#translation: god help me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meet-the-net · 2 days ago

Text

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐦.

A continuation of this drawing in 6153 Words. Hope you enjoy :)

“Howdy… I reckon you’re the owner of this place?” the hard-hatted man asks. Anxious about having to give an in-depth description of his person, Ned puts his arms behind his back and counts the ridges of his sleeve with his fingertips. As he’s about to open his mouth, however, the stranger continues; “You wouldn’t mind pointing us in the direction of the barracks? We seem to have misplaced our map of the grounds.” he mentions through his teeth and throws a quick glance back at a person, concealed completely by gloves and a gas mask, who simply waves. Cocking his head to the side indicates to the stranger well enough that Ned has no clue what a barrack is, so his response is a chuckle and a “Y’know? The rooms we oughta reside in?”. For the previous few days and nights, Ned had been disturbed by the sounds of construction, surrounding him from all sides, keeping him awake throughout the twilight, and on edge through the light of day. When he’d found they – and who else would ‘they’ be but the workers for Team Fortress Industries – had been tearing down walls and emptying the rooms of his parents’ home, in order to expand and refurnish it, he’d felt like crying. Instead, he’d gone down to the beach and stood in the freezing saltwater for a few hours, until a single, croaky scream escaped him. When he had returned to the place where he learned to walk, its wooden front door was ripped out, a gaping hole in its stead. Cold men in grey uniforms, upon inquiry in form of ‘What the hell are you doing?’, informed him that it would become a ‘…respawn room. Ya see that door in the back? Yeah, we’re puttin’ up housing for the blue team or whatever.’ ‘Huh, look at that – they freakin’ spelled it wrong!‘.

Without uttering a word, Ned points up the freshly installed stairs of his shop to the small ledge before two garage doors that would lead to the barracks. Those doors, along with the entire second floor, had also been added in the renovations, but they didn’t hurt half as bad as the gutting of his parents’ home. “Thank ya kindly. C'mon, boys, quit foolin' around now.“ he directs towards the team. One of them, a lanky one, drops the fish that he’d been unsuccessfully trying to hit a silent man wearing a combat helmet with, right where he stands and, pushing past his teammates, races upstairs with a resounding “Last one there is a smelly sardine!”. Everyone follows at their own pace, but when the last one, a spectacled man in a long white coat, his nose buried in a clipboard, puts a foot on the first step, he halts and looks up. “Vait. Are you…? Zhat can’t be right, you cannot *possibly* be zhe guy.” he utters, now turned towards Ned, then flips through a few pages and looks back at the disgruntled looking fisherman. “Hoo! But you are! Hey, Dell!” he shouts, and the man who asked for directions replies with a simple “What?!”. “You better come take a look at zhis!”. Unhurried footsteps make their way back down the stairs, where the other was holding up his clipboard for Dell to see. He reads a passage, snaps his goggles onto his forehead and re-reads it, squinting. “That guy?” he whispers, giving Ned a short, sidelong glance. “Ja.” “You sure?” “Ja!” “Figured he was just a shop-keeper.”. “Oho, zhat is vhere you’re wrong, mein friend.” the man with the cross decal on his shoulder responds, unable to keep up the low volume. In an exaggerated gesture, he points at Ned with an open hand, palm facing the ceiling. “ZHAT is ZHE Net.” he exclaims, the undertone of it sounding mocking, not genuinely impressed by the infirm, insecure looking man. One who had to look around, unsure if they were actually talking about someone else, before silently waving at them, no less. “Shoot, and we just ran right past ya! You coulda spoke up, y’know?” Dell says, wearing a warm smile to the surprise of Ned, who plasters on a veneer of reciprocating friendliness. The man readjusts his goggles to sit over his eyes again and approaches with an outstretched hand, which Ned agrees to shake with his own clammy, ice-cold hand. The slight twitch of the corner of Dells mouth is the only reaction he gives, involuntarily. “My name’s Dell, and that fella over yonder is Lorenz. You must be, uh, Ned, right Doc?” he asks the man clutching his clipboard and wearing an extremely strained smile. “Richtig!” Lorenz calls, followed by a sotto voce chuckle. “I’ll be damned. Ned the Net. Whoever came up with your classification oughta be tossed out on their ear!" the Texan states and laughs for a bit, but gradually stops as Ned simply stares. Although he could’ve told Dell he didn’t understand what being ‘tossed out on one’s ear’ means, he keeps it to himself, embarrassed enough that none of his team members even knew of him. Dell clears his throat, nervously readjusts his construction helmet, and, persistently smiling, offers “Well, I’ll give ya a minute to catch your breath after us barging in like that. You’re welcome to join us in the common room anytime. Provided they actually built one this time.” and heads upstairs with Lorenz, who had been and is continuously staring at Ned with a sly grin.

