A/N; DESCRIPTIONS, WHY YOU NO FLOW RIGHT?! XC Guh... I can't focus...
...Oh hey, it's you. Well, I'm feeling complacent. You guys, though small in number, continue to be awesome through being funny and/or being heart-warmingly supportive. I wrote this up out of boredom. So have a chapter I guess.
The night's air was colder than death's icy grip, yet droplets of sweat streaked the Sniper's frame anyway, beads of the stuff streaming down his course skin like he was roasting in the bright, afternoon sun as opposed to scaling a fifty-foot rock wall at a youthful hour of the night.
Sharply inhaling, his fingers latched themselves around one of the thousands of rocks jutting out of the vertical, stone partition he was scaling, and he noiselessly pushed himself upwards, limbs sprawled out like spider legs over the rough exterior and muggy breaths rolling off his tongue. A curtain of ebony shrouded the Australian and the cracks above him in a foreboding manor, casting every fragment of the world in shadow and silencing the sounds of every entity lingering in the desert. Every sound, that is, save for the wordless hymn of the unmoving cicadas hidden somewhere in the gloom, their droning choir hovering on the empty air. With a grunt, his fingers reached the ridge of the wall's flat summit, and he quietly tugged himself upwards, lessening a slight bit of the weight of his upper torso over the rim of orangey rocks, a pant leaving his lips as he allowed himself to rest for a moment. He'd gone approximately forty seven feet up a cliff wall in eleven minutes. That had to be some kind of record. He probably would refrain from saying anything about it, though – that was the professional thing to do. Swallowing the minuscule renewal from his moment of idleness, he pushed the rest of himself upwards. Or at least attempted to. The Sniper looked down through the small gap resting between his chest and the cliff face, finding his right, grey sock caught in a sharp rock.
He tried to tug his leg out, but to no avail. Annoyance filled the Australian's gaze as he stared at his caught ankle. Without thinking, the Australian tugged out his leg in one firm motion – instantly regretting the action as he felt a cool, undoubtedly scarlet trickle flowing down what was unquestionably a cut across his ankle. With a wince, he pulled himself over the cliff and crawled across the cool ground of the open summit, fingers gripping the dry, grainy rocks under his lanky frame until arriving at a cool, smooth boulder poking out of the dusty ground, it's rounded sides bathed in the luminosity of the empty black sky. Quietly, the Sniper slugged his lengthy spine against it and allowed himself two minutes, no more, to inspect the wound. Tenderly, his digits pulled the pant leg up, his eyes inspecting the cut The stone had cut a fair bit deeper than he'd expected. He'd have to pester the Medic about it later. Not bothering to do anything major, he fished a spare smiley-faced Band-Aid out from his vest pocket - a crappy present from the medic of his last Unit - and unceremoniously slapped it on.
Speaking of bloody, he'd had the right idea about starting from where their Spy's trail intersected with their alcove. Tiny, dry puddles of blood, along with fresh footprints disrupted the membrane of dust along the darkened boulders, grains strewn this way and that as they quietly sang an anecdote of a barefooted, small enemy in the immediate area. But a question was conceived in the Sniper's experienced brain at the fact that they were clearly bare footprints. The Australian couldn't think of a single Spy in all his years of service that would do their job barefoot. ...Besides that one guy in Egypt, but that guy had just been weird. ...He digressed. This possible Spy was not only in need of proper footwear, but he/she had been a great hurry to leave, if one bothered to note the lines of dust that looked like they'd been kicked upwards. If anyone, Spy or not, had been close enough to look through the cracks, they would've seen that the people in there were clearly REDs from the Engineer's attire alone. If the one who was here had run away, that meant he/she was either a civilian who had somehow wandered this far into the desert, or a really, really stupid BLU. Well, he could theorize all he damn well pleased, but he had some form of Spy to catch, and the one waiting in the alcove below was probably getting impatient with him. Slowly, he picked up his Machina, and wandered along the open cliff, letting the darkness cloak him from harm as he moved forward.
