most timid—and finally latched the enclosures shut. Unlike with parrots, cockatiels and the like there wasn't much need to shade the cages overnight with a cover. The doves benefitted from traces of light and the air flow much more. Him too, he realized as he ripped off his necktie and tugged off his boots.

And once the lights were off he found it hard to bother with much else, and flopped onto the bed like a stricken corpse. With a few last, bleary twitches Fritz plucked off his glasses and set them down on the side-table before the pure exhaustion clonked him over the head.

The easiest sleep in a while.

Dreams—which he wandered through ambivalently, eyeballing scenarios as they caught his interest—were the usual chaos: Pigeons flocked, blood seeped out of storm drains, and the vague specters of people faded in and out along his path. Trees morphed out of the ground and the clouds sped overhead. He found Ms. Pauling casually sat next to the decapitated body of a man in a suit on a park bench. Was that...? Ah yes. The illicit businessman from three weeks ago, generous source of the two kidneys and the stock of bone marrow tissue in the frozen storage. A shame the head wasn't viable. He'd been considering a new idea or two for testing that new life support setup…

As it usually did the dreams all faded to a mush and meld of colors, sounds, and sensations after a while.

------

Time snapped forward, though of course it was some hours later. His whole body seemed to be exceedingly dried out and slowed down—and the doctor's eyes cracked open to the sight of blurred sunlight streaking in through the tiny, single window above the bed. He kneaded over them with a displeased groan which became happily echoed by nearly a dozen coos, twenty-four black beady eyes all locked-on and begging for seed goodness.

They followed him even through the whole process of becoming more passably human for the day—fresh shirt, glasses cleaned, and hair preened into an untangled state, blended neatly into the short back and sides. He clicked his tongue to the birds with a weary smile and opened their cages; they all crowded up to be the first to the little piles of food.

"Ak—Raus—" he scolded the feisty one and his mate as they bit at his fingers, "You are not supposed to want Fleisch, you silly birds… zhere's more zhan enough seeds, shh, patience!"

Eventually, the dozen creatures were contented and spread out, pecking away at their seed mixture, and the doctor bid them farewell for now as he set his mind to his other duties of the morning. Breakfast was a pleasant surprise as it appeared someone had been up earlier to receive a resupply, and many things were restocked in the once-barren fridge. With a fresh bagel in one hand, he arranged a swivel chair over by the counter of petri dishes and slides, beginning to parse through the results as coffee woke him up more fully.

"Let's see…" He leaned over the assortment of chemical-laced serum and blood solids, clicking on an additional bright white lamp. Iron levels, vitamins, overall lack of reaction showing any toxins of heavy metals… It was all coming back normal and healthy. He narrowed his eyes down through the humming microscope, and Ludwig noted again that the first stained serum slide showed overwhelming lack of any foreign bacteria or compounds hinting at infection. He slipped it out and traded in the slide of deep pink-brown red cell matter, ticking on some measurement markers as he zoomed out slightly. The density seemed… healthy. All good. No obvious malformations that had been overlooked either.

Somehow, though, he kept looking back harder. Something felt wrong, he knew, but all he could make out was the flood of lovely little cells, frozen in time in their stasis on sterile glass.

Perhaps the serum slide would be more clear, he thought, not missing that inherent pun. Adjusting the magnification once more, Fritz began to count by the measure the average density of the platelets, the white cells, all seeming to be quite normal counts—

—Wait.

"Was zur Hölle ist das?" Almost as soon as the mutter left his lips he hunched over further in renewed focus, and his eyes landed on the oddity… It was a white blood cell, a lymphocyte to be specific. But wait… was it, really? No—not anymore. The doctor's spine briefly chilled from low all the way to the nape of his neck in a moment of recognition before he forced a professional aura back over himself. The more he looked about, the more of the irregular cells started to pop out of the matrix; two more clumped there, one hiding behind a more normal specimen, three more on the edge of view. It was not terribly many anomalies, overall, but the very presence of them was horrific enough.

The presence of these meant a now very short list of things were possible. None of them were very good possibilities. Several were catastrophic ones. That he had been left waiting, with these nasty little monsters floating around in him…

He had to get Conagher back in here. Now.

To… do what, exactly? Couldn't biopsy anything if he couldn't track something down to biopsy—he'd want CT images to find something, ultrasound imaging to narrow it down—the CT scanner was still boxed up in a six-foot by four-foot crate—tucked behind the previously installed X-ray machine which he wasn't even sure functioned—and his biopsy equipment still packed in another crate—and—and—

Dr. Ludwig bolted up, jaw setting in determination. In order to help their engineer, he'd need to seek out the help of the Russian goliath. Adjusting his glasses higher over the upper bump of his nose, the medic shot out through the double doors and set off on his hunt.

After a minute of search, it occurred to Ludwig that he did not know where much was in this base. Aside from his own quarters, the main restroom area closest to it, the Medbay and the kitchen he had scarcely been elsewhere. He had no idea where he could find the Heavy Weapons guy… much less the Engineer once he had the set-up that man needed ready.

He had to find someone he could ask.

Now, who did he know here so far?

…Almost no one. The two he needed to find. That inscrutable Ms. Pauling. The spy, Herr Mercier? But he hadn't seen the man in his whole one and a half days on site at all. There was the extraordinarily drunk Scotsman, that Tavish DeGroot, but Fritz doubted he was going to be awake yet. Or functional.

Who else? Who else was there? That couldn't be it; there were definitely more people left from the older employ, and more recent additions like himself. Had to be. Had to—

WHUMP!

In his feverish fretting he had not been paying attention to the entrances lining the corridor, and in a dizzying crash the medic collided with an equally large (though shorter and stouter) man. The doctor, distracted, tumbled backwards onto the floor with the newcomer stumbling and tripping over his feet until he landed painfully on top of Ludwig…

"Ach!"

"Urf!"

The next twenty seconds were a dazed blur of vicious grappling—initiated by the stranger upon the split-second realization that he didn't recognize whoever was underneath him, but reciprocated right away by the doctor's self-preservation instinct. Fortunately for his attacker, Ludwig had the mindfulness to understand that his "foe" was more than likely an ally. A confused ally.

A… confused and very strong ally. Who was currently trying to secure a grip around Fritz's throat. He was only barely fending off being throttled by wedging one bent knee upwards and lifting the man's abdomen away with the help of one arm barring across his chest—the other hand squeezing into the little space left between his attacker's mitts and his own carotid arteries.

"Nng—ach—STOP IT, bitte!" Ludwig managed to wheeze, and the man seemed to slacken from processing the request for a few seconds before his broad jaw set again into an even more suspicious expression.

"Enh!?" The man, in a surge of greater strength, took full grasp over the medic's neck and shook poor Ludwig around until white stars flashed in his vision. He stopped as soon as he'd started, danke Gott, but pressed his face in closer and grew set on a less violent but infinitely more hostile interrogation: "Speakin' Deutch?! In my base? How'd a Kraut get in here? Who sent you? Who's your commanding officer?!"

"Vh-vhat?" Ludwig was bamboozled—caught between trying to parse what the man was saying, what the man was doing, and still trying to let his brain stop battering around. "C-commanding..? No, no, I'm ze base's medic. I'm a colleague!"

"You don't look like our medic!" The man barked overtop of Fritz's feeble attempts to explain, "And I know for a fact he don't speak German!"

"Dumkopf..!" The doctor pushed back suddenly, forcing the man to cut off and focus on not getting bucked off or even flipped into the defensive position. "I'm ze new medic! I vas hired only this week! Your old medic died, you idiot—you don't remember?!"