Ned sighs relieved he’d been given time to adjust, and tucks a stray strand of hair beneath his mariners cap. Wet, dead and missing some scales after having been mishandled like that, the fish oozes some of its slime between the cracks of the wooden planks that make up the floor. Ned picks it up and disposes of it inside his kitchen. Housewarming gifts had always been prepared by his parents and always consisted of freshly baked pastries, small jars of various spices and, once he’d opened his shop, samples of Neds dried fish snacks. Sitting on his stool, his leg bouncing nervously, he ponders what components he has at home, but as he realizes he has none, he lays his head in his hands in a self-soothing effort. Not having enough time to dry any fish, he concludes the next best thing should do, especially since he figures their journey must’ve been long; food, specifically undried fish, more specifically fish sandwiches. Raw cod in a nice cream-mayonnaise sauce on home-made, thawed and oven-toasted white bread and a few slices of pickles and egg. A delicacy in Selbyen, which he’s certain can be appreciated by the foreigners as well, as the tourists that used to visit Selbyen always went ham for it.

Wrapped in little brown paper bags, each tied with a piece of natural fiber cord, the sandwiches lay on his kitchen counter, ready for delivery. After a short pep talk into his bathroom mirror, Ned loads them into a hand-woven basket and heads upstairs. The automatic garage doors recognize his shape and clear the way for entrance. Before him stands his old family home, a shell of its former self, hollowed out by hollow people, cold looking in the dusk. With a huff through his nose, trying to maintain a friendly façade, he enters the remodeled, doorless building and knocks on the far back door that didn’t exist a week ago. Nervously he waits, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and tracing his fingers along the twisted osiers that make up the baskets handle, a material soft enough to dig a fingernail into it and leave an indent, which he does. When the door opens into a softly lit hallway, the silhouette of a team member cutting through it, Ned rips his gaze from off the ground. A smile spreads across his face, almost automatically, but out of obligation instead of volition. He squints to see who’s letting him inside, and becomes a bit confused about a helmet gleaming back at him from a further height than he remembered Dell to be. The figure fully turns their back on him, torso stiff as a board, and yells back into the room “ATTEEEENTION. NEW BLOOD HAS ARRIVED. LOOK ALIVE.”, to which someone inside yells back “SHUT IT, AH’LL LOOK AS DEAD AS AH DAMN WELL PLEASE!", slurring their words a bit. Both start laughing loudly, raspy and wheezing before the man turns back to Ned. A heavy hand comes down hard on his shoulder and pulls him inside. “Move it, maggot. It’s freezing out there.”. The unexpected force makes Ned stumble a bit and he clutches his basket, keeping it upright to prevent the contents from spilling, but keeps a stiff smile. “Who are you, little red riding hood?” the man inquires with a smirk, his hand on his back pushing Ned further along the scarcely illuminated hallway. When the overhead lights highlight the shapes of the darkened outline, Ned notices that the man’s combat helmet is pulled down far enough to cover his eyes, and for a moment he wonders how he could see where he’s going. The moment doesn’t last long, though, as they enter a large room at the very end of the hallway, and he ponders about how a room this big and leveled could’ve been built on the sandy slope that used to make up their backyard. Inches behind him, the man visually impaired by his own headgear announces, “He brought a basket! And a load of useless brown boxes!”, then leans uncomfortably close and mutters “When you’re done throwing the boxes away, can I have the basket?”. With his shoulders pulled up to his ears, Ned stiffly shakes his head ‘no’ at giving up the precious family heirloom crafted by a late relative to the very loud madman. “FINE!” he shouts, throwing his hands up in dramatic defeat. Resembling a toddler having a meltdown, he stomps off, arms crossed before his chest, muttering “I didn’t want the stupid basket anyway. I hope you fall down the stairs, and the basket does not break your fall.”. The man plops down into a chair beside someone wearing an eyepatch, someone who immediately starts patting his back. “There there, Jude. Ye’ll be alright, laddie.” he utters in a soothing voice. Jude’s intense frown softens, his shoulders drop, and he mutters “Thanks, buddy.”. Contrary to his expectation, the one-eyed man doesn’t give Ned the stink eye to defend Jude, who appears to be his friend. Instead, he shrugs and throws Ned a glance that seems to express something like ‘Be patient with him.’. Ned reciprocates the glance with a compassionate smile at the pair, safe in the knowledge that they find solace in each other – that the word ‘team’ doesn’t merely translate to ‘colleagues’.

