The Medic opened his eyes, the memory of crockets fresh in his mind. You'd think a run-of-the-mill Pyro would be better at deflecting a simple, slow-moving rocket AT LEAST ONCE. You'd think someone would at least TRY to protect their Medic.
Of course not.
Nobody respected Medics. Not even slightly. At least, not on the RED team of Goldrush.
Pushed around, beaten, tossed side to side, before waking up in respawn again. He tried every weapon combination he could think of to give him some sort of edge. But he couldn't even lower his Blutsauger for a second without a BLU Spy getting behind him or finding himself directly in front of a Sniper just seconds before everything went black again. And of course, he was a Medic for a reason, and that wasn't to swing a bonesaw and plant syringes everywhere-he had to rely on his teammates to protect him. And they failed to do that. He was about to tear himself to ribbons from sheer frustration.
No. He wasn't going to let himself lose whatever sanity he had left. Rather than return to the front, he removed his backpack, put it on the ground, and sat on a nearby bench. Why bother fighting for a team that was just getting him killed? Instead, he just watched his "teammates" respawn and run off to fight, not even batting an eyelash at the idler.
Several rounds passed. The Medic noticed that he was no longer getting killed. Of course, there was the fact there was no friendly fire, and that none of the BLU team members could get into the RED base during rounds, but he knew those BLUs. Every time they won, they would run straight for the RED base and kill everyone inside.
Ever since he had started idling, RED had stopped losing. His team didn't even need him! He could remain a dead weight forever and nobody would even care! Many a Medic had done just that. But HE wasn't going to. The world was just too full of opportunity for him to pass it up in favor of a meager paycheck for doing nothing.
The next morning, RED woke up to the loud screeches of an excited Soldier. The team's Soldier liked to perform roll call before another day on the front, even though it was guaranteed they would all be there.
"Scout!"
"H-here!"
"Pyro!"
"Mmmph!"
"Engineer!"
"Ready!"
"Medic!"
There was no reply.
"MEDIC!"
Silence. The team looked around to find that the Medic was gone. The team's Scout rushed inside-maybe he had overslept.
The Medigun was there, backpack and all. His favorite Blutsauger, coat, and bonesaw were also in the base, all in good condition.
But the man himself was gone, with no clues as to where he could have gone.
Or so they thought.
As he was polishing his Ambassador, the Spy noticed a previously-overlooked note taped to the Medic's backpack. He removed and read it, sighing as he made out the message.
"What's wrong, mate?" he heard. He looked up to see the Sniper.
"Nothing," he said, pocketing the note. He decided that there was no reason to share his findings with the rest of the team.
The note only had a single phrase on it.
Auf wiedersehen.