Part of the Sniper wondered if the Spy had even bothered to listen to him, and if he hadn't inadvertently left the Engineer for dead in that alcove, but the former bushman had to remind himself that the Engineer wasn't his responsibility. Really, the fact he'd been bothering to help him at all was something honestly unknown to him. It could've been a possibility that the Texan reminded him of someone he'd forgotten, or it all was all simply a pathetic cry from the last shreds of human decency left in his battle-hardened entity, but something in the Sniper just didn't really fancy the idea of finding the Engineer's corpse slumped on the ground. Now, if it did happen, he'd get over it like yesterday's rain, but still. It just wasn't that pleasant of an image, and he wasn't exactly sure why. Maybe that fish on the train meant more to him than he'd thought it had, he had no clue. By this point, his mum's old cat probably knew the answer better than he did. Regardless, the Sniper just went with what his logical instincts told him to do, as the marksman wasn't really one for thinking whatever emotions he had left over too deeply. Not anymore, anyway.
His shoes paused their trek as an odd note suddenly rested in the atmosphere. The Sniper cocked his head to the side as an abrupt, subtle call from reality rang for him, his ears soaking in the unusual sound on the night air and detecting something gravely amiss.
The cicadas had stopped singing.
The Machina was prepped on impulse, its scope scanning around its wielder for the source of the silencing. Someone was stirring, and the Sniper wasn't fond of the idea of a threat he couldn't see. A sharp breath cut past his canines, a new coat of dryness pressing on his tongue. Eyebrows arched as his feet shifted slightly under him, his Machina's barrel circulating around him at the rate of his controlled rasps of air. The clouds rolled by overhead, wavy textures of their wispy hulls casting layers upon layers of shadow to overlap each other, his own shadow consumed in the nothing cast down from the covers of the stratosphere. Cautiously, the marksman took his first step forward – When a sudden, shrill scream followed by a steel CLANG noise echoed from beyond, about a thousand meters away from him position.
The Sniper moved forwards. He noted that lick of a Texan accent had rested on that scream.
"That idiot," he hissed as he ran, whilst at the same time swearing a silent oath to slice the Spy's head in two with his kukri later. The Engineer, inexperienced dunce, had probably attracted at least twenty BLUs from all over the Ravines with that one scream, the stupid newbie. The Sniper was not an honorable man, but he'd be damned to let an Engineer - one of the only Classes that were a near necessity to keeping a base in check - die so early on the campaign. Soon, the path along the empty, flat summit abruptly ended, leading to a bumpy, perpendicular fall downwards to a fairly narrow gorge, a good deal of its floor reduced to being a figurative pool of fine, near white sand, with the same labyrinth-y walls the Ravines were filled with. And resting this gorge was none other than the Engineer in all his stocky, inexperienced glory, the Texan's frame shivering next to a wall as he blindly looked around dark with...
...You've got to be kidding.
The stupid lug was wearing his goggles. In the dark.
...For a man who could understand pretty much any science textbook tossed at him, he could be a proper dunce about his surroundings. This flaw would have to be fixed with posthaste if he was to avoid death, but for the time being, all that the Sniper could do was simply watch his colleague's senselessness and be a tad amused. Fortunately for him and his colleague, no BLUs were in eyesight or hearing range at the moment, and instead... The Sniper paused his mild amusement and allowed a note of curiosity to play. A kid was there, too. A near emancipated one, somewhere in his early teens and lying back-down in the sand, brown hair and thin, black prison clothes peppered in sand as twin streams of blood drizzled from his forehead and his shoulder. A wrench lay near the his feet, a splotch of crimson on the metal, a splotch matching up with the one on the kid's forehead in terms of likeness. What a poor b...
The Sniper's eyebrow rose as he noted the bastard's hands. The curiosity decided to flower not from the sight of the cheap pistol entangled in the stranger's fingers, but instead from the strange, dark, shapeless tattoos snaking around his hands and wrists. Odd things, they were. They were sharp-edged, disjointed, near-black vines that resembled the circuitry you'd find within a computer system - just blips of senseless patterns and articulate convolutions. Highly unusual. Regardless, seeing all of the scene from his perch, it didn't take long for the Sniper's brain to connect the trail of dots. He looked down to his Texan colleague and saw the terror and trepidation on his comrade's blinded face, his shielded eyes desperately searching for a threat inside the nothing to attack him.
"'Ey, Engie," he called.
