Morning came too soon for Gunter. He groaned and wanted to ignore the sounds of his new neighbors, which was hard enough to do, but then Vlad pounded on the door and yelled for Medic to get his ass up for breakfast.

Liam was cooking again, and Gunter expected more Indian food. To his surprise, the table was set with thick oatmeal, butter, cream, brown sugar, strong black coffee, tea with an interesting aroma, bacon, fried eggs, fried sausages, even the sliced tomatoes were fried, and toasted brown bread. The whole room smelled wonderful. Gunter's stomach reminded him that good food often improved one's mood, and it wanted good food right now.

All those present set to eating as if their lives depended on it. Gunter couldn't blame them, it tasted as good as it smelled. Liam was a damn good cook. He ate until he was full, but couldn't hold a candle to the rest of them.

"Okay, ladies," Vlad said good-naturedly, when the feeding frenzy had slowed down. "Here's the plan for today. I'll work with you, Pyro, and get you ready and used to your gear. Lonnie and Liam will work with Sniper and Scout, more drills. Martin'll get Medic caught up. We have to get this team ready for battle as fast as possible."

"What about Samson?" Liam asked.

"Pauling's sending someone to look at him," Vlad said. "Our new Medic has some ideas which we hope will work."

Everyone looked at Gunter, who didn't know whether to be proud or modest. He avoided the question and drained his mug of coffee.

With that out of the way, Vlad told Krieg to suit up and meet him at the training range. Martin said to Gunter, "You should do the same, but we will meet in the infirmary. I do not think training with a new Pyro would be conducive to your concentration."

Gunter had to admit that sounded like a good idea, avoiding the Pyro. He still didn't know what the man would do, but fire had to be involved somehow.

Back in his room, he changed from the clothes he'd slept in (nobody had said anything, he realized) to the pants and boots, picked out one of the identical shirts, and decided against a tie. Why did he need a tie if he was fighting in a war? Then the lab coat over top. This would be hell to run around in during a Southwestern summer. He tucked the pants into the boots out of habit; it was a way to avoid ruining the cuffs.

Martin was waiting in the infirmary for him. "Now you look like a Medic," the Frenchman said.

Gunter opened his mouth to point out again I'm not a Medic when Martin held up a finger to forestall him. "You say you are not a Medic, and that you would prefer not to be here. You are a most peculiar man, Dr. Schlachterhauser." He tilted his head to one side. "There is very little that happens here that I do not know.

Gunter held still. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Martin regarded him with almost-black eyes that gave nothing away. "Come now, Docteur. You have only been introduced to me as Martin, but surely you knew? I am the Spy," he said. "In the same way that you are not yet the Medic, I am the Spy. It is my job to be aware of everything that occurs. My raison d'être, to be where I am not expected to be, to know that which I am expected not to know. One way or another, I keep track of what happens here."

His lips curved upward, not exactly smiling, but certainly not sneering as he took in Gunter's expression. "Fortunately for you, Doctor Schlachterhauser, I am your Spy, who will never betray you – or will be, once you are become part of the team. When that happens is up to you."

Gunter held still. What did Martin know? Almost certainly that Gunter had tried to leave during the night. But not why he'd failed to go through with it. He couldn't know that. This certainly couldn't be an attempt at blackmail. Could it?

The problem was that Gunter had very little to support his leaving at this time. (That wasn't the reason he'd turned back. This was the justification for turning back. He wasn't about to tell the real reason.) He had signed a contract that was probably very legally binding. He couldn't contest it unless he hired a lawyer. Lawyers required money. Teufort must have lawyers, but he didn't know any yet, and the base didn't have a phone book (he'd looked) – just a phone. They were actually fairly isolated out here.

So if he wanted a lawyer to review his case, he had to find one and hire him, and that assumed he could get to town. And Gunter had taken this job because he needed the money.

Thinking about his situation in the cold light of morning had led him to that unpleasant conclusion: he had to stay here, and work, until he could afford legal assistance to break his contract. The only other way was trying to get out on his own… and now, he realized, if he'd snuck out during the night, his mysterious employer would probably take action against him for breach of contract, and that would be a black mark on his name to follow whatever career he took after this.

And he needed the money.

He'd turned away from the Spy to walk to the desk as he thought. Of course, as soon as they saw he couldn't do medicine, they'd probably gladly void his contract –

He could hear pigeons again, and looked up to see several of them eyeing him at a clerestory window in the wall behind the desk. It was startling. They seemed to be paying attention to him. Gunter turned to look inquiringly at Martin.

"Medics have pigeons," Martin said. "As long as I have been here. Red and Blue each have their own. Their doves are white. These – "

"I know them," Gunter said, turning back to look at the birds. "I mean, I've seen this species before." It was a small native wild dove, much prettier, he thought, than the tough ugly city pigeons. "Are they tame?"

"I do not know. Dr. Lamb fed them, and they did not seem afraid of him."

"So they're waiting for food? They must be hungry, waiting when he's no longer here."