The man grunted, with physical effort as well as the mental effort of what Fritz said dawning on him: "Oh. Right." He scowled down at the doctor and matched his irritation with skepticism, smoothly launching back into his main "problem": "But I'm not gonna be fooled that easily you sly potato-eater! How long have you been infiltrating as an American!? What's your unit! Which of those little Nazzie snake bastards do you report back to, enh?! Bormann? Mengele?!"

Ludwig glared into the shadows cast by the fellow's helmet, right into eyes which were somehow both intense and vapid; he had finally had it, and growled out low and murderous: "I have been living in ze United States for ze past eight years, und I have not done zhis lightly. I haven't been reconstructing American fucking organs und American fucking skeletal systems to be associated vith… zhose…" Giving up on trying to peel the man's hands off, Ludwig instead snatched the army jacket's lapels in both hands and gave him a taste of his own concussive medicine. Yanking him in while still dizzied and surprised, he added with a sinister smirk, "Und for your information, Bormann and Mengele have been long dead. I saw to zat myself," He glanced down to where the man's arms were still pinning him, "And, if you vould kindly stop compressing my trachea, perhaps sometime I could share all ze gory details vith you."

The man took a long pause. He… seemed to need to do so for anything which required much cognition. Well… besides honing in on someone's weak-spots mid-brawl.

"…Oh." With an agility Ludwig appreciated, the man recoiled back and sprung to his feet as if burned before stooping with a palm offered to help him up, "Sorry about that, comrade—can't be too careful about secret Paperclip Nazzies and Communist spies. Welcome to the team!" *1

"Ach…" After slight hesitation, the medic took the offer and got to his feet swiftly. He nodded, massaging at the twinges still fading from around his throat, "Wunderbär… I am sure we will get along svimmingly. So long as you try to avoid strangling me in ze future."

"Will do!" The man saluted. Fritz blinked. Something about that gesture, the gung-ho nature of it…

"Hold on... You seem familiar," He tilted his head, "have we met before somevhere..?"

"We have!" He was still saluting, "We collided into each other in the hall before!"

"Er… well, I meant before zhat."

"I would not know! I need to know someone's name to remember it!" The man gave a sharp nod to emphasize the quandary he faced, the helmet shifting over his brow, "My name is Jane Doe, American soldier!"

Er…" the doctor blinked. He adjusted his glasses and looked hard at that familiar jawline, slightly crooked nose, and what little he could make out of those light brown eyes, "…Wait… Doe? Doe!"

Fritz's face split into a wide grin—excited, joyful, and even a bit awed. All of which this soldier stared unmoving and unblinking at; it wasn't clear if he was stunned speechless, still trying to recall if this medic was a stranger or not, or simply in a holding pattern waiting for Ludwig to finish his interjection: "It is you! I knew zat gutsy attitude from somevhere! Doe! It's me, Doctor Fritz Ludwig!"

"…Neat!" Jane Doe mirrored the doctor's smile though with less clarity about why he was smiling, "I used to see a doctor named Fritz Ludwig during the war!"

"You… ahah, mein Freund—I am ze doctor named Fritz Ludwig," the medic couldn't handle the exchange any longer with a straight face, and opened his arms wide to invite a companionly hug. The soldier slammed into the embrace willingly, but still seemed a little puzzled. "It has been a long time—it's me, remember? It vas… hmmm… 1948 last I saw you! Come on, at ze lab I had outside of Breslau?"

"Wait… you're the same doctor..?" It was almost a believable possibility that the medic could see the flashes of a few neurons firing behind the soldier's squinted eyes as the holes in his memory were bridged. Slow as molten molasses, a grin even broader and goofier than what Fritz could accomplish spread over his face, "Heeeey… yes, now I remember! Ha ha! That's right—we met both running down the same Nazzie bastard in the hills. Ahh, I can still see the priceless look on his face when he got my grease-gun's bullets in one side, and your crossbow's arrow in the other! 1945! Easiest year for a good Nazzie-hunt!"

The two cackled happily, caught up in delightful (if morbid) nostalgia for a moment. Those were the beginnings of the better years for the doctor, and the starting point of where it really felt like one or two madcap vigilantes could make the permanent difference in the world—where Ludwig's mortal enemies were the ones running scared to as many remote corners as they could. Instead of him needing to skulk and survive on in the taken-over Bavarian bunkers, vastly outnumbered. One more crazy bastard as a friend made all the difference.

"Ohohoh—you vere an incognito Schutzstaffel officer's nightmare! It vas such fun to finally have someone around who felt ze same way about zhose Schweinhunds…" Fritz giggled and gave the soldier a playful thump on the shoulder. He gave this unexpected old companion a more dedicated look-over and marveled at what he was finding. If Doe had been formidable before, his chest was now twice as broad and barreled—his stance twice as tough and sturdy. The doctor smirked and hummed with appreciation, "Und just look at you! You look fantastic!" He lowered his volume, glancing to each side before asking, "So… all ze procedures are still vorking out for you?"

"Thanks, doc!" Doe puffed up at the compliments, "I gotta hand it to you, you sure can pick out a great pair of testicles!"

"Aheh—er—heh," Dr. Ludwig could not help but buckle over a bit to contain the urge to crack up. This "soldier" hadn't changed much in twelve years—and to hear him say that in the stereotypical Army Sergeant's bark he loved to speak in was surreal, "Danke Shön, Doe. I am glad zhey're working out for you." He dropped back a step—still admiring his "work" in a sense, before carrying on, "I honestly wasn't expecting to see you here! Well, I assumed you vould be back in ze States sooner or later, but a mercenary in ze desert?"

"Pays great, doc—and I get to keep doin' what I do best."

"Ah… kill bastards?"

"Yessir," His cheerful grin faded somewhat into a rueful skew. "Also I would otherwise be wanted for extradition to seven different European countries by the Un-American swine in charge of the Fibby…"

"Ze… 'Fibby'…?" Oh, right. That. At least, he assumed this was to do with the post-'45 killings. Not something to really be held against Doe—Fritz had done the same, and more vindictively. It would shock those of the younger generations to know how many business leaders, mayors, even on-duty military in Germany and the former occupied nations were people who had willingly signed-on, threw their tacky Roman salutes, and hailed Der Fuhrer—and remained so years after. Some still. More quietly, lest their houses become vandalized by the less bloodthirsty citizenry who still had their kindness and sanity about them. But all that most of the citizenry would know, or witness, was a young Doe gleefully bludgeoning a Polish town councilman to death with a spade.

…But what the fuck was "Fibby?" Wait… "F"…. Ah.

F.B.I. Or, as Doe pronounced it, "the Fibby." Fritz gave the soldier an understanding look and gestured outward at the hall.

"I see, I see… vell, I would love to catch up some more but ze reason I ended up bumping into you was because I was looking for ze team's Heavy Weapons' expert—Mikhail, ja?" He raised his brows hopefully, "He offered to help me vith some of ze heavier equipment in ze Medbay and, erm… I seem to need him soon zhan expected!"

"Sputnik?" Doe perked up, and despite the blunt and possibly offensive nature of the nickname his tone was quite friendly, "Th' big fella?"

"Aheh. Zat sounds like him, alright."

"It's a Saturday morning… No assignments… No holidays or upcoming birthdays… hmmmm…" Doe scratched his chin stubble and computed out loud. It would not have surprised Fritz to hear little clunks and gears clicking with the solid ten seconds it took to finally arrive at any conclusion: "Aha! There's three possible places for the Ruskie to be at this time of day! One—kitchen!"