Someone else from that corner of the room, whom he recognizes as Dell by his voice, comments “You made it.”, followed by a chuckle. As a few other people surround him, Ned feels his hands clasping the handle of the basket tighter, white-knuckled, his relaxed expression hardening, his grin forced once more. He simply gives Dell a nod and examines the onlookers, remaining uncomfortably silent. Beside him, the one who had abused his wares before, speaks up "Yeah, ‘bout freakin time! We been waitin’ all evening for ya to get here. Y'know, I can't plan a strategic attack on the RED scum without ya, being da new member of the team and all'at. I-“. Interrupting him, a large hand pushes him aside by the head, a large hand belonging to a proportionally large man. Dulled, the slim one’s voice sounds out through the fingers, “Hey! What da hell?”, before a dark voice cuts him off. “Scout. Shut up.” the big one speaks, accent thick in every syllable. “You do not plan dis anyway. Medic and Engineer do.” he continues, which makes a high-pitched laugh ring out from the corner of the room, where people sat and drank – must be the aforementioned Medic. Mentally, Ned takes note of the class names, supposing that Lorenz fits the description of a field medic and Dell looks like a craftsman. However, he can only assume by Lorenz’ cross decal, having never seen a healer safe for the village doctor. Furthermore, he notes that they are the ones organizing the team and would be the ones he would have to admit his fighting inexperience to.

“You did not seriously bring that STENCH into zis base, did you?” he’s asked, the voice seemingly coming from inches behind him. Ned flinches, letting his strained face muscles let go of the feigned smile. He had perceived approaching footsteps during the altercation between ‘Scout’ and the wide one – only a vigilant fisherman is a good one – but when he turns his head to look, there’s only space and the door he entered through. With the basket’s handle tucked into the crook of his arm he spins around, raising the other hand enough that it could shield his face in case the situation should call for it. He mouths the words ‘Hva i helvete?’ (which roughly translate to ‘What the hell?’) as his suspicions are confirmed that the voice came out of nowhere. Without another sound to warn him, the voice, now right next to his other ear, exclaims a flat “Booh.”.

A flinch ripples through Ned’s body, jerking his raised hand slightly backward. It strikes something invisible, producing a sharp, reverberating smack, followed by a soft, equally flat, “Ow.”. To Ned’s amazement, momentarily overshadowed by his annoyance, a shape appears. Blue and translucent, solely a silhouette, then traces of a human body, akin to a ghost materializing. A man in a balaclava, lowering his hand from his cheekbone and placing it behind his straight back, stands before him.

