"How could I not...?"
Medic sighed, his shoulders sagging – he seemed to get older and older every day, which in truth, he was. Letting his mind wander, he sank back against a wall, readjusting his glasses and brushing hair from his eyes, briefly noting the blood stains upon his gloves.
A cry of "Doc!" broke him from his reverie. Standing up quickly, Medic winced as his knees gave a twinge of resistance before obliging, and he sprinted off to where the shout had originated. Turning a corner, he almost collided with Scout.
"About time, Doc! What're ya, getting' old or somethin'?" The fast-mouthed Bostonian's trademark banter came spewing from his mouth as Medic directed the healing beam of his Medigun upon Scout. "You are doingk very vell to insult jour only medic, ja?" Medic rolled his eyes. "Sheesh. Didn't mean ta affend ya or anythin'. Whatever, thanks." With that, Scout sped off, whooping loudly and badmouthing the enemy.
Medic sighed and slumped to the ground. It seemed that lately, he was getting more and more tired. Covering his face with his hands, he wished for seemed to be the thousandth time that he had not taken on this life. An array of different voices yelling for a Medic assaulted his ears, once more intruding upon his thoughts. Medic sighed, letting his shoulders sag, before he rushed off. There were lives to be saved, teammates to be healed. He couldn't let anything get in the way of that, not even his own life.
"Medic!" The deep, guttural voice resounded again. "I am comingk!" Medic shouted back, beginning to heal the Heavy the moment he came within range of the magical device strapped to Medic's back. "Thank you, doktor!" Heavy yelled over his shoulder, spinning up the weapon that he so affectionately referred to as "Sascha". Noticing something wrong about the doctor, he turned around, tilting his head to look at the man healing him.
"Is Doktor okay? Medic seem sad. Are little men bothering Doktor?" The Heavy displayed genuine concern on his face; after all, the man standing before him was his greatest friend.
"No, I am fine. Come, let us kill zose scheissekopfs." Heavy brightened considerably at that; killing enemies was his favorite pastime, the love of which was rivaled only by his love for Sandviches and Sascha.
Later that day, during one of Soldier's insisted "briefings" (briefings apparently consisted of Soldier pacing around, either yelling or praising them based on the results of the day's mission), Medic sighed, leaning back into his chair, a sudden fatigue overtaking his body again. He closed his eyes, beginning to drift off to sleep despite the incessant yelling in the background, when Scout came over and sat next to him.
"Hey, whatssup? Anyway, I wanted to say... y'know. Sorry and all that for what I said." Despite his fatigue, Medic sat up straight and stared at Scout. Was he actually... apologizing? Quite unlike Scout.
"Nein, it is fine. I am sorry I took offence over zat." Medic followed the accepted template for apology and response – he had done it so many times that it seemed almost automatic now, a robotic gesture.
"Hey, how old are ya, anyways?" Soon after the question left Scout's mouth, he realized how blunt that probably sounded, but hey, he didn't get his reputation for sitting around and being tactful.
"I vould rather not answer zat qvestion." Medic looked at the ground, fiddling with his hands. It became increasingly clear that the conversation was becoming awkward for both of them.
"Yeah, uh, well... yeah, just wanted to say sorry. Kay." As Scout turned to leave, Medic muttered something unintelligible underneath his break, looking away immediately afterwords. "Excuse me? Didn't catch that."
"I am of eighteen years." Medic repeated his previous statement, raising the volume of his voice just above hearing level. Scout couldn't help but burst out laughing, which caused Soldier to turn around and yell at them for fooling around.
"You two! Out! If you can't take these briefings seriously, then YOU do not deserve to hear them! Out! Out! OUT!" Soldier grasped them by the shirt, throwing them both unceremoniously out of the briefing room.
"I'm sorry, but you? Eighteen? Yeah, and I'm still an embryo." Scout resumed the previous conversation as if nothing had happened, immediately putting up his false bravado act.
"My Medigun... It has not yet been perfected. Zere is no source of power, so it leeches ze nearest vone – vich happens to be mein life." This effectively silenced Scout, who stood gawking at the Medic. He thought about how old Medic had to have been when he joined, and how old he must have looked – when he had joined, Medic had already been there.
"But... why?" The question left Scout's lips as he continued staring at Medic.
"Zere are several reasons." Medic was talking to the ground, unable to bring up the courage to look Scout in the face. "Firstly, mein teacher invented zis – it vos his life's vork, and it vas mein inheritance from him. How could I not take it, try to perfect it, continue his vork?" Tears were beginning to form in Medic's eyes as he remembered his childhood in brief flashes.
A wooden cabin, heated by the roar of a fire, a diagram from a medical book, the time his teacher had showed him the Medigun, taught him how it worked, showed him what the cost was... And then years had gone by, and a cherry-red coffin was all that remained of his teacher, his mentor... His excitement when he discovered his inheritance, accompanied by the realization of what he had to do. The first time he used it, with his surprise at how weakening it was, when he realized that he would die before he could perfect it, and that he could not bear to pass the burden on to someone else, but he knew he had to.
The tears were flowing freely now, dripping down his nose onto the floor. "It vos also ze point of mein life – to save lives, to save people. Which zen leaves me to mein final point: The lives of many, saved for the price of vone – how could I not take that offer?" With that, Medic turned and walked away, leaving Scout standing there, in a mild state of shock.
"Wait... wait!" Scout rushed after Medic, trying to catch up. But somehow, the seemingly older man was faster, and before Scout could blink, Medic had slammed the door to his quarters shut and locked it. Scout hammered on the door, yelling for Medic to open up, his cries and pleas ignored.
The next day, Medic was up and about, acting as if he had not divulged the meaning of his life, along with his darkest secrets, to someone that he hardly knew. The only evidence of what he had been reminded of was a newfound energy and determination, coupled with a new fire that burned in his eyes, a fire that was dimmed only slightly by the sorrow of his past.
Exactly one year after Scout spoke with him. Medic died, the strains upon his body too much.
Exactly one year after Scout spoke to Medic, he found a package in his room.
Exactly one year after Scout spoke to Medic, he was suddenly tired.