"Afraid I already checked there, und there vas no sign of him."

"Second-most-likely is the Heavy Ordinance Armory! I can let you in!"

"Zhat makes sense…" the medic nodded before looking this way, then that way with an uncertain air, "So… where is zhis Armory?"

With an eager salute, Doe led him back down to the 1st floor and to the opposite side of the complex; one this side of the base all the facilities related to combat and business were concentrated, including the different armories, surveillance center, an indoor shooting range and the small office appointed to Ms. Pauling's use (when she was ever in). Within the armory specifically for the larger and/or more explosive weaponry there was no sign of Mikhail. There was, however, a sturdy stand set up against one wall with an equally sturdy, gleaming contraption of spinning barrel, gas canister, and belts of immense rounds unlike any the medic had seen. The minigun lacked all form of anchors for mounting to a Jeep or an aircraft, but it did have a couple of thick steel handles that implied this beast was hand-held. *2

"Mein Gott…" Dr. Ludwig took a few cautious steps towards the well-oiled machine. "I don't see him, but… is zhis his gun..?"

"I wouldn't touch it, doc. Sputnik's veeeery picky about who gets to handle Sascha!" Doe winced and massaged a couple of knuckles as an addition to the warning, "He broke my hand about it once. Made a quick study outta me for damn sure."

"…Oh."

"Yep."

"…So, vhere else could he be?"

"The third option," the soldier's train of thought restarted and joined its former track with unusual fluidity, "is that he's in the gym around the corner."

"Zhis way?"

"A—ffirmative!"

From the echoes of faint metal clanks escaping the double-doors into the gym, someone was inside the facility at least. Cracking one door open, the medic peeked in and scanned the sparring mats, the punching bags, the various weight machines and the small door leading off to showers—and was interrupted as Doe shoved that door completely open and forced him inside with a stagger ahead of the soldier. The clangs paused. Mikhail, gigantic and shirtless, was holding his mid-life pose on a lats machine and eying the trespassers. The doctor cracked a grin of pure nerves—especially as he noticed the stack of weights eight-high being held aloft per arm without breaking a sweat.

With one final clunk! The behemoth relaxed the grips of the machine in a smooth motion before retrieving a small cloth and wiping over his brow in an almost dainty manner. Tucking it away, he leveled a steely look at the two of them, one brow raising.

"Is problem?"

"Doc was looking for you! And I have brought him to you!" Doe barked overtop of the first syllables of Ludwig's fluttery greeting—in such complete, oblivious exuberance, "I consider my duty fulfilled! Now I am going back to my barracks so I can remember what I left my barracks for." Turning on his heel with rugged face already screwing up in intense concentration, he marched out as a whirlwind of noise and distraction.

The quiet that remained under the low hum of one of the fluorescent tube lights malfunctioning was almost overwhelming, alien. The Heavy scratched at his chin but otherwise seemed to take the behavior in stride.

"Aheh."

"So you met Doe, eh?" Mikhail's mouth twitched into a flicker of an amused smirk, which the doctor promptly missed.

"Oh! Ja, we… had a chance to catch up zhere!" Ludwig chuckled. Mikhail's brow raised even higher:

"Doktor has… met Doe before?"

"It's been a while, but ja! You know, back vhen I was in Europe. Long, long time ago," Dr. Ludwig's stance tightened, recalling that… unsavory line of questioning last night and praying this would not invite repetition, "Seeing him against is… interesting. He is a lot, as alvays!"

"Mmrh," Mikhail nodded in agreement, swiftly dodging around the potential to wrestle the doctor's wartime affiliation from him. It was not something that seemed such a good idea to address even subtly so early and poison their morning—especially since the medic seemed a dangerous sort when pushed. As deadly as him. After all, he'd been hired on to the same team, "So… you need me for what?"

"Ah! Yes, I, eheh, I have run into somezing which means I must expedite ze unpacking process, and, aheh—"

"You need expertise of giant man, Да?" The Heavy cut down the bush Ludwig was beating around, and with a grateful smile the doctor nodded and loosened his shoulders.

"Ja—I need to have ze CT scanner up und running today. At least zhat," He frowned, thinking of what else he knew was available to get to the bottom of Dell's frightening blood panels. "Mh, und ze ultrasound and respiratory support terminals while we're at it…"

"Hmph! Am warmed up already. Take me to machines and I will move them wherever."

"Sehr gut," Dr. Ludwig was relieved to see the massive mercenary sweeping the casual cotton undershirt from where it was hung over a chair close by and tugging it on as he followed the medic out into the hall. He didn't need bearish, unclothed torso as an added distraction with the other worries running through his mind…

As the two neared the Medbay facilities, the Heavy Weapons guy spoke again, startling him with sudden curiosity:

"Why is Doktor so urgent about this?"

"Oh?" Fritz held one of the double doors wide open, "V-vhy do you ask?"

"You are team's Doktor," Mikhail shrugged, "If the Doktor worry, then someone on team is sick, Да?"

"W-well…" Ludwig shuffled to stand in front of the waiting area's counter and the petri dishes of stained samples still laid out all over it, hoping he either blocked view of this evidence or that the giant was not well-versed enough in non-Cyrillic alphabets to quickly make sense of the initialed scribbles. "Aheh… not necessarily!"

"Hmmph…" Something told Fritz he was either not convincing, or that Mikhail's powers of deduction far outstripped any of his expectations. Probably both. Almost certainly both.

"Ah," he sighed, moving over to the crate longer than he was tall still shoved into one of the corners, "To be honest… I prefer keeping my patient's issues more private. Well, at least until I am at zhe stage of doing somezing about them." *3

"Oh." Mikhail's eyes widened a fraction before giving the fidgeting doctor an additional once-over. "Hm. Is good idea."

Not long after, the giant was peeling off the top slat of the crate containing the new CT scanning apparatus as if it were balsa wood before turning the box gently to its side so the 130-kilogram block could be eased out to the floor without risking damage. The doctor assisted as best he could, though it was obvious any physical contribution he was making barely made up twenty percent of the effort needed; most of what he was needed for was to make certain the devices were the right way up and to direct Mikhail in placing each component close to the needed ports and outlets for them to function. Within an hour, four crates had been torn down and the CT scanner, the primary ultrasound, the heavy series of respiratory life support pump terminals, and a large vitals-monitoring terminal which the OR space had somehow done without until his arrival. Ludwig slumped back against a wall with a flutey, satisfied sigh, wiping sweat from his temples from the exertion.

"Hoo… Zhat should be plenty for now."

The Russian goliath dusted himself off, rolling one hefty shoulder despite not being at all challenged by sliding the chunky machinery about. The doctor was briefly too tired-out to notice the larger man leaning over the waiting area's counter, peering down at the veritable flock of petri dishes and slides. Deciphering the initials scrawled in Doctor-ese over their labels.

"You let Mikhail know when need more help," he turned back to the medic as he finally found the energy to stand upright again.

"Oh, danke, zhat would be amazing!" Ludwig's face split into his signature grin, just a hint of giddiness creeping in alongside his friendly tone. "I appreciate vhat you've done already, of course. Hoo…" he leaned against the wall again, "I zhink I need to get some water…"

"Hm. I go with you." The Heavy let his new colleague make his way to the hall ahead of him, "After, you want me to tell engineer to come here if I see him?"

Dr. Ludwig's shock was palpable—not only his eyes springing wide but his spine shooting up straighter than ever. "Vha—oh?"

"Conagher is good friend." Mikhail explained as the pair came to a halt outside the infirmary. "Been getting sick for long time now. Was obvious he try to go to doktor. Once team have one."