“Skittish, are we? Not a great look for a hired gun.” he remarks, roguish and smileless. Ned perceives the mumbling that ensues, along with his cheeks warming up, outwardly signifying his embarrassment about being outed as a rookie. In an attempt to shut him up, trump his fear of uselessness and highlight his other capabilities for the team, he makes the strategic decision to finally break his silence. If he changes the subject now, people might be distracted enough to ignore how right the masked man was.

“I brought food.” Ned’s tone is flat, his sentence short enough to hide the shakiness in his tone, brought on by the warm clump in his throat – aggravation and upset from being put on the spot like this. To top it all off – since the eyes in the room simply observe him quietly, impressed but speechless – he digs in his pocket and pulls out the small metal box of breath mints that contains his cigarettes, throws it into the basket and declares “…and cigarettes.” Several people hum approvingly, those who hadn’t been encircling him until now stand up from their seats and approach. With a groan, the French interrogator steps back, correctly anticipating that his teammates would push him aside to get to the gift basket.

Silently, he observes how the large, bald man reaches inside, retrieves three wrapped sandwiches, and wanders off to Lorenz and Dell. First to receive one is the Medic, personally, while the other sandwich is set on the table for Dell to take himself, from which Ned gathers an understanding of the dynamic between the three. “Zhank you, Mirek.~” Lorenz utters in a sing-song matter, to which Dell, probably feeling inclined, grumbles “Yeah. Thanks, Miroslav.”.

As the person in the gas mask – Ned remembers they were the one who lost, or perhaps destroyed the teams map of Selbyen – grabs a sandwich, Jude reaches over their shoulder to retrieve the silver box, which they watch intently. As Jude retrieves two cigarettes and passes one back to his friend, the unknown person visibly lights up and they turn back to Ned with an outstretched thumb. Instead of it being a gesture of approval, which Ned initially smiles at, they bend and stretch their thumb repeatedly in a motion all too familiar to him. From his pocket, he produces a metallic lighter with a fish emblem and places it into their open palms. “Mmphph.” they respond, incoherent from behind their headgear, but seemingly appreciative, and start toying with the lighter, flicking on the flame and placing a finger on the burning wick to extinguish, over and over. Jude’s jaw falls open and he grabs the fire fanatic by the gloved wrist, yelling “WHO IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT'S HOLY LET THAT MANIAC HAVE A LIGHTER?!" at his comrades. His friend puts a hand on his shoulder and softly comments “Come on, now. Pyro was havin’ such a blast! They haven’t started a fire in months! Not off the battlefield, at least.” “No, Hamish! We’ve been over this. We can’t trust this foul creature.” Jude insists, extending his neck to observe Pyro – as far as the helmet over his eyes allows, at least. Then, despite Hamish’s protest, he snatches the lighter from their hand and pockets it, to which they utter a disappointed “Mhhmm.” and go off to sit on the floor in front of Lorenz’, Dell’s and Miroslav’s table. Ned silently mouths each newly learned name, his eyes flicking from person to person as he repeats them in his mind.

Over the chewing sounds and soft exchanges throughout the room, a voice cuts through that Ned doesn’t recognize yet. A man in yellow shades, sandwich already half unwrapped in hand, mutters “Much appreciated, mate.” before returning to the water dispenser in the corner of the room from whence he came. The Scout prances after him and carelessly takes a seat on the close by pool table, knocking around some of the scattered pool balls. “Awh, mate.” the other sighs, “Open your eyes, Jonathan. Spy an’ I were in the middle of a bloody game.”. he continues, disappointed. Just as Ned expected, the Scout, now also known as Jonathan, starts defending himself, “C’mon, Nick -…” dramatically gesturing with hands and feet, remaining seated on the table. Ned huffs through his nostrils in a silent chuckle and tunes out of the conversation, as he considers their bickering none of his business.