On the first note of his voice piercing the air, the Texan's eyes darted upwards, a look of disbelief on his face as he peered around the blanket of murkiness slathered in front of his eyes.
"...Stretch?" he called, "That you?"
"Yeah," said the Sniper as he practically began sliding down the crag's face, hands and feet expertly finding little nooks so he could briskly lower himself.
"Oh, thank god..." he sighed, voice awash with relief, "...Where are ya right now? Ah can't see ya, 'cause th' dark... S'like a blanket..."
"Take off yer goggles then, ya bleedin' idiot - we gotta run," snapped the Sniper as he hopped off the ledge and strode over to the dumbfounded Engineer. There was a thick silence between the two men for a minute, a blank stare from the Engineer, before a quiet facepalm diverged from the Texan's stance, followed by a groan of his humiliation.
"...I'm a friggin' idiot," grimaced the Engineer as he slipped off the goggles, eyes blinking as they found themselves capable of seeing somewhat better amidst the darkness. The Sniper casually took a note that the Texan's eyes were sea-green, a fairly unusual eye colour.
"And a crack shot with yer wrench, apparently," he commented as he peered over to the bleeding boy about three meters away from them, "You got a homing-device built into that thing? You moight wanna grab that before th' BLUs-"
While the Sniper remained rather calm with the situation, the Engineer's eyes widened as he stared at the unconscious kid, utter shame dripping in his gaze.
"Jesus-" he uttered as he ran over to the bleeding youth, crouching next to him in anxiety while checking to see if he was alive. The Sniper watched the Texan for a minute, mildly surprised that the stockier man cared so much about the kid bleeding out. But, the fact the Engineer was a newbie, and had no clue about the very, very loose requirements one needed to be a combatant in these wars was recalled upon noting his gaze. Nervousness rested in the Texan's eyes, the circles continually shifting between the Sniper in his akubra-sporting glory, and the weak boy in the Texan's arms, a stupid amount of determination filling his inspection of his unintentional victim. The man was such a newbie, it was almost hilarious. But a note of sorrow fell on this scene at the knowledge of the Engineer's innocence, of which the Sniper observed differently. The Texan hadn't killed before. His panic was simply to be expected. "Shit, uh..."
"Well?" asked the Sniper, wondering what advice he'd offer to help console the Engineer's first murder, as the silence between the two of them was thicker than the sand underfoot. That was, until the marksman's keen ears traced a relieved exhale resounding from the Engineer's position. The Texan turned his head towards him, uncertainty filling the shorter man's gaze, but slight calmness filling his face all the same.
"...He's breathin'!" he happily reported, unaware of the Sniper's indifferent standpoint on the situation, "Well, ain't no medical expert, but ah guess we stop th' bleeding first? ...But... That's a LOT 'a pus on his shoulder... Do we fix that, or...?"
The Sniper knew the Texan would hate him for appearing selfish, but it was hate from the newbie or the death of both of them.
"We don't do anything. We have to run, Engie."
The Engineer faced confusion for a minute as he processed the Sniper's words. But as the cogs in his head turned, the reaction slowly became as expected. Anger. Suspicion. Disgust.
"...Why th' hell not?" he demanded, repulsion filling his tone as his brain connected the pieces from behind the cover of his unsullied, ocean-shaded irises.
Why was this so difficult? Just leave! "Engie. You're a loud screamer. Oi heard you loud and clear from way over there. That one scream probably attracted at LEAST twenty people to this one little patch. Twenty people we mioght have to foight if we stick around," the Sniper explained as he took the Machina in his hands and cocked it, "Us or the kid. Take yer pick, overalls."
The Engineer considered the words, a small frown on his face as he hesitantly thought it over. "Well... We gotta bring him back with us. Kid's gonna die out here," he settled, hoisting himself up with the boy cradled in his arms, "Doc'll patch him up good."
The Sniper gave a slight grimace as he held his gun. The righteousness of a newbie could be a dangerous thing. "Hold it for a second, Engie. Lookit what the kid's wearing. That's a prison uniform," he said, "The toype 'a prison uniform you wear in these Wars if you get caught by an opposing team, and get jailed in THEIR Stronghold for a whoile. Usually before execution by an opposing team."