"Ah," Fritz relented, and as they kept walking, continued in a low, secretive tone, "I suppose it was very obvious, zhen… If you do see him today, let him know his tests are ready, und I vill meet him to explain vhat I found. And, ah, also, could you keep it between you two, ey?"

"Да." The way the colossus nodded was more reassuring. At the fridge's water dispenser Mikhail filled up a glass and handed it back to Ludwig before acquiring one for himself. Leaning on the half-wall, the doctor rehydrated gratefully until the larger man spoke again:

"…So you are Doktor which Doe speaks about?"

"Hm?"

"Now I get," the corners of his eyes creased—playful and with just a touch of fierce appreciation, "Heheh! Да, of course Doe would remember you eventually. He says many, many things about the Doktor in war, when he first went to kill evil men!"

"Oh—all good zhings, I hope?" Fritz chuckled. This shift was supremely welcome; it set him at ease.

"Very good things. He say meeting you was great thing for life—made better man of him," The titan peered aside with an amused though slightly baffled smirk before glancing back and winking, "Doe is not good with explain smartly this thing even when trying, but I figure out what he mean by this in not much time."

"Ohoh—he certainly still has zhat unique way of going about things," His brow knitted softly as a thought surfaced, "Though… some zhings are a little different now which trouble me…"

"Hmm?"

"Well, he had some trouble recognizing me," Ludwig paused to finish his water, "Vhich I find a little concerning if he was talking about us working together so much."

"Mm, that is recent problem," Mikhail shook his head in almost parental disappointment before pointing to the faucet over the sink. "When he join team years ago he ignore warnings. Kept drinking from old well… It is… not good."

Ludwig cast a worried look to the glass he's just emptied before being reassured by the hulking tank of imported water atop the fridge setup—very clearly not connected to the well Mikhail spoke of. "Oh, sheisse…"

"We get him to stop now, but damage is done," the giant sipped daintily and squinted, "Had to tell him well was poisoned by Communist spy, but at least he stop drinking lead…"

"Aheheh—I-I shouldn't laugh at zat..!" Ludwig doubled over for a moment, carefully setting the glass down on the island once he was stable, "Oh, vhy not. It's funny."

"Да," Mikhail cracked the subtlest of smirks. He collected both empty glasses and preemptively added them to the sink basin before idly cracking a few of his knuckles (which Fritz was intrigued by; the casual movements of the gigantic fingers natural, smooth, and niggling at something familiar in the back of his mind), "Later you will share some stories?"

"Oh," Ludwig blinked, slowly smiling, "certainly!"

"Very good. But now is time I get back to gym. Not done with legs."

"Ah, lebe wohl then!" Ludwig waved him off, trying to resist getting a glimpse of the legs in question as the hunk of muscle made his way to the hall. Unsuccessfully.

Mein Gott, no wonder he wanted to maintain that as well as he could. Ludwig leaned on the kitchen island with his elbows and bit his lip. Very nice!

The responsible, professional voice in his head angrily reminded him that this ass was not the one on the line—stop getting distracted, Dumkopf, and get to the game plan regarding your patient. Right. Dell would certainly bump into either Mikhail or Doe sooner or later in the day; Fritz tried to focus on how to break the news as he strolled back to the Medbay. It was best to not cause the engineer to panic before he even had a chance to lay out the possibilities—bad and worse—and get to how to narrow these down even more.

He sat at the stool in front of the petri dishes—spotlighted still by the bright lamp—and tried to still the quivers. Once he knew the Enemy, he knew he would be far less worried. The erratic white blood cells and their source would be found out and made to pay, sooner or later. He just needed more information. For now, he had to wait.

Fuck. The waiting was the worst.

----

Two hours later. Fritz had been cleaning the O.R. and the recovery area to avoid exploding with the anxiety. Fucking black-market diazepam was being a lazy arschloch at the worst time. Thankfully, the black-market haloperidol was still being a saint to him, so the only effects the added stress were piling on was the odd vague movement of shadows and the meekest sense that someone nearby was whispering a syllable or two from across the infirmary. Even the hallucinations were reluctant to cross him when he was this keyed up. *4

He heard the double doors into the waiting area swing open and all but leapt into the shared corridor to meet the newcomer. He ducked to the handwashing station along the back wall and called out: "Ein moment! Be right zhere!"

"No problem, doc," by that Texan drawl it was exactly the man Fritz was hoping for, and by his tone he was probably not nearly as much a nervous wreck as the medic. "I'll just sit tight here."

Dr. Ludwig scrubbed himself down, all the way to the elbows. No telling what he might need to do, or how soon, after further tests…

Once done, he stepped into the waiting area and greeted Dell as warmly as he could manage without sounding manic. The engineer smiled and seemed none the wiser.

"So, did you find somethin' to tell me?"

"Ja, I vanted to let you know as soon as I could," Dr. Ludwig sat in a chair across from Conagher, "It is mostly good news! Though, I did find somezing vhich could narrow down what has been giving you problems."

"We-ell, alrighty then!"

"You seem… happy to hear zhis," Ludwig was taken aback.

"Darn right!" Dell flashed an almost frenzied, vindictive smile, "You don't know how sweet it is to know I was right that somethin' was off. So gimme th' good news first, doc!"

"Ah… Very well!" Dr. Ludwig shook off the surprise and found his usual bedside manner again—"The toxicology screen I ran came out clean, you have no deficiencies and a very healthy range of blood cell counts. Und I found no signs vhatsoever of any systemic bacterial infection. Now, if I had found nussing in zhese tests I would suspect some sort of untreated viral infection, or some tissue damage from one. It vould be strange, but pneumonia or organ scarring can present strangely…"

"But you did find somethin'?"

"Vhen I studied your white cell panel I did notice a small number of abnormalities mixed in. This narrows down ze possibilities by quite a lot, you know!"

Dell Conagher's smug grin went slack, expression becoming blank.

"…And what're those possibilities, doc."

Dr. Fritz "Subtext-misser" Ludwig continued to lay out what he knew in his usual jovial voice: "Ze worst case scenario is zhat we have caught zhe earliest stages of a leukemia developing, though since ze concentration of abnormalities vas so low und your red cell counts didn't seem to be reduced, I find zat fairly unlikely."

"L—" Dell almost choked, "Leukemia?!"

"Zhe other possibility is some form of lymphoma has grown somevhere in you—possibly close to a major nerve which is being compressed and causing your fainting and intense headaches. In any case, I would need to run a few additional tests to determine which of zhese it is, and if it's a tumor, vhere it is."

"D-doc… leukemia? Tumor?!"

"Take it easy, mein Freund—catching it early makes all ze difference vith regards to effective treatment."

"Y' want me to take it easy?" Dell blustered, and instantly Fritz felt the tension created as if the air had been torqued up with one of the engineer's own wrenches. Sheisse. He had cocked it up somewhere already. He hadn't even gotten to the point of laying out what he needed to do next to confirm a diagnosis.

"Er, please, Herr Conagher—"

"Don't you pussyfoot around it, doc." Dell's lips twitched into a sneer, "Give it to me straight. You're tellin' me I had cancer all this time?"

"Ach, well…"

"Yes or no, doc." The engineer's fists had clenched, the work glove that always adorned his left squeaking and creaking with the vice-like grip. "Yes. Or. No."

"…Yes."

Fritz held his breath, feeling the internal cringe twist up his innards. His first instinct was generally to be very bluntly honest about things, which he had discovered often didn't go well in the medical field. Against all learned impulses, Dr. Ludwig chose to ditch the "normal" bedside manner standards and revert to what he would naturally say.