From the corner of his eyes, Ned notices something peculiar that takes him a bit to contextualize; out of the little box that Jude had so graciously tossed back into the basket, floats a single cigarette through the air, until it gradually disappears in a corner. Ned smirks, content about having provided something for truly everyone (even if they would never admit it) despite barely receiving any thanks for the gesture. Two cigarettes in their metallic container and three untouched brown paper food bags remain, one of which he takes out while striding as confidently as possible to the table at which Jude and Hamish are seated. From under the table, a little stool is pushed out with a creaking sound, perfectly timed so that Ned can stop it with his foot and take a seat in one fell swoop. Although it looks like a regular blinking motion at first, Ned recognizes that Hamish sends a wink his way and his delighted smile increases as he winks back.

Jude, however, tenses up and stops eating once Ned places the basket on the table, observing it intently. With a sliding motion across the table, Ned tugs it closer to himself before he jerks up from being suddenly spoken to. “So, what made ye sign up for this bloody awful job, eh?" Hamish inquires, knocking the beer bottle he had picked to wash down the bread, against the table to accentuate his words. The three people from the table on Ned’s right chuckle, all in different pitches and intensities, with Lorenz’ being the highest and Miroslav’s the lowest, almost harmonizing with each other. From beneath the table and chuckling, the Pyro jumps up, then props up their head on their hands and mutters something unintelligible that sounds vaguely like a question. “Oh. Uh, sorry?�� Ned asks, to which Dell grins so wide, his cheeks push up his goggles very slightly. “They’re askin’ what on God’s green earth you’re doin’ here. And don’t you worry none ‘bout not understandin’ that lil’ bugger — it took me four years to decipher ‘em. Well worth it though, ain’t it, pardner?” he checks while he gives their masked head a friendly pat, and they reply with an approving “Mhmm!” as they kick their legs in the air, seeing as they’re half-laid atop the table on their stomach. “So?” Dell beckons.

After taking a bite, Ned re-wraps his sandwich, aware that discussing sensitive topics makes him fidget with his surroundings – and he’d rather not scatter crumbs from a picked-apart sandwich all over the table. He swallows, looking around at his interested colleagues, then clears his throat. “Well, uh.” he starts, trying hard to mask the shakiness of his voice, unsuccessfully. “I did not really go through an official application process, as I think you people might have. It just kind of… happened, after an act of, how do you say, defense?”. “Defiance.” Lorenz interjects, pushing up his spectacles. Ned nods, “Yes, that. Thank you. The lady in purple and her men had cleared everyone out of their homes after the industry bought our land, and when I did not leave… I, uh, threatened her to undo everything… with a harpoon… and then she gave me the contract.” he looks down, remorseful of his outburst, until Hamish chimes in. “What ‘n introduction, laddie! Fought yer way into the job, eh? That sure showed her! Good on ya! Now ye just have tae deal with never gettin’ out again – alive, anyway!”, he finishes with a loud laugh, which Jude and Lorenz join in. After processing what Ned had explained, Dell slams his palms on the table and stands, expression grim, silencing the others who look at him with intrigue. “Let me get this straight, you’re tellin’ us they didn’t even build this village? Just bought it up and ran everyone else off? Now that just ain’t right!” he expresses, crossing his arms as he settles back into his seat. After another grumble, his bitter expression softens as he gestures to a lightly smiling Ned whose surprised gaze raises to meet his – or rather his blurry reflection in Dells goggles. “But you? Standin’ up for your people like that? For your family? That’s real honorable of ya. We need more kindhearted, good men on this team.” he mentions while looking around for someone he can’t find, therefore readjusting his sight onto Ned. This makes the humble fisherman straighten up, beaming within from being called honorable, perhaps even brave, but holding back on showing it outwardly, as he’s unable to gauge how much of a compliment it was, comparatively. A miffed looking Jonathan approaches, hands in fists and some of the sandwich condiment in the corner of his mouth. Firmly standing between the two tables Ned and Dell respectively sit at, he puts both hands to his hips and begins in a squeaky, clearly hurt voice “Yeah, yeah. Brave my ASS. You threatened Miss P.? A defenseless lady? And with a freakin’ HARPOON, at that?” “Only threatened her with words! The harpoon never touched her, I promise.” Ned nervously clarifies, arms flailing in front of him, palms open and facing outward, as if to ward off the accusation. “She never even seemed bothered, if I think about it.” he adds, pensively. “Maybe she was scared to death, huh? Ever think’a that? Wouldn’t you be, too, if some maniac came at ya swingin’ their stupid fishin’ stick?!” “I did not even-“ Ned insists, furrowing his brow about Jonathan painting him to be more violent than he was even capable of, before both of them were interrupted by the peacemaker, the teams shepherd.