"Yeah? And?" asked the Texan, firm hands making sure not to damage the boy. The Sniper quietly noticed this odd protectiveness. Tex was a bit of a mother goose, wasn't he?
"There aoin't a difference between the prison Uniforms for both teams," replied the Sniper, "So... How do we know this kid ain't with BLU?"
The Engineer looked at the marksman in horror. "...You suggestin' we KILL him?" he asked incredulously.
"Oi'..." the marksman frowned, sparing his lecture. This whole situation was pointless, any fool could see the Texan wasn't going to listen. And the clock was ticking away. "...We don't got toime for this. Just run, alroight?"
Before the Sniper could say another word, the Engineer was already breaking into a run, boots seemingly weightless as they plowed through the soft sand. The Sniper in the meantime, remained a few paces behind, his signature rifle on standby as he watched his associate leaving. A craving for a cigarette whispered from some little nook in his brain. After a brief second, a tsk noise finally left his lungs as he followed his inexperienced, stupid teammate. The marksman reminded himself that the Engineer was a newbie. And newbies at any game had a tendency to do really stupid things. The slightly younger man would learn someday, but that clearly wasn't today. Until that day, the marksman would just offer up advice and hope with half his heart the Texan didn't fall as horribly as many others like him had.
(-)
The soft interior of the Engineer's lungs burned against the cool air circulating through them, each inhale of oxygen sending a figurative wave of fire across the tissue with every step slamming against the smooth floor. But Texan had no time to complain about the pain. He had to get to the infirmary. His technology-infused heart pumped blood a fair bit faster than it had in recent memory, heavy gasps rolling out his mouth as he keenly pressed on, toned arms carrying the troublingly light boy in his arms. The tiles of the floor with their dull, reflective glints had long blurred against the tips of his toes, his eyes choosing to focus on the long halls leading to where the Medic would be ready to help him with his problem. He didn't bat an eye to Miss Pauling's staggered face as she stepped out of her room, nor did he process the drunken laughter of the Soldier and Demoman as they slumped against the walls with their noses stuffed with scarlet-dyed Kleenex, or the Spy's shocked expression as he watched the odd trio moving at their fast pace. He had to save the kid in his arms. He had to do something. The Sniper's footsteps echoed behind him, but whether the marksman was trailing behind him out of concern or curiosity was unknown to the Texan. He didn't care. Frankly, the Engineer was a little more than angry with the Australian at the moment. A good chunk of him knew that the Sniper only had the best intentions at heart, but the Engineer just couldn't take the suggestion of leaving a kid to die without the slightest hint of abhorrence. But his lecture for the marksman would have to wait, as the door to the Infirmary rested a twenty shortening feet in front of him. With a kick, the steel doors blasted open and in ran the Texan, determination magnifying itself with every bead of sweat and urgency in every fiber of his being. But the Medic wasn't there.
Silence filled the Infirmary.
"Th' hell?" murmured the Sniper, eyebrows scrunched, "Is 'e even in here?"
The Engineer peered around the place, his head darting around in a fruitless attempt of trying to find their healer. The Infirmary remained near the same as it had been when he had entered yesterday, the old brick still lined with the lopsided shelves, still maintaining their overwhelming sense of decay and horror, as if they were sponsoring some demonic slasher flick. Hell, the operating table in the center of the room had the same restraints from his first trip into the room for some reason. (Most probably for the Soldier when it had been his turn for the Uber thing) But in their current field of vision, the Medic was absent. No, instead of their doctor, the German's doves flocked to them, the now dimmed lights highlighting their snowy feathers as they interestedly observed their caretaker's unexpected guests with their beady, yet deep eyes. A grimace covered the Engineer's face as he gingerly wandered away from their unsettling cloud of white, flittering wings and gently set the kid's light frame on the table in the center of the room, not bothering to shoo the birds away as they gathered around the injured lad, crooning their little necks to observe his limp body with curiosity.
"Dunno," he frowned, uncertain about the birds' morbid natures, "Help me look."
