i. A thousand years, a thousand more,
A thousand times a million doors to eternity
It is the first time he spoke with Medic that Heavy remembers the clearest of their early days. The first time he saw the doctor, they had seemed miles – no, millennia – apart, separated by a river of mercenaries in red, by the doctor's cold, indifferent glimpse at him and then away. Medic strode fast and assuredly towards the yawning entrance of their 2Fort base, head held high, shoulders squared, and before Heavy could greet Medic and introduce himself, the regal man was gone from view, white figure swallowed up by the shadows. A ghost. Untouchable and ephemeral, far from Heavy's extensive reach.
But the first time he spoke with Medic … yes, he remembers the infinitesimal details now, it had been in the dining hall. Engineer, a short, outgoing man with a velvety drawl, had cooked dinner that evening of their first night at 2Fort, a traditional Southern meal of pan-fried chicken, black-eyed peas, mashed potatoes and cornbread, and an inevitably rare tranquility reigned as the team devoured the delectable food.
The American Scout, Engineer and Soldier sat at one end of the long, rectangular table in the center of the hall, Scout flanked by the two helmet-donning men and utterly oblivious to said men not listening to his non-stop mumbling between bites. Sniper and Spy, Australian and French respectively, sat a little farther down the table, silent, facing each other though Sniper did not once look at the masked man. Spy, on the other hand, would give Sniper appraising glances now and then, eyes heavy-lidded, one eyebrow raised, lips curled around an ever-present, lit cigarette. Demoman, a Scottish black man, was sprawled on the floor behind Sniper, hugging a bottle of vicious liquid he'd told Heavy was called Scrumpy, dead to the world and snoring like a hog. Pyro, Heavy discovered after hearing munching noises from under the table, was eating their meal in the dark like a squirrel, plate held close to their partially masked face. Heavy had no clue what nationality or ethnicity Pyro was, or whether the mysterious pyrotechnician was a man or woman.
Medic sat alone at the other end of the table, back stiff, expression apathetic. The man plainly disliked human interaction. Medic, the last man on the team with whom Heavy had yet to chat.
Heavy was about to remedy that.
"I am heavy weapons guy," he said after sitting down next to Medic. "You are doktor, da?"
In retrospect, he should have realized what Fate had in store for him when Medic sneered at him and the sneer was the most dazzling thing he'd seen in a long time. A very long time.
"I vould zhink zhat obvious," Medic said, and Medic's voice, not low but not shrill either – just right – laved him like the hot springs of Kamchatka. How he missed them, missed the sweeping, breathtaking vistas of his homeland. A world to which he could never return.
The sarcasm in Medic's tone didn't deter him from advancing the conversation any way he could. He had to hear more of Medic's voice. It didn't matter what or how Medic spoke, as long as Medic spoke to him.
"You are from Germany," Heavy deduced, digging into his slice of pan-fried chicken with a fork. "Which side you are from?"
Medic said nothing for a minute. He stared forwards at the nearest wall as he chewed slowly, seeming to ignore not just Heavy's question but Heavy's very presence. Just when Heavy was about to give up on receiving a reply, Medic said flatly, "I have no side. I left Germany after zhe var."
"Ah. I leave Russia during var." Without pause, Heavy added, "It vas that, or stay and die in Gulag."
Medic's piercing gaze abruptly honed on his face. Heavy returned it, noting the wideness of Medic's large blue eyes behind austere steel spectacles, the shock in them that Medic concealed a bit too late.
"You vere sent to zhe Gulag during zhe var?"
The question was murmured so quietly that Heavy almost missed it.
Heavy nodded, then said, "I vould be in Gulag now if I did not escape."
I would be dead decades ago, beaten to a bloody, unrecognizable mess for daring to make love to another man.
But Heavy didn't say this aloud. It was tempting, but he didn't. Who knew what the German doctor thought about homosexuality? About homosexuals? About homosexuals who looked and behaved like him?
He knew his gigantic, muscular physique and aggressive, confident personality didn't correspond with the stereotypical perception of homosexuals. His appearance was the last thing people would think of when asked to describe a homosexual man. Before the days of Stalin, before his true sexuality was exposed by vindictive rivals jealous of his weapons-constructing skills and the Gulag in the Karaganda Oblast in Kazakh SSR was to be his final destination, everywhere he went people assumed that he hated homosexuals. That he mocked them, beat them. Killed them.