“Johnny boy, don’t be ridiculous. Miss Pauling’s been through way worse than some mildly threatenin’ fisherman. She wouldn’t be intimidated in the slightest – no offense, Ned. Take a breather, cowboy. Grab a seat, grab a cold one, and settle down for a second. We know how attached you are to her, but this ain’t no reason to start spinnin' stories 'bout the new guy." Dell admonishes. Jonathan simply puffs up his cheeks, mutters “Fine…” and takes a seat next to Miroslav, who silently retrieves a bottle of beer from the small fridge behind them and hands it to the younger man.

With a wooshing noise, the blue silhouette manifests into the mysterious masked man once more, this time standing behind Dell, who tenses up at the sound. As he takes form, so does the smoke of his lit cigarette, making Ned wonder about how advanced technology actually was outside of his village, what he’d missed, but hiding his awe well. “Your kind ‘eart and ‘onor means nothing when you're caught in ze storm of bullets that war unleashes. Do you even know which end of ze gun to point at zee enemy?” he inquires, his chest subtly rising and falling with quiet laughter, only one corner of his mouth raising into a small smirk. Ned ceases the opportunity to boast, his head raised, his smile proud. “I will have you know that I hit two of the bottle targets, when our Courier taught me to shoot those little guns the other day!” “Out of ‘ow many?” the man demonstratively asks, earning him a back-handed smack in the chest by Dell, who sternly whispers “Spy.”, as if to tell him not to embarrass Ned like that. The fisher’s proud grin begins to crumble as he tucks his head between his shoulders, breaks the confident eye contact and stares at the table while he mumbles “Ten.”.

Spy begins howling, snorting in-between laughs as he holds his stomach and takes his leave through a door in the back of the room next to Nick, who patiently awaited his pool partner, but must watch leave instead. Spy’s ceaseless laughter is heard for a while behind the seemingly paper-thin walls, even as the sound of a shutting door is heard, as he presumably enters his personal room.

People whose gaze had followed him turn their head back to Ned, expecting defense, but that many eyes on him only increase his embarrassment and his pale skin breaks out in pinkish blotches of shame once more. Head in an ice cold, sweaty palm, he tries not only reducing the blood circulation in his face, but also to play it off like he didn’t care as much as he did. “Yes. But a fifth is still better than none, right?” he tries confirming not only to himself, but to a team that partially depends on him now, as he looks over to Dell for one last dose of support, eyebrows furrowed desperately. With a nod, and a warm “You’ll get there, pal.” he responds, prompting various others to break their silence and send not quite convinced encouragement Ned’s way in form of “Yeah…” and “Sure!”. Ned decides to take what he gets and responds with a joking little bow, as if he’d achieved something worth bowing for. When the silence only threatens to return, Hamish cuts in. “Look, we all started somewhere. I wasn’t born blowin’ me enemies to smithereens! Don’t ye worry, lad. You’ll find a way to make yourself useful on the battlefield. Yer the Net, right? We use you to fall back on, and you use us to make yer trapping tactics lethal. It’s a bloody partnership, mate. You set 'em up, we knock 'em down!”. His wide smile causes Ned to match the expression and perk up, “Yes! I will try the best I can. If it is not too much trouble, maybe one of you experienced people-“, he looks around as he continues, making sure each one feels addressed, “-can teach me to shoot even more than two target bottles? Since you have been shooting so many things already, and all I have shot is fish in the water?”