The Sniper nodded and headed to the left half of the room, casually observing the doctor's unusual accommodations to the space as he briskly searched for him. The Engineer chose to wander the other half of the room in the meantime, poking his nose around the back of the Medic's desk. On his way there, his eyes inquisitively wandered the rough walls of the room – but ceased upon spotting a strange book lying on the corner of the maple. His left eyebrow rose as he examined it from a distance, suspicion filling him as he cautiously began to approach it. It was old, its leather cover filled up with tears, and yellowy papers barely retained by the old rings holding them together. For some bizarre reason, it held a ridiculously powerful stench of the ocean, the smell of sea-salt seeping into his nostrils and whirling untraceable, rippling waves of nostalgia through his mind. With every step placed forward, bits of a fragmented recollection began to flock into his consciousness, tiny slivers of some memory about a trip to the sea from a long time ago. It was a clouded recflection, simply consisting of ocean waves lapping at the hull of a boat, and cool water submerging his entity. But the details to the memory were floating off in another sea entirely - a masterful ocean he couldn't seem to breech the surface of. He wasn't sure who'd been there with him, where he'd been staying, or even what age he'd been. Four? Nineteen? ...It didn't matter. Regardless, from his distant position, he could see there was no title, name, or author credit written across the leather, having it remain completely vague - a faceless tome with some odd story or another resting within its aged covers. A tome completely unconnected to his humble life from Bee Cave. ...Yet, something was quietly whispering at him to open it. A hushed, cold, yet demanding echo at the back of his mind, urging his fingertips to lift the covers and submerge his ethical mind with whatever knowledge was lurking within the antediluvian pages. Slowly, he stepped towards the mysterious tome – And tripped over the Medic's sleeping form on the floor, belly-flopping to the ground.
"Doc!" he cried, gaping at the slumbering German as the said man lay soundly on his left shoulder, squirming a tad as he wandered his subconscious dreamscape. His arm was tucked under his head, pillowing his black locks from the dust he lay coiled on while his other hand was draped over his lower chest, and his knees were loosely drawn to his chin. He looked peaceful. Still, this was not the time for the doctor to rest. The Texan quickly moved next to the man and began shaking him by the shoulder.
"Doc, doc!" he called, trying to wake the older man, "C'mon, wake up, we kinda need ya...!"
With every tug of the beige cloth, the Medic's consciousness flickered a tad, each tug causing it to spark more than the last. Slowly, the German's eyelids began to slip open with a soft moan, his unfocused pupils adjusting to the dim light of their surroundings as he was drawn out of the mental world he'd been submerged in.
"Was...?" he sleepily whispered, unassisted eyes looking around their bleary field of vision before focusing on the stocky silhouette above him, squinting upon doing so, "...? ...Hello..."
"Why th' fuck would you sleep on a floor?" asked the Sniper as he stood above both of them, his faint, lanky shadow lightly shrouding them from the reduced lights, "Can't be good for your back, sawbones."
The German mumbled something in his native language as a response, his cold hand taking a reflective pair of glasses out of one of the pockets of his vest and guiding them along the bridge of his nose.
"Ain't important," said the Engineer as he briskly took the Medic's arm and hauled the doctor to stand, "We kinda need you right now."
"Hmm?" asked the Medic as he clumsily let himself be led by the shorter man along the Infirmary's floor, "Vhat is...?"
"Help him," directed the Engineer as pointed to the scraggily lad sprawled out on the steel table, doves dog-piled on his scrawny frame and cooing happily at the sight of their caretaker.
"Ah," mumbled the Medic, "At zhis hour...? V...Vhere vas zhis kinder- Kind. ...Mein Gott, ich kann nicht sprechen..."
"Desert," impatiently explained the Engineer, "Patch 'im up, would you?"
"Vait a moment, vould you?" grumbled the Medic, eyes shut as he rubbed the crease between his eyebrows, "Herr Conagher, I'm vaking from a valium-induced sleep. Give me a second to-"
The Engineer's eyes widened.
"How the hell do you know mah last name?"
The Medic popped open his eyes, quietly staring the alarmed Engineer and the intrigued Sniper like a child caught sticking their hand in the cookie jar, tied tongue creating an awkward silence. The Engineer's eyes were inquisitively burning through the doctor, demanding an explanation, while the Sniper's were curious, arms folded over his chest with an eyebrow raised. The Medic quietly fiddled with his fingers as he contemplated the information he'd gathered, guilt and consideration shining past the gleam of his lenses.
