Medic laughed to himself as the BLU Scout ran toward him, wielding only a wooden bat against his superior saw, designed purely to cut through bone quickly, efficiently. He supposed it was also meant to be less painful than older methods, but the way he used it, it was a weapon of torture. He demonstrated as much to the foolish boy who had tried so desperately and clumsily to bash his head open as he dragged him to the ground, slamming his skull against the hard dirt a few times, legs gripping tightly around his chest, before grinning down and pressing the blade of the saw to his arm.
"I hope you enjoy using your left hand," he said as he pressed down, "and that you have fully appreciated your right for the past decade or two!" The shrieking of the boy beneath him only made him grin harder, saw more quickly. The blood that splattered onto his hands, his arms, his chest, his face, was lovely.
When the BLU Scout's right arm was completely severed, Medic stood, gripping it tightly in one of his gloved hands. He smiled at his own team's Scout as the boy passed slowly, his face faintly green even as he grinned down at his counterpart. "Take this to the edge of the map, and then throw it as far as you can."
"Oh, shit, that's fucked up," Scout said, laughing a bit before doing as he was told. With the boy's arm outside of Respawn range, he would lose it forever.
"Doktor." Heavy was approaching, his large, beloved gun in hand, barely sparing a glance on the boy who was slowly losing blood at Medic's feet. He hefted the huge thing up, adjusting his grip, and motioned with a shrug toward the rest of the battlefield. "We fight?"
"Of course, mein Heavy," Medic said with a grin, placing his bonesaw to the side and taking up his Kritzkrieg, a strange, sleek invention he had been given upon his employment with RED. He trained its red and yellow beam onto Heavy as the man shielded him, both of them running out into the midst of the fight, the roar of his minigun barely louder than the roars of the man himself.
The sound of the gun screaming, its bullets hitting with dull, deep thuds into the bodies of their enemies as they ran toward the BLU Base, leaving a litter of corpses in their wake, was music to Medic's ears. Heavy's raucous laughter mingled with the shouts of the BLUs as they died, and Medic laughed with him. These men—these scum—were worth little more than a chuckle and the brushing off of one's shoulder.