Gunter was glad Martin didn't mock him or even smile, but seemed to take this seriously. The Spy helped him look for the bag of seed, and then how to open the window. The birds immediately flew in.

"But this is an infirmary!" Gunter said, aghast. "Get out! Shoo!" He waved his hands at them, but the doves took no notice. Some were trying to perch on his shoulders – he'd never seen a bird do that. He didn't know what to do, so he stood rock-still. It must be the uniform, he thought. Of course. They must recognize the uniform.

Martin came to his rescue, this time smiling a little, and he filled the shallow metal pan with seed and set it on a nearby counter. The birds flocked to it, and Gunter felt safe to breathe again.

"Now then, Docteur," Martin said. "To business?"

Gunter realized he'd never given the man a real answer about taking the job. He took a deep breath. "All right. I'll be your Medic. But I don't think anyone will be happy with my medical skills."

The doves left after feeding, so it was just the two men in the infirmary.

Being Medic turned out to need a very different set of skill requirements than Gunter had expected. He had three pieces of equipment, two of which were for killing people, and the third was the medigun. It was large, ungainly, weighed ten pounds, and required a forty-pound backpack which powered it. How was he supposed to carry all three, much less use them?

Martin let him familiarize himself with the equipment before practicing with the medigun. The medigun and backpack were heavy but bearable, and he needed both hands to carry the former. Gunter doubted he'd ever get the hang of the bonesaw or syringe gun, but the medigun was easy enough to use. Just aim and shoot.

Gunter realized now that this was why they hadn't been too concerned with his lack of medical knowledge: you didn't really need it with the medigun. Which also meant that his recruiter had probably not gotten in as much trouble as Gunter had thought. The team got a warm body who happened to have a doctorate, but it could be anyone in this coat. He said this to Martin.

The Spy appeared to consider the question seriously. "I do not think that coat would fit me, Docteur. A little large in the shoulders, do you not think?"

He waited a beat, then continued before Gunter could react to the joke. "Truly, no. Not just any body will do. The Heavy, for instance; you have seen our Heavy. You do not think a man such as you or I could perform his role? Just as no one else on this team could perform mine. But it is not only size that matters! You are not yet trained, but as an educated man, we know you can learn not only to use the tools of the Medic, but to be the Medic. To think as a Medic. To keep your wits about you. To complete your long education, you must surely have had the dedication to overcome many obstacles, non? So it is on the field of battle. Once you learn your tools, you will see. You will begin to think with them, as well as to use them."

Martin's words made sense, but Gunter still had the feeling almost anyone could do this. He was surprised that he found that concept now discouraging. Before, he'd assumed he was a highly skilled man who was mishired. Now, he felt like an unskilled laborer.

What he said was: "All right. I'll give it a try."

After all, as Martin had guessed, college had presented a lot of challenges too – certainly this would be challenging, but hardly the same as hiding his major from his parents while cramming his education into as few years as possible, while keeping the funding going.

"Let's get started."

The rest of the morning was spent running around Blue base, healing his teammates, and Martin the Spy if Gunter saw him, which wasn't often. The Scout was fast, too hard to keep in the gun's beam, but Gunter could manage with the others. There was a lot of running around the base and getting lost and finding his way; frustrating, but he was also learning his way around this half of the battle area.

By lunchtime he was in a sweat and breathing hard, and all he'd done – ha! all he'd done – was run up and down stairs and through and around buildings, carrying a heavy pack and a gun that required two hands. Gunter was glad to break for lunch, and wolfed down sandwiches and weak beer. He wasn't the only one, either.

The Blues sat together in the open air, though nobody talked much at all. Even Vlad and Krieg joined them. Krieg was a sweaty mess from wearing the gas mask and suit all morning.

Vlad and Martin talked quietly for a while, probably comparing notes, Gunter thought. How'd yours do? Not bad, and yours?

"Listen up, ladies," Vlad said when the supply of sandwiches had reached almost zero. "Today you need to get uber'd. It allows you to use Respawn so you won't get killed to death. Medic, you'll be hands-on with this. I've asked Red Medic to come over and supervise, since he's the only one here now who knows how to do it, but you have to pay attention and do some of them yourself."

Gunter frowned. So he did have to perform surgery? But the other Medic must know what to do, and the Medigun would – should – help, if things went wrong.

Red Medic was middle-aged, gray as a rat at the temples, somewhat haughty, very German, and refused to give his actual name, so Gunter didn't either.

They went to the infirmary, the Red Medic explained briefly some of the quirks of the equipment, showed Gunter where to find the Ubercharge devices that had thoughtfully been pre-ordered by someone, and Gunter discovered that the fridge, which he hadn't investigated yet, contained some extra hearts just in case one blew up during surgery.

"It has happened," Red Medic said with a shrug.

Then Red Medic gave Gunter some anesthetic and a warning: "Zhis will still hurt. The shot will simply make you not die from the shock."

Then it was off with everything from the waist up and onto the table.