"...Vell... ...Uh..."
A loud whimper suddenly sliced through the stale air between the operating table and the men's tense stares like a serrated blade, followed by thrashing. The variously coloured eyes of the mercenaries zeroed in on the kid, watching as the youth's muscles spasmed in his subconscious flailing, frightened gasps traipsing out his lips as he flipped about pathetically on the table, like a live fish tossed on land, flopping about without knowledge of where it was, or why it's fins had ceased working. While the Engineer was shocked and was full of pity for the poor boy, the Sniper merely gave a low whistle.
"Kid don't look too happy," he observed, raising the rim of his a akubra a little.
"Scheiße, ve don't have time or zhis," scowled the Medic, a frigid hand taking a syringe out of his pocket and tossing it to the Engineer, who caught it gently, "Morphine. Quick, shoot the boy vith it," he said as he briskly ran towards his desk to gather things, "My second is up."
The Engineer wanted to argue, but there were more urgent matters at hand than the Medic's disturbing knowledge of his last name. Grudgingly, he dutifully placed his boots forward and went over to the boy squirming in his unconscious state on the table, and observed the youth's fearful, unconscious features in pity. Someone that young, having to go through the desert in all its waves of harsh sunlight like that, and endure a bullet. His gaze turned to the clear liquid swishing around in the syringe in his palm, knowing full well what he had to do, and not enjoying the thought at all.
"Kay kid, we're gonna fix you up," he quietly assured as he guided the needle to the boy's bicep, "Relax, you'll be A-O-"
The boy's eyes shot open.
The Texan simply blinked, and his hand was instantly in a grip, the boy staring him down with weak, fear-coated, icy irises. The two store the other down, the Texan's sea-shaded irises staring into the ice shrouding the boy's, dry gasps spewing from the youth's shuddering chest as he frightfully looked him down.
"N-No..." he croaked, "No, d-don't...!"
The boy was adamant, but his grip on the Engineer's wrist was loose, and was slowly weakening with the brief seconds ticking by. Pity bound the Engineer as his heart gently beat in his ears, but he knew what the right thing was to do. Before it was willed, he could feel his other palm drawing the kid's hand down.
"Sorry, kid. But ah' have ta," he explained, tone gruff as he prepped the needle again.
"N...No! F-Fuckin' please...!" begged the boy. The Engineer winced at how scratchy the kid's voice sounded, but he knew better than to abide to the kid's unwitting death wish. As smoothly as he could, the Texan poked the syringe in the youth's sunburnt skin, emptying the tranquilizing contents into the boy's bloodstream. Dread still lingered in his patient's eyes as he fruitlessly squirmed against the soothing effects of the drug. The Engineer quietly drew the needle out as his ears registered a small moan leaving his patient's lips. He looked down at the boy on the table, and saw the panic receding, valour draining from the boy's irises as he began involuntarily slipping into a slumber. The Engineer wasn't sure if he'd just done a good thing or a bad thing in injecting the morphine, but hopefully, he'd been right to do it.
The Sniper watched the effects kick in from the side for about ten seconds. The marksman seemed to notice the uncertainty in his colleague's uncovered eyes, and frowned.
"He's just scared is all," comforted the marksman, hands nonchalantly fixing his hat, "If doc doesn't fuck up, oi think he'll owe lotta good thanks to ya when this is over."
"What if doc does fuck up?" he asked, not making a marginal attempt to hide his concern.
The Sniper shrugged. "His ghost'll hate him, not you. You're set."
It was a weak attempt, and he was still a little angry at the Aussie, but there was a small smidge of warmth to the words.
"...Thanks," he mumbled.
The Medic hopped over to the two varyingly opinionated assassins with a big, steel briefcase and a rolling, metal table, both of which he put next to the Operating table with an unceremonious air. The German's hands were polished with hand sanitizer and his dark eyes, though groggy, remained fairly focused as he assessed the damage on the youth and shooed his doves away.
...But then, he peculiarly turned his head back to the seemingly empty air wafting behind him with a look of mild annoyance.