Retrieving his hands from near the basket he was sneakily trying to snatch, attentive all of a sudden, Jude flashes an open-mouthed grin before he asks “You caught those fish by SHOOTING THEM?! NOW THAT’S THE MOST AMERICAN THING I’VE EVER HEARD! Say, soldier, how many bullets does it take to turn a fish into a victim?!”. As a result, Ned gives a warm chuckle, “No, no bullets. With the harpoon gun. You know, the-“ “The one you stabbed Miss Pauling with?!” “The one I did *not* stab Miss Pauling with.” he corrects Jude with a raised finger, “The one I threatened her with.” “This recounting keeps becoming less and less American! I AM SEVERELY BORED.” Jude exclaims, then cups a hand next to his mouth and shouts “BUSHMAN. PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR ASS KICKED. I WILL DEPOSIT THOSE POOL BALLS INTO THE HOLES SO GLORIOUSLY, YOU WON’T EVEN SEE WHAT HIT YA’!” and strides over to the pool table and an exasperated Nick. “He lives in a bush? Like a little tree? Poor guy.” Ned sympathizes to Hamish’s amusement who briefly explains “Nah, just Australia. Which ain’t much more than a bunch o' wee trees, really.”, his chuckle is met by Nick’s quiet side glance, before he’s distracted by Jude pushing the white pool ball into his hands.

Meanwhile, Ned had finished pondering and lowers his hand from his chin, straightening his slouching posture, “Australia, huh? That is an awful bit away. I, uh, have noticed you all seem to be from different places of the world.”. A wry chuckle escapes him as he confirms to himself that “I have never even left this village. Ever. You must have a lot of stories to tell.”. A few people exchange pitiful, almost concerned glances before their gazes fall back on Ned. Jonathan, who had been busy thumb wrestling with the Pyro until now, never stopped listening and mentions “Yeah, a LOTTA stories. Actually, way too many stories. 'Cause things just don’t stop happening, ever.”. He wins the tiny wrestling match and raises his head with a chuckle, “Hey, yeah, remember that time we tried teleportin’ back to base, but those RED bastards moved the tele and we went plummetin’ down that cliff? Lucky we were in respawn range, or we'd all be done for.”

Worried expression, intrigued mind, Ned leans forward and inquires “Respawn range? The men that built, well, rebuilt everything, said something of a ‘respawn room’. Do those things have a connection? The range and the room? How does that work? Would you not have died when you fell down the cliff?”.

Loudly, Lorenz’ sharp laugh rings through the room, bemused by the silly question. “Of course ve died! Miserably so!”, he begins, other teammates murmuring in agreement, “But ve each have zhis fabulous little device implanted zhat gazhers our molecular structure, and, upon death, recombines it inside the room. It’s a really neat machine, zhe Engineer and I toiled on it for an eternity! Speaking of zhe respawn chip, you’re not equipped wizh one yet, richtig?”. Ned had leaned back during the doctor’s monologue, holding onto the table since there was no backrest to relax into, shaken by the information that death wouldn’t end the war. Though relieved that he wouldn’t be giving his life to provide for his family, he still could only respond with a quiet shake of the head, mouth slightly agape and frowning. “Perfekt! Would you like to schedule an appointment wizh dear old me? Zhen I shall use zhe opportunity of your open chest cavity to install your new heart for zhe Übercharge too, all in one fell swoop! It'll only hurt a mediocre lot, not an awful lot.” Lorenz jokes with dark, malicious glee, accompanied by an equally grim, low chuckle.