What happened next – Gunter was convinced this man was a sicko. He seemed a little too happy about Gunter's obvious pain and distress while cracking open the ribcage and forcing the archaeologist to hold open his own chest cavity. Gunter forced himself to concentrate on the process through the pain as best he could. The medigun beam bathed his body in a soft blue light, and kept him alive, he realized, while Red Medic removed his heart and stuck the Uber device on it. Red Medic was talking but Gunter had trouble listening to him. The smell and sight of his own blood made him woozy.

The other Medic held the heart and device fully under the beam for several seconds, then put it back into Gunter's chest. God, that hurt! Gunter bit his lip to keep from screaming, and tasted blood.

Then a full blast from the medigun and everything was fixed back up. No pain, just the memory of it. Lots of blood everywhere, but Gunter was healed, if feeling nauseous.

"Now," Red Medic said, "I will watch you do the next one."

Gunter took his time. He was wobbly on his pins, and had to wash off the blood as best he could before dressing again. Red Medic was visibly irritated at the delay, but kept silent.

The next one was the Scout. Gunter didn't know if he'd been chosen or volunteered, but the boy hopped up onto the operating table without a fuss.

Gunter administered the shot under Red Medic's direction. "Why can't we give more anesthesia? It would help – "

"Dummkopf," Red Medic said, angry. He continued in German: "Es ist nicht notwendig den Schmerz zu vermeiden. Denn sie werden sich erinnern, und sie respektieren und fürchten den Medic, der eine solche Kontrolle über Schmerzen hat. Deswegen."
[Because it is not necessary to avoid the pain. Because they will remember, and they will respect and fear the Medic who has such control over pain. That is why.]

That didn't sound like the kind of medical man Gunter wanted in control of his health, or anyone else's. Wasn't one of the medical oaths "do no harm?"

Sasha was watching him. Gunter knew he had to stay confident and not give his teammates a reason to think he was incompetent. (But wait – wasn't he trying to get out of here?) Gunter gave the shot.

"It will still hurt a bit," he apologized.

"I can take it, Doc."

Then the chest-cracking machine – Gunter didn't remember its name – and Red Medic stood nearby and Gunter could swear the man was getting off on the blood and how pale the Scout had turned, and the obvious pain the procedure was causing. Red Medic was watching eagerly, almost greedily, as the bones cracked and blood flowed.

Gunter performed the process as quickly as he could, healed Sasha up, and faced Red Medic. "Get out."

"Was?"
[What?]

"Get out of my infirmary," Gunter said, angry. "You're no doctor. I'm more of a doctor than you are. Get out before I have you thrown out." The man had hurt Gunter, deliberately, and made Gunter hurt the Scout just to get his jollies. It made Gunter sick to his stomach.

"You have two teammates left to – "

"I'll take care of them. I know what to do. Go back to your own team and tear them apart." Gunter was shaking with anger now.

Red Medic drew himself up as though Gunter had given great offense. "You are no real Medic," he said. "Sie wollen, dass ich gehe, damit Sie sich übergeben können, richtig?" [You want me to leave so you can vomit, yes?]

"Just get out!" Gunter yelled.

Red Medic did, with the air of someone glad to leave a smelly barn. Gunter leaned back against the table and gripped it tightly. "I'm sorry," he said to Sasha. "I didn't realize. I won't let it happen again." Of course, it couldn't happen again, since Ubercharge was apparently a one-time deal, but Gunter could at least try to not let massive pain happen again.

Gunter sent Sasha on his way after a quick clean-up, and took a minute to steady himself. The minute stretched into several as he sat behind the desk, hunched over, trying to focus. Red Medic was a dangerous man. Red Sniper had shot Vlad's finger off for very little provocation. Don't visit the Reds, they're antisocial and won't take kindly to it.

Dr. Lamb, Gunter thought, was remembered favorably among the Blues. He must have been a real doctor, one who cared about his patients. Probably Lamb could have shown him how to do this without hurting anyone. Maybe without forcing them to be awake when their chests were forced open. But Lamb was dead and Vlad had had to ask insane Red Medic to come help. That must have galled the proud soldier, having to ask the enemy for assistance.

Then it was up to Gunter, wasn't it, to prevent any more "house calls" by the Red doctor. Whether or not he was medically capable, it would be criminal to allow that butcher over here again to "treat" the Blues.

Butcher, he thought with sour humor. And slaughterhouse.

He'd better get on with being a Medic, then. He stood, straightened his shoulders, and went to the door.

"Next."

The chest-cracker had to work harder to get through Finn's physique, but the Sniper bore it stoically, fixing his gaze on the ceiling and not looking away no matter what. As far as Gunter could tell, Finn was probably in little or no pain, thanks to extra anesthetic. Gunter breathed easier.

Krieg, for his part, didn't appear affected by the experience one way or another. He barely reacted, but it was different from Finn's focused avoidance.

By the time Krieg had dressed and left, Gunter felt exhausted, but he couldn't hide here in the infirmary, either. He washed up yet again, made himself presentable, and noted with some discouragement that he'd still gotten blood on his uniform. He wanted a drink and fresh air and a trip out of here.