Which also seemed like what Mr. Conagher naturally needed to hear. The stout man took a deep breath, slouching heavily and running his bare hand over the contours of his face. A silent beat passed where Ludwig was tempted to speak… he held himself back.

"I reckoned it was somethin', but… I didn't reckon it'd be this bad…"

"Do you, er, need a moment, Herr Conagher?"

"Naw, doc. I need…" His head ducked over fully into his hands, "Hell, I dunno what I need. You'd know better'n me."

"Vould it… help you to hear zhat all cancer is not ze same?"

Dell peered back up again, lip twitching and not seeming convinced (though he hadn't gotten surly, or started another outburst). Here goes nothing!

"It isn't, you know. It is true ze word is not pleasant to hear. But many of ze types of tumors which cause these abnormalities in your tests are not nearly as serious an illness as something more, say, vital.

"I mean, a benign lymphoma isn't great to have, but it is nussing like a diagnosis of lung cancer. Or… somezing similar."

"…Yer sayin' that… I ain't on borrowed time?"

"Well, I would vant to confirm it with more specialized tests first, but… as far as I currently know your prognosis is good." Ludwig glanced over to the counter, and to the serum sample where the telltale signs had been found, "It was actually hard to find evidence of it at all. The frequency of abnormal cells was incredibly low."

"Ain't there a chance you made a mistake, then?" Dell's renewed perkiness at this possibility was a bit irritating, but Fritz thought it better to let him have it. It was close enough to optimism.

"Of course, zhere is a chance. But if I'm correct I want to be sure of vhat we are dealing with, and get you treatment as soon as possible."

"Right. More testin'," the engineer let out a resigned sigh, "Yer gonna need more blood, aren'cha…"

"I still have a leftover sample, so no!" Ludwig smirked, "I prefer to have a little backup—just in case another test or two is required." He smiled more warmly, "So no more sticking, at least not for a vhile."

"Whew…" The amount this engineer disliked that particular, prickly example of technology was palpable in the room. Adjusting his hardhat, Conagher seemed to have put himself back in working order as he probed further, "So what now, doc? Do I gotta be here for these extra tests?"

"Technically, no." Ludwig shook his head, "But before I confirm exactly vhat it is that's making you unwell, I vant to make it clear what more I might need from you. Including what treatment I could give you—from best-case scenarios down to ze vorst."

So Dell—his intellectual side returning in full—and his new doctor conferred. There was much to discuss. Mr. Conagher was a highly educated man, but none of his doctorates were specifically medical and most of the biological study he had was in service of the applied technological and physical sciences. Still, very little had to be simplified in explanation (which Fritz was quite impressed by, especially given the smaller man's simmering worry throughout).

It was highly unlikely that the strange lymphocytes the medic had discovered were spawned from a leukemia—but if it was, their sheer scarcity compared to normal "killer cells" would imply it had only been a development in Conagher's body for as long as the bizarre symptoms. It was blisteringly rare—and lucky—if so, since the doctor had scarcely heard of a leukemia being found and diagnosed less than six months from its silent onset. However, if this was leukemia, Dr. Ludwig made no jokes: He would attack this cancer. Aggressively. Kill it fast, before it had the chance to kill Dell. Chemotherapy options were now somewhat broad, so he had a lot of chemical cocktails to choose from; Radiotherapy was also an option, though Ludwig was less convinced this was worth the horrendous side-effects and he made this opinion quite known to Conagher. It would probably just be a trade-in system for tumors in the long run.

Either way, he made it apparent that he would insist Dell accept the newfangled procedure of bone marrow transplantation. Ideally, from a relative. Conagher didn't appear pleased at the mention of relatives, even though the medic did not try to ask if he had any around. *5

The probability these nasty irregularities—and all of its posse of symptoms—were not leukemia but a lymphoma was what the doctor considered far more likely. These tumors, swelling bulbously along the lymph system, could become lethal if left ignored. Two things were crucial: Speed of growth, and placement. Once tests confirmed if and what type of these tumors it was, then the growth's speed—and thus its aggressiveness—could be determined. A fast one was a bad one, apt to metastasize and spread itself into multiple awful lumps. A slow one was barely even a cancer.

Though, placement could make even the laziest lymphoma an ordeal. Since the cancerous cells were so sparse, Fritz theorized that Dell's problem could be a slow tumor—biding its time for years until its awkward position started pinching and pressing—causing ills its smaller, past self never could. Big tumors were always fools for interrupting blood flow, squashing nerves, even tightening airways, even if they otherwise did nothing else.

"So. I might just have the cancer equivalent of a couch potato?" Dell gave a soft laugh, and Fritz shrugged.

"I suppose zhat is a good comparison. Assuming we have a slow-growing lymphoma."

"Ah…" Conagher chewed his lip, "So. It's like those—well, I dunno if you've ever seen this—"

"Ey? Vhat?" When the engineer turned away, sheepish or maybe dismissive, it only made the medic more curious.

"You mighta guessed I'm from Texas," he snickered, "More specifically way out in rural Texas. Family likes to keep our property away from all that zoning bullcrap, keep a barn for project cars and such with no chance of crazy folk walkin' by and messin' where they shouldn't. Anyway," he rubbed his chin, thoughtful, "We did have neighbors. You ever seen someone's dog who you wonder if they even remember they got a dog?"

"Oh no…" Fritz could predict where this was going.

"These old dogs would get big lunks on 'em, just under th' skin." Dell sneered, "Pa kept to himself most of the time about it, but those neighbors' dogs would go years with this thing on 'em the size of a golf ball, then th' size of a baseball… Pa got really fed up one day with one fella who's dog was runnin' loose in our field with this grapefruit-lookin' thing draggin' from his tail. Couldn't feel good at all. Anyway we didn't have to worry 'bout that neighbor anymore."

"Gut…" Ludwig grumbled.

"So… mine might be like those lumps?"

"Hopefully not so big, but ja." Ludwig chuckled, "If I had to guess, a lymphoma large enough to start your issues might be… oh, maybe ze size of a kidney bean? No larger than a grape, at least."

"'Sthat all?" Dell smirked, "Well, hell, that don't sound too bad."

"It is still going to be a process," Ludwig warned with a raised finger, "I would still vant to reduce its size with a much gentler course of drugs. I would have you in improved shape before removing it." He gestured with a thumb against his opposite hand's index finger, "Vith it possibly pressing on nerves, there is no question it would need to be removed soon."

"Surgery, huh."

"Only if it is zhis. Und even then, not a complicated one. Vhich leads me to my next point…"

Beyond further blood testing, any tumor or any other thing rare and unexpected would require intensive scanning. Conagher was aware of what an ultrasound and a CT was, as well as the slight risks of too many of the latter—and this eased explaining how the potential future steps may go down. Ludwig shared that he suspected certain problem areas, if a chubby benign tumor was to blame. His faintness, headaches… it said to the mad doctor a very reasonable conclusion: The tumor was somewhere it could compress a nerve, artery or at least a significant-sized vein. Blood supply or nervous interference to the upper spinal area or brain could only happen in certain spots. Along the cervical spine, under or over the carotids. Inside the musculature of the shoulders as well—either crushing a major nerve or the brachial artery. Upper chest—or upper back—had numerous places it could be elbowing the poor engineer's normal anatomy aside. It the proteins and markers for lymphoma were found, a single CT scan from neck to the third rib would be a good, broad view into where the suspect lump could hide—ultrasounds would do the rest.

