December 3, 1924.
A small hospital in Berlin. A young boy is brought into the world. The doctor speaks to the father, whom he knows.
"Well, Hans, your boy certainly has lungs on him!" Doctor Placeholder, an obstetrician, nearly had to shout over the child's bawling.
Hans, the father, replied. "I certainly hope it isn't like this all the time!"
The two men laughed.
June 12, 1936.
A young boy's mother fusses over his uniform as he prepares to go to his first day of high school. The boy's father died six years prior.
"Now, Hans, be good. Be polite and listen to your teachers. And no more slicing up animals, you hear?"
The bright-faced boy nodded. "Yes mother!"
The boy walked out of the door and went on his way, and his mother waved until he was out of sight and around the corner.
August 26, 1939.
The boy, now an adolescent, runs down an alley, eyes blurred with tears. The brightness he had possessed three years ago was long gone. His eyes no longer sparkled with youth.
They were after him again. He could hear their taunts on the wind. They would be right on top of him in seconds.
The boy rounded the corner, running to his house. He found a crater.
He had seen houses hit by Allied bombs. It was like a flower blooming in slow motion. The windows went first, erupting with a gout of fire. Then the rest of the house exploded, supporting beams flying outwards, plaster pulverised into dust.
The pack of boys rounded the corner, expecting to see a frightened boy cowering in the flower beds.
They saw a broken child, crouching in the dust.
The pack of boys started taunting him again. The other boy stood slowly, hands dusty. He held in one fist a jagged sliver of metal. The taunting once again died away.
And something snapped inside that boy. Something changed. That was when the boy became a man. Ten minutes later, the pack of boys were dead, their hearts gouged out.
The boy stared at what he had done. The boys were dead. He couldn't believe what he had done, yet he felt a strange sensation. Elation, perhaps, or satisfaction.
He disappeared into the forest, never to be seen there again.
November 8, 1951.
A man stands, proud, on the steps of a Munich medical school, clad in graduation robes and wearing a graduation cap. Holding his diploma, he walks away from the crowd. The college would lament the loss of such a prodigy.
January 6, 1961.
The very same man, now a paramedic, rests in his home. He's already going grey, despite him only being 37. A knock sounds at the door. Rising from his armchair and thumping down the hallway to the door, he is confronted with a woman dressed all in purple.
"Hello. I am Miss Pauling. May I come in?"
With a silent nod, the man let her pass. He was an expert at reading voices, but maybe that came with so many years of hearing the subtle levels of pain in people's voices as he told them their loved ones were gone from the world. This particular woman was trying to keep a businesslike tone, but he could tell she was still new. He turned and went into the house to see what she wanted.
January 14, 1961.
The man stepped out of the van, into harsh, blinding sunlight. Three more figures revealed themselves as his eyes adjusted. One was Miss Pauling. There was a man in a slouch hat, and one very large man with a bandolier around his chest.
Miss Pauling walked up, doing her best not to trip over the desert rocks while wearing heels.
"I'm glad to see you got here so early. From now on, you'll be the team's Medic."
The newly christened Medic smiled darkly as Miss Pauling handed him a briefcase of clothes and sharp instruments.
He asked "And vhat am I supposed to do vis zese?"
Her reply was sharp. "Kill BLUs."
Medic knew not what a BLU was, but he understood killing. Very well.
She strode off to meet new a arrival. The men walked to him, and introduced themselves.
The man in the slouch hat spoke first. "G'day mate. Oim the Snoiper."
He spoke with an extremely heavy Australian accent. Medic found his scent repulsive. The large man spoke next.
"I am Heavy Weapons Guy. Call me Heavy."
Medic replied in kind to the both of them. "I am ze Medic. I vill be responsible for keeping you alive out zere."
He shook their hands. He would have to examine Heavy later; he was quite the physical specimen.
March 16, 1961.
Medic finished treating Spy for his backside full of scattergun shot, and pushed him out of the infirmary.
He collapsed on his desk. He had never been used to not being the centre of attention. Being doted on by his mother in his younger years, and then being the best student at the medical college, had always ensured that he'd held everyone's focus most of the time.
But not here. He was so lonely.
The door creaked open. The Heavy peeked thought the gap. "Doctor?"
Medic's face brightened a bit. "Heavy! Come in."
Medic wasn't usually this compassionate, or remotely friendly at all, for that matter. It just went to show the depths of his sadness.
Heavy entered the office, and saw the instrument in the case beside the desk. "Doctor plays violin?"
Despite his suddenly friendly demeanour, Medic couldn't stand it when people mistook his instrument for a violin. "NEIN! It is a viola!"
Heavy, unperturbed by the sudden snapping, asked "Will Doctor play for Heavy?"
Medic cracked a rare smile. "Of course."
April 2, 1974.
Medic, now grey haired, stood in the rain in a black trench coat. The open grave he stood next to belonged to Heavy. It had been about three years since he'd last worked at Reliable Excavation and Demolition. In a combat role, anyway. Since hanging up the Medigun, he'd done desk work for Administration.
The desk job came with hidden perks. Among them was the ability to hear whenever one of his former teammates met their end. A bomb disposal accident here, stress-related heart attack there. It never hurt any less, but Heavy's death had dealt an especially hard blow to Medic.
Heavy had been his only friend those last few years behind the desk. And now he was gone.
Sniper and himself were the only ones of the original RED team left.
Medic grunted to himself. Fitting, how the three of them that were the first to arrive at their first battlefield should be here together, at the very end.
Sniper finished saying what he needed to say, and Medic walked to the coffin. Brushing his hand over it, he whispered a sentence, audible to no one.
The service over, the casket was interred in the ground. Medic watched until the hole was full again.
He walked to the black car at the entrance of the cemetery. Sniper walked to his van, and gave a solemn wave to Medic.
Returning the gesture, Medic continued to walk, tears mingling with the rain.
Once he was inside the car, he gave one last look to the gravestone on top of the hill. Blurred by the sheets of water, the black marble was barely visible.
Leaving his best friend behind, Medic drove away.