Feeling his palms begin to sweat once more, Ned’s spinning thoughts fall onto the new term. “The Über-huh?” is met with enthusiasm from Lorenz, who almost interrupts him, “Invulnerability. Vhat a deal, ja? Zhe whole package! No death, no harm. At least vhen my Medi-gun is pointed at you. Bevor you ask, zhat is my trusty co-“ his gaze briefly twitches to Miroslav, “-my other trusty companion on zhe battlefield. HOOHOO! Nozhing beats zhis-“ his gloved hand lands harshly on the huge man’s back, “heap of Muskel, of course. But zhe Medi-gun blasts pure rays of concentrated regenerative particles onto my subjects, somezhing Mirek is incapable of. As of yet...”. The crazed practitioner utters the same low humming cackle as before, sounding truly terrifying. “In layman’s terms, zhe gun un-breaks your bones, extinguishes you from zhe battlefields inferno, and stuffs zhe blood back into your body. Sooo? Vhat do ve zhink?” he follows up. Ned ponders for a bit, heart pounding and head spinning a bit, but decides to settle on the decision that having one surgery to cover for his apparent invulnerability and immortality would be agreeable, though he was still skeptical of how well it would work. “Gud hjelpe meg*. O-okay. Sure. Yes. If it guarantees my safety. If YOU guarantee my safety.” Ned sets as his condition, dimming Lorenz’ cheery expression as he replies “I guarantee nozhing. Zhe machines could fail at any time and ve could all perish at any moment, but I can try to keep you bunch of idi-… i… incredibly… nice beings alive for as long as possible.” he concludes with an obviously forced grin. The fisherman shudders, subtly as to not reveal his multiple degrees of fear for this man, for one because he seems to be using his colleagues as guineapigs for his experimental medical and technical procedures, either uncaring or accepting that each second on the battlefield might be their last. Another reason, despite Ned desperately trying to suppress his fear of others, is Lorenz’ heritage, recognized through his accent alone. He concluded that the Medic must be old enough to have been alive during the world war, and fears he might’ve be part of the horrors on humanity those people inflicted. On the other hand, the man seems to be tolerant of the use of neutral personal pronouns, such as those for the unidentified Pyro, as well as Ned’s own gender identity, which to his dismay remains evident through his feminine talking voice. Undecided on Lorenz’ stance, he can’t help but remain wary in his presence, keep his eyes out for any slip-ups, any other ethical wrong-doings except for the obviously empirical nature of his surgeries.

For a moment, Ned wonders if he should be as wary of the other collaborator of the respawn machine, Dell, but his train of thought is derailed when a blue glove shoves a piece of paper under his nose from behind him. “I’ve decided a time for your appointment for zhe-“ he chuckles, uncomfortably close behind Ned, “-procedure.”. In a mocking tone, he continues “Is zhis time agreeable for you, Herr Ned? HAH! Get it, because zhis job is his whole life now? I don’t even need to ask! Of course it is agreeable! He haz nozhing else to do! Haha! I vill see you tomorrow, little fishie!~” he continues, his voice quieting down as he retreats through the same door the Spy did, hands behind his back and chuckling ominously.

Reading the pale blue business card reveals to Ned, that he’d be on the slab the next day at 7AM, sharp, that he shouldn’t eat nor drink immediately before and that he should preemptively write a will, just in case. A glance at the common room’s clock reveals that 11PM is fast approaching, and Ned perks up. “Oh, herregud, it is that late already? Boy, oh boy. I would really, honestly love to chat with you people some more. But I am worried that if I do not sleep now, I will be unwell after tomorrows… slaughter, let us say.” he jokes to ease himself of the nervousness, and, along with some of his colleagues, chuckles nervously at his dry humor. His laugh ceases into a more relieved smile, happy that his misery provided *someone* with a bit of joy, and he wishes them a “Good night. And, uh, I feel like I should mention; do not be surprised by the weird screaming at night, those are just the seals.”, before grabbing his sandwich, his basket – Jude can be heard protesting, and Nick reassuring him that there’s plenty of baskets in the world – and taking hasty steps back through the hallway, the old, dead home, the garage doors and into his own four walls. The brown paper of the sandwich he devoured on his way lands in his trash can, he quickly gets ready for bed, multitasking his bathroom routine, stripping into his fish boxers and hopping into his blanketed haven. Though sleep comes late and little, his heart pounding, his eyelids wide apart, thoughts spiraling throughout the night. Tomorrow will be very interesting.