Herr Conagher seemed shockingly calm about the prospect of being cut open. Dr. Ludwig only noticed by how almost a half hour of conversation passed without his patient bringing up such a worry. That… usually didn't happen. Perhaps Conagher was simply not so bothered? Or had had major surgery before? Or it had not hit home yet—since these were still hypotheticals. Unusual still for someone who hated injections. Ludwig considered that Dell—and educated man to the extreme—simply was keeping the ick suppressed with the logistical chat. Fellow doctors could be such difficult cases sometimes..!

He last brought up the possibility that he found nothing to suggest either cancerous condition in the further tests. Wildly rare—but possible. Some conditions existed that could produce bizarre white cell—and other cell—appearances. But—horses before zebras, and he wouldn't declare a zebra until he could see the stripes. If this was a rare case, he would need to make some intensive research in his off-time to narrow down the root of the problem. Likely unneeded, but it did not hurt to plan for the strangest of things.

"Und last of all—no matter vhat I tell you today—until we know more I would ask you to just keep your schedule as you would." He smiled, "And your lifestyle! Zhere is no need to add stress and suddenly change things."

"So… I can work?" Conagher perked up, almost like a dog hearing the milk bones being retrieved.

"Ja, as much as you have. I would rest a bit if you feel faint, though. No need to add bruises on top of all zhis."

"Gotcha," Conagher chuckled, "And… I can drink, right?"

"Not enough to be sick," Ludwig cast a warning look, "but otherwise, of course. A few biers von't hurt you!"

"Al—righty. Sounds okay to me." Dell moved to stand up, grunting with age or effort more than was expected. "So, ah, should I be hearin' from you soon?"

"As soon as zhe tests are complete," Dr. Ludwig reassured, following him to the door. "It may not be so long at all. In ze meantime… do you have anyone you can talk to..?"

"Like… medically?" Conagher seemed to spook, "Not really."

"Oh—no! I meant just to, eh, come to terms vith this. It can be hard to not know zhings for sure… aheh, Mikhail, perhaps?"

"I know as much as I need to, doc," Dell half-frowned for a moment before shaking it off and thumping Fritz chummily on the shoulder, "Doncha worry 'bout me. I got friends here. I got my work. I'll be fine until I hear more about it."

"Alright. Don't be a stranger, ja? Und let me know if somezing changes, okay?"

Once Dell had strolled out, Texas-style and in full confidence, Dr. Ludwig seated himself by the petri dishes once more. He took a deep, quavery breath and eyeballed that serum slide with vicious intent. He had not expected a patient with such serious risk to walk in on his new mercenary medic career right out of the gate.

Well, no. He had expected fractures, gunshot injuries, shrapnel removal, limb reconstruction. Easy things, sure things. Admittedly, though, the mystery was a draw. Especially since the odds still leaned in his favor.

…If it did come to be a lymphoma, Fritz wondered if Herr Conagher would allow him to keep it? *6

---------

Footnotes

*1: That the Soldier is already aware of Operation Paperclip despite declassification only occurring very recently for this U.S. government project and still most citizens remain unaware of it speaks to several things. Though I think it speaks most to Doe's high priority of knowing where the "Nazzies" are, so he can beat them with a shovel at his earliest convenience.

*2: That the Heavy can not only lift a 150 kilogram minigun (a weapon famous for being mounted to multi-ton machines), but can hold it well enough to keep it steady to both aim and walk despite what is blisteringly powerful recoil is a testament to just how Herculean this man really is. Of course the doctor is impressed.

*3: Dr. Ludwig is very ahead of his time in a lot of regards, not just experimental organ transplants. The concept of Doctor-Patient Confidentiality did not become codified into American medical practices until the 1990s.

*4: Of course Dr. Ludwig manages his own mental illnesses with some illicitly-gained drugs. Though I somehow doubt hallucinations would bother him all that much in daily life, only in distracting him during various experiments and dissections.

*5: Bone marrow transplants were first successfully being performed in the mid to late 1950s, initially only between direct blood relatives like siblings. The medic has special methods which have made this new and poorly-understood procedure very successful. Sometimes with the donor being very unrelated (but still a primate).

*6: Of course he would.

2 notes · View notes

spidermilkshake · 4 months ago

Text

SAWBONES

Oh goodie, look what fandom writing idiom has ensnared me now: Team Fortress 2.

Time to make up shit about ze Medic!

1: "Hiring Process"

Mid-October, 1962

San Francisco, the Mission District

7:00 p.m.

-------------------

The spy watched for several long moments even after confirming that the man in the alley was indeed the one the Administrator sought out, the one in his file. Statue-still except for the eyes and for breathing, he observed his target.

In watching, he was more and more convinced the Administrator must be mistaken this time. This fellow was a nervous type, flitting back and forth from the parked van and the door to the basement room in the grimy neighborhood—all the while muttering in a mixture of German and English. He was on the older side of adulthood. Not nearly as old as the spy, but at least within a two-decade dart-toss of him. He was fidgety—he was somewhat put-together and what would be conventionally considered handsome for both his age and the times. He was a glasses-wearer, and a suspenders-one too. Out of current fad style, but doing better on that front than the spy…

More troubling, the target was quite a bit bigger, more robust in build, younger and more vital than the spy, and there was no telling if the blackmarket doctor was armed, or how armed. The silent watcher must be careful not to let this encounter come to blows—even he wasn’t confident he would come out on top without the element of surprise.

Though the spy did not quite believe this tall Teutonic gentleman was indeed the infamous “Butcher of Bavaria”, he did have to admit he had the frame of someone who routinely overpowered and chopped up Schutzstaffel officers and was also in the right age range for it. There was the added hope that, were he the legendary serial killer who had made it hard for Nazis to sleep at night from 1941 to current day, that it may make this doctor more amenable to being approached by the Frenchman over any of the American agents.

“Ach, vhere ist..? Ahh, zhere you are.” The spy overhead the man’s voice muffle out from a trunk in the back of the van. His jaw dropped open as the target retrieved a slightly blood-stained Waffen-SS Schirmmütze from the trunk’s depths. Okay then. Maybe this was the Butcher of Bavaria. With a bright, almost wistful grin the doctor chuckled and popped the peaked hat onto the top of an anatomical skeleton model’s skull where it sat outside the open back of the vehicle. The spy stood still as ice but secretly was quite startled and impressed as the doctor dug around more and… pulled out another officer’s Schirmmütze… and then another… and then a final one, decorated with a rust-brown smear on the side and the accoutrement of a (late) SS captain instead of the usual Wehrmacht markings. Balancing the “war trophies” on his strong, skillful fingers, he giggled darkly to himself again and seemed to be considering where to set them for the time being while he carried on rearranging the van’s cargo. “So viele. Hmm, I need to invest in a hatbox of somezing… would hate to lose track of all you…”

The Butcher’s back muscles suddenly tightened, posture sharpening and tensing, and the spy’s spine chilled in almost the same second. Mon dieu. The realization that a slight noise of his suit jacket’s silky fabric shifting had alerted the doctor to someone close by brought his focus up to a peak, holding his breath as he saw the man whip his head around and tuck the hats back away. The once jolly, soft-edged blue eyes had hardened until they glinted just like the glass lenses augmenting them—gaze scanning around not like a frightened prey animal but like a formidable beast enraged by a rival. A wolf sniffing out a threat.

“Who is here?” The cheerful, flutey-high voice had roughened and darkened. The Butcher turned to have his back blocked by the van—eyes flicking around eager for a sign of an adversary, “Zeige dich!”