The nightmarish memories of opushchennye prisoners being raped by other prisoners and prison staff, of keeping at bay the same perpetrators till exhaustion throughout the three months he was in the Gulag still hounded him in his sleep. Executing those men with his bare hands had done nothing to abate the horror for months, years afterwards.
Medic's next question surprised him.
"How did you escape?"
Heavy blinked. Medic was interested to know that?
Well, who was he to deny the doctor?
"I vas – am," Heavy corrected himself, "good weapons maker. Higher up people treat me little better vhen I make weapon plans for them but they did not trust me enough to be in vorkshop. One soldier vas friendly to me. He vas not like other soldiers there. He did not believe I am –" Heavy pursed his lips, stopping himself in time from leaking his secret. That was close. "He respect my skill. We become friends and he help me get things I need to escape. He thought he vas helping innocent comrade." He paused, frowning and glancing at his plate of food. "He must be dead now."
"Vhat happened vhen you got out?"
Heavy trained his gaze once more on Medic's face. Ah, it seemed Medic was very interested to know this portion of his life. How fortunate for him that he so quickly came upon an icebreaker for dialogue between them.
"Camp vas in place called Spassk in Kazakh SSR," he replied after swallowing some mashed potatoes and another piece of chicken. "On truck ride to camp from Russia, I put in memory vhere Dolinka Village vas, vhen truck stop there for prisoners to record name. It vas headquarters for camp system in country. Thirty-five kilometers from camp. Soldiers chase me all the vay on foot vith guard dogs. It vas summer, but still much snow and very cold."
"Vhat happened next?"
Heavy took his time to phrase his answer. In such a short time of acquaintance, there was no way to ascertain what sort of man Medic was, how Medic would react to what he'd done that fateful night in Dolinka Village. In the aftermath of his violent rampage, so much blood had been spilled that the streets ran red from one side of the village to the other and the snow surrounding it was frozen crimson and littered with wrecked corpses. He'd only slayed the guilty and the dogs. He had not touched a single innocent person who lived in the village, who was not associated with the Gulag.
There were very few of them.
He never regretted his actions.
Heavy looked Medic in the eye and said, "I killed them all. The dogs. The soldiers who chase me, and soldiers in village. People who vork for Gulag and turn eye avay from suffering. One by one. The leaders, I save for last."
He expected Medic to flinch, or at the very least show revulsion. Instead, Medic leaned forward, enthralled by his narrative, eyes ever wider with a glint that was an amalgam of delight and mania. Heavy should have been unnerved by it, but he wasn't. At all.
In fact, he liked it.
"Vhat did you do to them?" Medic murmured. If Heavy hadn't known better, if he'd heard the question with his eyes shut, he would have thought Medic was … aroused.
He liked that even more.
"I …"
I crushed their arms and their legs. Smashed their skulls. Broke their necks. Ripped their heads off and their hearts out while they still thundered. Tore off their raping chlen and their yaichki and made them eat them raw before they drowned in their own blood. And I enjoyed every moment of vengeance for their transgressions against other children of the Motherland.
"Ja?" Medic said, voice huskier, and Heavy said, "I crush and break many legs and arms and necks so they could not run avay. Some I killed vith one punch vhen they shoot at me. Some I tear heads off and tear open chests to show them their dead hearts. And others …" Heavy's eyes narrowed as a fetid memory surfaced for an instant, of one of the camp wardens – the worst of the rapists of the opushchennye – staring inanely at his own twitching heart and removed genitals before dying. "Others, I hurt for long, long time before I give them mercy of death."
This time, Medic did move back, though it was with an unmistakable sound of approval and a blatant glance at Heavy's hands on the table.
"I see. Vhat did you do after zhat?"
"I tell you after I eat more."
Heavy consumed the remainder of his pan-fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and Medic did the same of his own meal, waiting patiently for the continuation of Heavy's account. It was peculiar to Heavy how easy it was to talk to Medic about such a sinister period of his past. He'd only laid eyes on the man in the morning and spoken to him for minutes. With any other man, any other human being in the world, he would never have revealed he'd been in the Gulag, much less that he'd killed numerous men – who certainly deserved it – and guard dogs – which he had no choice unless he wished his throat torn open by them – with zero remorse.
