The BLU Team had lost.
It wasn't exactly a surprise to the BLU Medic. His team wasn't exactly the most professional one in existence, especially when compared to the RED team they had been fighting against. They hadn't begun the match with a plan, no one had bothered to work together, and, due to that, their asses were practically handed to them on a silver platter.
The one who had managed to get the brunt of the brutality was, of course, the Medic.
It wasn't like he was a fool. He was very intelligent and had at least an inkling of common sense. He knew when to stay out in the open, when to charge onto a battlefield, and the appropriate time to take a break from the war.
As far as he knew, he was the longest surviving medic.
Which was a feat, of course. The RED team always attempted to take Medic's out first on the battlefield. It was a sensible plan; get rid of the support, and the team would come crashing down.
And that was exactly what happened.
The medic had been targeted not once, not twice, but three times by the RED Team.
First it had been the Spy, who had pretended to be a wounded Scout. The doctor would have been fooled if it weren't for the fact that the disguised Spy hadn't called the medic by his favorite nickname "Duck Doc". He had managed to take out the Spy and keep on living, only to break his medigun in the process.
The second close call had been with a Heavy. The doctor had been hiding from the RED sniper's scope when the opposing brute had spotted him and started firing round after round into the dirt around him. The only reason the medic had managed to survive that encounter was due to the lumbering form of his own Heavy shielding him and attacking his counterpart.
The BLU Heavy did not make it.
He had staggered back, teetering over the edge of the Medic's hiding spot. His chest had been filled with layers and layers of bullets and shrapnel. It was too much for the giant's body to handle, to heal, and medic couldn't exactly heal the man without his medigun.
Slowly dying and ebbing away from reality, the Heavy had then fallen backward and onto his teammate, effectively trapping the poor doctor under his giant form.
Thankfully, being trapped had an upside. The RED Heavy had assumed that the doctor had died along with his teammate and had left the doctor alone to fight a BLU Soldier.
It had taken Medic almost fifteen minutes to crawl out from under the Heavy without suffocating from the sheer bulk the corpse held.
And, of course, the third encounter had left him crippled.
Without Heavy (or, really, anyone) to watch his back, the Medic had been really at a loss at what to do.
Hide? Then the medic wouldn't be able to do his job. He wasn't a bloody spy; he couldn't melt into the shadows while skulking around.
Run? Where would he go? The doctor couldn't escape the battlefield.
Heal? His medigun was broken and he didn't have any spare medical kits on his person. He couldn't even bring his healer to an engineer because, of course, BLU hadn't hired any.
That led him at a loss at what to do. He could only wander the battlefield, avoiding enemies and traps while still looking out for his teammates. It was difficult, irritating, and his constant state of confusion and sense of misdirection was what led him to lose a large chunk of his leg.
It had been a small bomb. A small, sticky bomb that nicked onto the bottom of his boot and blared a small warning before exploding in a flash of brown and crimson.
Now, had the bomb stuck to anyplace else, the Medic would have most likely died. Had it stuck to the side of his boot, not only would it had taken his off a leg, but perhaps an arm or a torso. Had it not stuck directly under the Medic's boot, the steel plating on his footwear wouldn't have shielded his face from the blast.
However, the bomb had stuck on the direct bottom, and that had temporarily saved the Medic's life.
So now he lied in a ditch, trembling as he quickly cut off the circulation that was in his bleeding stump. His face drowning in sweat, blood coating him from head to toe, dust sticking to his form like a fine powder. The Medic could see chunks of his dismembered leg lying here and there in the ditch and tried his best not to look directly at them because he swore that whenever he did, he could feel the chunks still on his body, burning in a furious agony.
The doctor swore quietly in German, pain racking his form constantly, but he did not dare scream. While the match was over, the elimination round had begun, and he was left in a delicate situation. He couldn't fight or run. He could only hide and, since he could barely move, he could not find a better hiding spot.
So he remained quiet, his teeth grit and his hands shaking as his blood slowly seeped out of his wounds.
He could hear footsteps; light, heavy, everywhere, searching. He could hear mocking laughter, the sound of bullets, screams.
The BLU Medic had honestly never bothered to listen to the sounds of war before, but now...
His mind trailed off in thought, desperately trying to avoid thinking about the situation in front of him. What was the point in concentrating, after all? If the doctor concentrated on the footsteps, the pain, literally anything, it would cause him more harm than good.
Now, it was simply a waiting game. Either he was waiting for his demise, or he was waiting for the sweet release of the ceasefire.
Unfortunately, it seemed to be the former.