It was now, or never. Any more delay would only lower his chances at recruiting this dangerous madman. The spy took a subtle step forward and allowed the Invisi-watch’s cloak to drop just as he entered the faint light creeping out from the open basement and the panel van’s dash.

“Bonjour,” he said in his typical unimpressed tone. Years of practice assisted in keeping his composure despite entering the considerable lunging-range of the tense stranger with an impressive kill count. Flicking out a cigarette from his case, he lit it in a fluid motion and locked eyes with his target, “Doctor Fritz Ludwig, am I correct?”

“Who is asking?” the Butcher growled. It was impossible to avoid noting that one of those skillful hands of his was creeping into an outer coat pocket. The spy shook his head, waving his free hand for patience.

“Relax, mon amí. I am not here for any violence tonight. If you must know a name, then please call me Mercier.” The spy was unbothered throwing out his real surname—with all the records-scrubbing it mattered little now. “And you are the one I’ve heard so much about. The very famous ‘Butcher of Bavaria’. Je suis impressionné!”

The praise did not seem to put the mad doctor at ease, and he instead screwed up his brows in suspicion and barked: “How do you know zhis?” The weapon he had been reaching for slowly emerged from the deep pocket and into his white-knuckled grip: An alarmingly large blade. A Wehrmacht Heer bayonet knife, if the spy had to guess. Probably another memento off a dead Nazi soldier; that was at least five now. “Who sent you?!”

“If you’re concerned about police, or any sort of government intelligence finding this out, then I assure you that your full identity is strictly known to my employers. And they are in no way interested in legal nonsense,” Mercier took a slight pull from his cigarette, very aware of the weight of his revolver holstered under his suit jacket but making sure to not incline his free hand towards it just yet. “What they are interested in is your particular set of skills. Perhaps we could speak somewhere more privately on that,” he gestured towards the basement chamber, “and preferably without sticking knives into each other.”

“Rrrgh… sheisse…” The Butcher relented a notch, but did not let up the tension in his squared shoulders or put away the blade. He glared over at the Frenchman and muttered in a fierce tone, “Fine—you first. And I keep zhe knife, you keep… whatever it is you have.”

“Assez juste,” The spy nodded, “Mind if I smoke?”

“Ja. Fine. Zhat’s fine,” the doctor was clearly irritated by the request, but found it a non-issue compared to everything else at hand. “Now go, schnell—before someone else vanders in here…”

Mercier took the few nerve-wracking strides down the two small steps into the Butcher’s current lair, calm on the outside but preparing himself mentally to repel a sudden pounce from the serial killer following just a few meters behind him. He paused at the open receiving area, taking in the clean but rough concrete confines—the flimsy fold-out table and rusted mediocre shop shelves all packed with a wide variety of ominous-looking surgical tools and devices. In one corner, more brightly-lit with a hanging contraption of fluorescent tubes, was what looked like a salvaged dentistry chair. Tellingly, the armrests had a series of grooves worn into them, right where the wrists of a patient would be placed. Or… probably not a “patient” so much as one of the good doctor’s favorite types of unwilling organ donor.

The door latched shut behind Mercier.

Ah. Terrific. This certainly wasn’t the start of the last ten horror films he had seen. Against the genre, Dr. Ludwig stepped around the spy with a wary buffer zone and settled into one of the available folding chairs by the one semi-clear space at the table. He gestured with the point of the bayonet to the other seat. Mercier took it, crossing his legs casually and sucking down another lungful of cancer-stick to keep his wits about him. The Butcher remained slightly hunched, as if watching for a reason to need to spring back upright, and with one dexterous hand continually fondling the grooves of the bayonet’s hilt. Nervous. Not hiding it at all unlike the spy.

“Mercí,” Mercier began, trying not to glance at the small cooler set close by on the table or at its “Biohazard” label, “I will not waste too much of your valuable time, doctor. Have you ever considered work in the mercenary field?”

“Wha…” Behind the gleam of his spectacles, the doctor’s eyes widened, “Mercenary vork?”

“It is very worth considering. The kind of combat medic able to perform the transplant of several vital organs on a man within half an hour and send him out in peak form the next day—and also not be too squeamish of supplying the organ donors directly from the opposition on the battlefield—is in quite short supply.” He puffed on the cigarette once more, “Actually, I believe that supply is one. You are exactly the man we need on our team.”

“Mm.” Dr. Ludwig’s gaze flicked around before settling on the spy’s glowing cig once more, “Maybe… you could convince me. Ja. Vhy should I want to join zis team?”

“You’re a man of science, non?” The spy cocked an eyebrow as his gaze rested next on an autoclave, sat popped open with a selection of fluid-stained clamps, scissors, and vials waiting inside. “You no doubt have some significant research to fund. Equipment, electricity… subjects do not come cheap.”

“Vell…” Ludwig frowned with narrowed eyes, and Mercier was keen to see that the bayonet was now resting on the table (though with the deadly doctor’s palm still set on its handle), “Zhat is mostly true… hmm… Go on.”

“Should you accept our offer, then you would receive a significant research budget from T.F. Industries,” the spy cracked a dry fraction of a smirk, “You may recognize the name as among the highest-grossing multi-sector defense contractors on this continent. You could accomplish a lot more with us than… well, here.”

“Hmmm…” The Butcher of Bavaria was looking far less threatening now, a contemplative flash in his half-hooded eyes. His hand which was not readied by the knife snaked up and adjusted his glasses a bit higher on his nose. “Yes… I could believe zhat.” He aimed a sharp look at Mercier, right in the eyes for once, but with more intrigued energy than predatory. “I must know more though… Vhat about restrictions?”

“As far as the team’s Administrator is concerned, ‘restrictions’ align only with the bounds of physical impossibility,” he shrugged, “And she is not so partial to those, either. She is the sort of boss who would give… bonuses for toiling in God’s domain, vous savez?”

The doctor blinked, inhaled over a long pause with an expression morphing into one of mixed alarm and hope, “Ah… I see.

“And zis team you speak of?” Ludwig’s composure settled, gaze returning to an area slightly left of Mercier’s face. “What exactly is zhe goal of it all?”

“Our employers have some opposition. Dangerous opposition of course. The usual mess in these company mix-ups: Stealing trade secrets, attempts to blackmail each other, industrial sabotage… et cetera, ad nauseum. And the team itself is, erm…” the spy flipped which side of his mouth held his cigarette, “…currently reduced in number due to an unfortunate mishap. We only have a skeleton crew at headquarters. In order to recover and defend our resources, we need a medical professional.

“Especially one skilled at piecing dying men back together. And can do that with parts of other, enemy dying men.” The spy blinked, noting his cigarette had reduced to a smoldering nub, “Does this sound like something worth signing onto, in exchange for essentially unlimited funding and laboratory space for whatever medical experiments you desire?”

“…Vell… Vell…” The man suddenly looked quizzical, “Vhere is all of zhis fighting, and funding, and free laboratory supposed to be happening?”

“New Mexico.” He shrugged, “Not the most glamorous location, I know, but remote enough for our purposes. It is as Americans would say, ‘the Wild West’ out there.”

“Zhat’s… aheh, zhat’s very far away, ja?” A sliver of the non-threatening, nervous nature the spy had first seen this man exuding returned.

“We can arrange for whatever transportation you require. For you, and any possessions you wish to take with you. I assume there may be quite a bit.”

Before the mad doctor could formulate any confirmation, or any further digging into details, from behind where they both sat and beneath a sanitary sheet came a series of harsh flutters and soft burbling noises. Almost like… purring? But frantic, smaller, throatier.