But Medic, he was learning, was not like most men.
Medic was, for one thing, the first person in twenty-five years to not quail one bit in his intimidating presence. The last men who didn't either were armored soldiers equipped with loaded rifles all pointed at his head, standing at least six meters away from and around him. Even then, some of them visibly quavered when all he did was stand tall, scowling at them with his teeth bared, fists clenched and nostrils flaring. He was a terrifying force of nature on two legs in his prime, an admired and feared boxing champion with profound intelligence that amazed anyone who got to know him.
He still was that force of strength and intellect. Perhaps even more so with his gained experiences and maturity. It was, to begin with, the reason RED hired him.
And Medic did not fear him.
It was refreshing to converse with someone who gazed upon him and did not see a monster.
"After Dolinka Village, I travel south, through far west China. Very few villages there. Then into Tibet. In Lhasa, I become friend vith American soldier who vas there to meet …" He struggled for a second with the name. "Dalai Lama. American soldier vas lieutenant vith other soldiers on tour of Asia. He listen to story of escape from Spassk. I also fix and service weapons for him. He help me get out of Tibet and come here to America to vork for American army."
"You must have spent months travelling to Tibet from Kazakh SSR, even vith automobiles."
"Da. Often I valk. My size …" Heavy gestured at himself, smiling self-effacingly. "I scare people."
His smile widened at Medic's smirk. It was one of amusement, not towards him but towards his trifling joke. It was even more dazzling than the sneer, and he engraved it on his mind for future reference, gratified to get a response like that so soon. What would Medic's genuine smile look like? Would he be able to behold it without being robbed of his breath?
"You have very … large hands."
Medic was staring at them, as if they were an intriguing, extraordinary species of creature that no one in the world had seen before. If it had been anyone else, anyone other than Medic, Heavy would have bristled and growled in annoyance at such unashamed gawking at his hands. But Medic …
Heavy grabbed the opportunity to scrutinize Medic's countenance, letting his eyes roam from meticulously styled, thick black hair with salt-and-pepper sideburns to shapely eyebrows, to big blue eyes and their fine eyelashes, down a spectacles-perched, patrician nose that Heavy itched to tap on its tip, then down to thin yet expressive lips now curved slightly at their corners. Medic's jawline was firm and angular, his neck long, his ears well-formed and proportionate to the rest of his features. Medic's face was handsome, one of the most handsome Heavy had seen in his life.
Medic was … truly not like any other man.
Heavy mentally patted himself on the left side of his chest.
Sshh. Be calm, beating heart.
Heavy cleared his throat, then said with what he hoped was a steady voice, "Is true I have large hands." Heavy lifted and bent his arms and hands to his chest, an old and familiar movement. "I vas champion boxer in Universitét Lomonósova for three years."
Until the NKVD ublyudki took me and my freedom away.
But this, too, Heavy didn't say aloud. Medic might become a little too curious about why he was sent to the Gulag. That would not do.
"Zhe state univerzity of Moscow," Medic murmurs, his blue eyes upon Heavy's face again, and oh, Heavy had to be imagining the impressed gleam in them. Medic must have studied in a university – or more than one – and successfully completed his course to become a doctor. Very likely in a prestigious medical university in Germany. Very likely an accomplished doctor respected by his peers here in America and in Germany, to be hired by RED. What was a hijacked, unfinished education for a five-year engineering course in the MGU and a humiliating public fall from grace into the Gulag compared to all that?
"That is right." Heavy angled his head and said, "Vhere did Doktor study? You must have finish medical school to be doktor."
Immediately, Medic's expression became shuttered and icy, causing Heavy to regret the inquiry, to be puzzled. Was Medic displeased that he asked a personal question? Or was it that Medic was sensitive about discussing any aspect of his job?
No man who was held in high esteem for his work would be reluctant to crow about it.
Unless, of course, he was not held in high esteem.