He heard the sound of footsteps approach him at a dizzying pace, and the Medic already knew who it was. They were light, fast-paced steps, bold and meaningful. It was no doubt a Scout, hopefully his own.
However, in a mere second, grim realization dawned on him; it couldn't be the BLU Scout. The doctor had already seen the poor fool scattered across the battlefield, his limbs torn from the seams.
Dead.
So it had to be the enemy Scout.
With a grimace, the doctor attempted to hide, to crawl away, but his limbs were screeching at him to stay put. The medic sighed and slumped against the muddy walls of the trench. It wasn't like he could get far, anyway.
Through half-lidded eyes, the doctor saw the Scout slow to a halt on the edge parallel to him. The boy was grinning, bat swinging from hand to hand as he stared down at the rooted medic. Their eyes connected, blue against green, and the Medic could make out the bloodlust reflected deep inside the Scout's eyes.
The lithe man jumped from the wall and into the ditch with a small thump. He merely stepped forward twice before he was merely inches away from the doctor, bat gripped tightly in one hand. The BLU Medic cringed and tilted his head away, placing his hands in front of him as a weak barrier between him and his enemy. When it sounded like Scout was rearing back to put more power into his swing, the Medic tensed and prayed under his breath.
However, the blow never came.
The BLU Medic risked a chance to glance up and saw that the Scout was staring at him blankly. To be more precise, he was staring at his stump of a leg.
His leg wounds were by no means pretty. Bones gutted out of the stump, splintered and cracked in various areas. Puss and blood crusted and leaked over his lower body. His remaining leg had shards of bone and shrapnel embedded in the soft tissue.
It was no wonder Scout had paused to stare. From what the Medic had seen, scouts tended to avoid staring at wounds and corpses, preferring to concentrate on mocking and incapacitating the next soldier or heavy in line. Seeing a momentarily crushed skull was much more different than getting a full view of what a bomb could do to flesh and bone.
The BLU Medic hissed and shuddered as the RED Scout brought his bat down and lightly tapped the piece of jutting bone. A horrible agony flashed throughout his entire leg and he caught himself before he could scream, placing his hand in on his lower jaw.
"Hell man..." The Scout muttered under his breath. His demeanor seemed to change suddenly as he glanced from the shredded stump, to the slivers of leg on the ground, and, finally, the doctor's face.
The Scout froze momentarily and glanced around, looking for some kind of movement. There was none.
In a flash, the RED gripped the Medic's arm and hauled him upward onto his remaining leg. The BLU screeched and staggered only to have the Scout's hand smother his cries, dropping the bat right next to him.
"Shut it, BLU," the boy hissed between grit teeth. "I don' want to end up hurting ya more than I need to."
The Medic couldn't say anything, but merely nodded, shrieks and hisses trapped in his throat. It was insanely difficult to stifle his cries and curses as the Scout began to drag him across and out of the ditch in a quick pace, the boy's eyes twitching and scanning everything.
The Scout didn't stop dragging the poor doctor until they were in front of the BLU's base. The boy unceremoniously dumped the Medic in front of the doorway before trotting off, his bloody footprints staining the ground. However, before the boy could completely abandon the doctor, the man rasped out a tiny question.
"...why?"
The RED Scout paused, his face scrunching up in confusion. It looked like he himself didn't know why, and simply shrugged, his eyes trained on the RED base. Without a word, the boy left, sprinting back to his home.
The BLU Medic let out a silent sigh of relief. He was baffled, of course, but it didn't change the fact that he was, well, alive. What was even better was the fact that his entire lower body had gone numb, allowing him to move better without being irked by agony with every stretch. Sure, from a medical point of view it meant that something was terribly, terribly wrong in his system, but from a practical perspective, hustling over to his medical supplies would be far easier.
And everything would be even easier if he could finally contact the last of his teammates.
Through a bit of struggling, the BLU Medic managed to open the mechanical entrance. It was pitch black inside the base. Strange. Shouldn't his team members be back by now? He let out a shout.
Nothing.
Silence.
The doctor dragged himself further in, droplets of fresh blood and puss falling onto the cement floor. Leaning against the wall, with straining fingers, he managed to flip the light switch on.
Mein Gott...
The BLU Medic slumped fully to the ground, staring at the blood soaked walls and floor.
He was the last of his team.
Alright, my first TF2 story was a flop, that much I can admit. Hopefully, this one is better...? I honestly don't know. Well, that's what the review section is for, isn't it? Please tell me what you think of this story, and how I can improve it. If I receive enough positive feedback, I will probably continue this story.