Cooing.

“Ach—aheh, ein moment, bitte—” the doctor stood, abandoning the knife for a spell. With delicate but anxious speed the man lifted the sheet partway to peer inside the top of a very large open cardboard box, the sort that a television set or some other shiny technical appliance might come in. Mercier stared, dumbfounded, at the most efficient killer of Nazi officers outside of the French Resistance and the Red Army grousing at the dimly moving contents of the box in mostly his native German—tone so low the Frenchman only caught and fully understood portions of it:

“Okay, wer von euch Kämpft? Du schon wieder—nein! Nonono, hör auf damit! Muss ich dich wieder fangen und festhalten? Ergh...!” The Butcher stretched down to reach the shadowy interior with one hand and grabbed hold of something which struggled pitifully against his strength. When he straightened and flicked the cover back over the large box, he turned to reveal his fingers curled around a pure white pigeon of some sort—neck feathers ruffled and feisty but very unable to escape its position.

Still with bird a prisoner in his hand, Dr. Ludwig slipped back into his chair and looked about in short, embarrassed glances. Mercier’s raised eyebrow got even more raised.

“…Doves?” he ventured.

“Ja, er. Zhey are new. Zhis one is a bit aggressive.”

“How ironic.”

“Really I just need a proper cage for zhem… more space.” He peered hopefully over the rims of his glasses at the spy, “Would zhat be somezing possible to have, if I take up zhe offer?”

“Mon amí, you can have whatever cages you want or need,” Mercier almost laughed at the trifling nature of the request, “for whatever test subjects you want. For birds it would be supremely easy…”

The Look which flooded up into and pooled behind the killer doctor’s eyes like a tide of blood made Mercier bite down a bit too hard on the cig’s filter; here, with that unbridled laser-beam of violent intent aimed into his soul, he could believe beyond any doubt that this was the phantom doctor which had made the habit of divesting Operation Paperclip sign-ons of their spinal columns. He also knew without a doubt he had made a grave error—and he hoped not too literally.

“Zhey are not test subjects,” Ludwig snarled. The pigeon in his grasp settled its feathers and began boredly biting at the man’s thumbnail, which did nothing to break his murderous focus.

“Ahem… apologies,” Mercier tried not to let on how much the sweat beading beneath his mask itched, and fixed his sights on the white bird in order to break the hellish eye contact, “so… these birds are..?”

“Haustiere. Zhe English is ‘pets’, I believe.” He spat, dripping sarcasm. With his free hand, the Butcher demonstrated by stroking the creature gently on the head with two fingers (which the pigeon proceeded to gnaw at with renewed vigor). “And zhey would be coming with me.”

“Of course,” the spy internally sighed with relief as the promise of a gruesome death simmered down, placated by the presence of the fluffy little critter. He pinched out the remains of his cigarette and tucked the filter into his case’s “trash pocket” before fetching out a fresh one. “Now, if there are no further questions?”

“None zhat are zat important,” the doctor let out a huff, scritching up the handheld dove’s neck feathers until the thing’s eyes pinched nearly shut with tame delight and it stopped fussing.

“Excellent,” the spy lit the new cig and held out a hand palm-up, expectantly, “What shall I tell my employers?”

“I zhink I have been convinced.” Dr. Ludwig cracked a faint smile—all pearly teeth and the most menacing appearance of dimples and crowsfeet to exist. “Ja, I need to leave zhis disaster of an operating theater anyvay… about zat transport?”

“Take this—” Mercier slipped what appeared at first to be an innocuous business card from another pocket in his cigarette case and passed it to the doctor. “Call the number here, within the week if you could. The person you speak to can arrange everything when you are ready. Just be sure to identify yourself and bring up our little meeting tonight.”

“Danke,” Ludwig held the card between two fingers, dubiously examining the branding of the front-business plastered all over the hunk of cardstock: “R.E.D. Bread.” The pigeon kicked up a brief fit of coos, stretching its neck to try and nibble at the paper before the doctor sighed and held it well away to tuck the card into his breast pocket. “Vell, zhey’ll be hearing from me soon, zhen.”

“Mm-hm,” Mercier stood, puffing lightly on the fresh carcinogens as he took a few steps towards the door. “Very good. I look forward to working with you, doctor. I would be especially pleased if you could show me your, ahem… ‘collection’ sometime,” he tipped his head in the direction of the parked van, and the still-unloaded skeleton model wearing a former-Nazi’s peaked hat.

“Oh! Ohohah,” The Butcher’s unnervingly cheery grin returned, chest puffing out slightly with a pride which Mercier understood well but was still a teensy hint freaked out by, “You saw zhose, ey? Hm, well I suppose I could give you zhe tour, once I’m settled in.”

“Fantastique… I will look forward to this also.” Mercier stepped out the door, aiming a courteous nod back towards man and bird, “Until then, I bid you adieu.”

“Lebe wohl!” Dr. Ludwig replied with a half-chuckle, the pigeon in his hand cooing emphatically and watching the spy retreat and politely close the door behind him with a few twitchy tilts of its head. Once outside, Mercier took a pause—eyes settling on the anatomical skeletal model dangling on its rolling frame and the bloodied hat still resting on it. He stared at—really past it—as he vacuumed mightily at his cigarette until the tip blazed. His weary exhale wreathed his whole head in a stormcloud of smoke.

“Mon Dieu…” He sucked in another cloud, examining the skull closely and noting how very much detail was paid to making the teeth look, uh, flawed and… real. “C’est l’homme qui me soignera si je suis blessé par balle…”

With that thought, Mercier pocketed the second spent, snubbed filter end and picked up a brisk stroll out of the alley and over to the cracked, dirty lot tucked around the neighboring street corner where he’d left his car. At least now, here, alone in a nighttime city hundreds of miles from any Team Fortress stronghold or even safehouse, he wanted most to put a little distance between himself and the mad doctor.

There would be times and places (not now and with backup, and most importantly with repercussions) for cordial familiarization with his new, terrifying colleague.

The doctor, meanwhile, was content to tend his recently-rescued birds before sealing and starting up the filled autoclave—a murmured and casual rendition of “Bei Mir Bist Du Shoen” echoing up between the damp cinderblocks into the alley. Lined up on a shelf for their evening feeding time, the pigeons didn’t understand what this bizarre giant that fed them delicious sunflower kernels and slivers of lettuce off his sandwich was singing to them, but they did seem to appreciate the time out of their makeshift box nest and the undivided attention.

Whether the upstairs neighbors thought much of it was unknown. Wasn’t time to figure it out. Within two days of the foreign lyrics drifting up their drainpipes, the basement room had been cleared out except for a threadbare dentist’s chair, ratty shelving and a few loose white feathers. The van sat dead and gutted—with no one putting together its connection with the recent disaster of a dignitary’s wedding—most choosing to just pick it clean for parts and tires and make no mention to the authorities. They were a little puzzled where that friendly European doctor went—and were sad to see he’d gone so quickly from the area—but glad various local folk had gotten a shiny new kidney, a square foot of healthy skin over an old stretch of scar tissue, a functional liver, a couple of cleared-up nasty infections, and a miraculously good knee out of it.

Oh well. C’est la vie.

#tf2 #fanfiction #fanfic #tf2 medic #tf2 spy #lots of headcanons some fun some more serious #the medic is NOT a Nazi #quite the opposite #tw Nazi mention #tw gore mention #the hiring process is scary for both the hiree and the recruiter #tf2 medic's doves #multiple languages used here but the phrases are pretty straightforward to translate

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