Heavy sat up straighter in light of the revelation. As skeptical as he was of it, it wasn't an impossibility, seeing as he knew next to nothing about Medic. For all that he did know so far, Medic being an accomplished, respected doctor was as equally conceivable as Medic being a discredited, reviled one.
Everyone had their grim stories, their sins, if they really lived. Everyone had their secrets.
"Zhe University of Heidelberg. I studied zhere in zheir Faculty of Medicine."
Heavy stayed quiet. So he was right. Medic did study in a prestigious medical university, in the oldest and most prestigious one of them all in Germany. Even in Moscow in the late '30s, he had heard of the university's excellent reputation for their natural and life science programs. It was a reprehensible stain on its history, however, that it supported the Nazi regime during the war, to the point it became a school for the Nazi Party and actively involved itself in Nazi eugenics –
Going rigid in his seat, Heavy peered furtively at Medic's profile as Medic poked the cornbread on his plate with his fork, back stiffer than ever. Could it be that Medic had been a member of the Nazi Party? Was that the reason for Medic's sudden retreat to standoffishness upon hearing his question? Was that Medic's secret?
In his leather boots, Heavy's toes curled, feet and calves tensing in primal, instinctive preparation for a fight. B'lyad, he hated the Nazis, hated them just as much as Stalin and his NKVD sukiny deti. He'd hated them long before the war, long before the Battles of Khalkhin Gol and the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact that he knew that crazy mu'dak Hitler wouldn't hesitate to break once the invasion of Poland – a conquest he'd vehemently disagreed with – was complete. Twenty-seven years on, he was still flabbergasted that Stalin had considered and had Molotov sign the treaty. Did they not read Hitler's Mein Kampf? Did they not see in its vile contents Hitler's hostile plans to invade and enslave the Slavic lands, that the Motherland was simply a means to an end until she lost her usefulness to the racist tyrant?
He'd torn apart the abridged English copy of the book he was lent by a university peer who often traveled to Germany. Torn it and flung the shreds into the lit fireplace of his tiny apartment in Moscow in February of 1941, mere months before Germany invaded his country and captured and slaughtered millions of his people. Those months were his most fervent and dedicated to his weapons-construction work, with him toiling tirelessly night after night in his apartment, drawing blueprint after blueprint of a variety of firearms that he burned to embers in the same fireplace when the NKVD arrested him for an entirely different reason two years later.
Sasha, his beloved Minigun, was born in his mind and heart on the day of that arrest, along with his entrenched loathing of ruthless dictators and their cronies.
After arriving and settling in America – as best a Russian defector could in a country that abominated communism and anything and anyone associated with it – Sasha was the first weapon he built on US soil. The US military had been awestruck by it and swiftly manufactured smaller, more cost-effective types of it that were used in Operation Overlord in 1944, and Heavy had reveled in every report of Nazis decimated by the tens of thousands by his guns. It didn't matter to him that he was never credited for them. What mattered was that he had a direct hand in felling Nazi scum who had harmed his people and his homeland. If the US military had allowed him then, he would have gladly rejoined the war just to fire Sasha at the Nazis till they were all dead.
Yes, he still hated the Nazis, and the notion of Medic being one was … unthinkable. Unbearable.
Heavy deliberately relaxed his legs and feet. No. No, his gut instincts were screaming at him that Medic wasn't a Nazi. There was something … odd about Medic's captivation with his execution of the Gulag soldiers and wardens. If Medic was a Nazi, would he not have related to the Gulag soldiers and wardens instead? If Medic was a Nazi, would he not have relished the suffering of the prisoners instead? Relished his suffering?
There was one surefire way to find out.
"University of Heidelberg? I know it. Is good university. Exist since 1300s, many hundred years before Universitét Lomonósova. But … it vas Nazi school during var. You said you leave Germany after the var, da?"
Medic's fork screeched across a mostly empty plate. The noise was jarring, irritating to the ears. Heavy grimaced, then glanced at Medic's gloved, right hand grasping the fork. Medic was holding the fork in an unusual fashion, upright inside a fist with its tines scratching the greasy surface of the plate, as if he was wielding the fork like a … weapon. Like a dagger.
"Nazi blood runs red like any ozher," Medic rasped. Medic's eyes were wide until the whites were visible around the irises, aimed at the wall. Blind to the present. Seeing something in the past that Heavy couldn't.
Heavy's similarly blue eyes taped to slits. What did the doctor mean? That Nazis were only human? That they were just like anybody else?
Heavy's gaze flitted to Medic's ashen face, at the stark expression it depicted, then down to Medic's taut hand, then up to Medic's face again. It was there and then that Heavy identified Medic's expression, identified and empathized with it so acutely. He had worn that very mien for many years after he escaped from Kazakh SSR, worn it every time he recalled the NKVD, the Gulag and Dolinka Village. No, he was convinced now, Medic was not a Nazi. Medic had meant what he said literally.
Medic had seen Nazi blood flow. Perhaps Medic had shed it.
Perhaps, he and Medic had more in common than he ever expected.
"Doktor –"
"Ich hasse sie. Ich wünschte ich könnte sie alle töten!"
Heavy didn't understand the harshly whispered German words, but the fury in them, that he understood all too well. He raised his left hand and reached for Medic's right hand, staring at Medic's features, his broad chest tight with understanding.
"Doktor … you also –"
"UURRR AARRR BRRAFFF MUUHHNNN."
Heavy and Medic recoiled in unison at Pyro popping out from underneath the table between them, turning their head from side to side to gaze first at Heavy, then at Medic and then back at Heavy. Pyro's black gas mask obscured their whole face. Its eye sockets were circular and opaque, reminding Heavy of a grasshopper's eyes. Heavy was stumped by Pyro's garbled mumbling. Medic's expression was stoic and unreadable once more.
"Vhat did leetle Pyro say? I do not understand."
"AAHHH SUUHHH UURRR AARRR BRRAFFF MUUHHNNN," Pyro mumbled again, then slipped back under the table as hastily as they appeared.
Heavy still didn't understand what Pyro said. As he scratched the side of his head and frowned to himself, engrossed with deciphering Pyro's remarks, Medic jumped to his feet, causing Heavy to recoil a second time.
"I am not hungry anymore," Medic said with a monotonous tone, not looking at Heavy.
"Oh."
Heavy promptly felt stupid about his frivolous reply. He wracked his brain for something wittier, something that would make Medic want to speak to him again –
"Einen guten Abend, Herr Heavy."
Oh, Medic was pushing his chair back, turning away –
"Doktor!"
Medic swiveled around to face him and he stood up, gaining the advantage of height over the doctor by a couple of inches. Heavy couldn't help feeling pleased that Medic remained where he stood, head tipped back to mirror his gaze without a blink or cringe. Medic had the perfect height for him to kiss on the mouth. All he had to do was lean down and tilt his head to one side, press his lips to Medic's, and he would demonstrate to the handsome, multi-faceted man all the ways of making love to a man in which he was well-versed and oh, there were many.
But they were not alone.
And he was a homosexual while Medic … was very likely not.
"I am happy ve talk. I hope to again," he murmured, his small smile a wistful one. "Have good night, Doktor. See you at battlements in the morning."
Medic stared at his visage for what felt like a century, expression frustratingly inscrutable as ever. Then, softly, Medic said, "Ja, I did say I left Germany after zhe var. I … left zhe univerzity shortly after it became a Nazi univerzity. I vould have left Germany earlier if I could."
Before Heavy could reply, Medic sauntered away towards the doors of the dining hall, and Heavy watched him go, something in his chest aching in a manner he hadn't felt in decades. He decided not to think too much about it for now, and sat back down and resumed eating his dinner and deciphering Pyro's comments. It was as he swallowed the last bite of cornbread that he succeeded.
"Vhy vould you call me 'brave man'?" he mumbled to himself. "Unless …"
Face slack and eyes wide with insight, Heavy leaned sideways to peek under the table, searching for the pyrotechnician.
"Leetle Pyro, you vere in Gulag too?"
He was met with silence. Pyro was gone.
Heavy sat upright, grunted once and shrugged his shoulders. If he couldn't talk with Pyro tonight, there was always tomorrow. He smiled to himself as he collected his and Medic's plates and utensils and brought them to the kitchen to wash them in the sink.
Yes, there was always tomorrow to talk with the fascinating enigma that was his Medic, too.