"Herr Spy. If you're going to waver, you could try actually doing somesing useful," he dryly snarled, "Taking up space - big fucking surprise - doesn't help us. Marginally."
These words sat on the empty air for a few dense seconds before a hesitant, familiar cloud of smoke wisped along the cold air behind them and unveiled the slippery Frenchman, crimson garb unspoiled as he stood before the three. A twinge of rage rippled against the Texan's calm as he saw the man's crimson tuxedo without the slightest tear or stain, but his instinctive urge to pummel the treacherous bastard was held back as he saw the assassin's silver irises, noting something was amiss with the cold circles. The Spy's eyes had remained as a practical staple to his character, the way they'd practically casted a freezing aura to his vindictive dirge of a soul was a big piece to his character. But now his eyes, his frigid gaze, held something the Texan had never seen. He couldn't place his finger on which one it was, but he could've sworn he'd seen an honest to god emotion. Of course, the Spy being the Spy, the twinge of humanization was instantly masked, but the Texan knew what he'd seen.
"...What am I to do, zhen?" asked the Frenchman, crossing the crisp cloth of his tuxedo's sleeves over each other.
The Medic shrugged as he flipped the lid of the metallic briefcase skywards and began rummaging through, "You could exit through zhe door und leave us be, stab your knife in zhe Kind's throat to save me from doing any vork, or connect zhis..." he grunted as he somehow dug an entire, portable Electrocardiography device from out of the briefcase and tossed the end of a long cable at to the Frenchman, "...To zhe monitor over zhere on zhe vall, vhilst I apply electrodes to zhe boy. You know, to monitor his life, to make sure we know when his heart caves. Vhich vill probably happen. So Spy, anyvone of zhose vork for me."
Tentatively, the Spy's gloved hands bore the cord in their slick fingertips, and he moved his dress shoes over the fairly large, sophisticated monitor hanging against the rotting, brick wall nearest to the operating table. He stuck the cord in. A spark of life came to the slightly dusty screen as it displayed a deep, black background with only a tiny pink heart in the top left corner, and a white, virtual frame of an empty graph containing a flat, lifeless line streaking across the middle.
"G...Gut," said the Medic, mind not fully switched 'on' as he took out a massive pair of bloody sheers in one hand, and a fistful of electrodes in the other, "Now..."
The Engineer quickly cut in. "Doc, uh... A-Ain't no medical expert, but don't you use... Y'know, smaller scissors to remove patients' clothing?" he sheepishly asked, pointing to the giant slaughter tools in the Medic's right hand. The Medic turned to the sheers' hilt in his palm with a frown, mulling over the Texan's comment.
"...Oh, ja! ...Ha, stupid valium!" he laughed as he put them away and took out a smaller pair of relatively clean scissors, "Right. So... I'm somevhat out of it right now. Bare vith me, bitte?"
"Gee, that's assuring, doc," sarcastically mused the Sniper, "Got any other sedatives you loike popping for no reason? Just so we have a mental list?"
"Plenty. Und shut up," scowled the Medic as he snipped through the middle of the raggedy, dirty shirt, "I vas having a beautiful dream until you Scheißer showed up vith your dying child."
"Dying?" repeated the Spy in bewilderment, eyebrows creasing slightly.
The Medic didn't seem as concerned as the Frenchman. "Meh, probably, if his blood-stained ribcage is any tipoff. Regardless, I'll do vhat I can. Zhere may still be hope for him," offered the German as he peeled the thin, black fabric off the boy, unveiling his disturbingly visible ribs and the bulging pile of bloody pus streaming from the bullet wound wedged his shoulder, "...Fick, zhat's a big infection..."
Wasting no time, the Medic quickly stuck the electrodes onto points of the boy chest and limbs with haste. Within seconds, the traditional, green flat line suddenly transformed into a small ascending and declining hill of vertical lines, broken by stillness every few seconds and singing a quiet chant of gentle beeps along the air. Everyone's ears gingerly downed the wordless report of a soft bout of life nestled deep within the patient's chest, quietly beating away inside it's slumbering owner and its will to progress flickering defiantly in its little nook. A slight flutter of satisfaction passing through the Medic as he observed that the monitor was functioning properly, he took a bottle of disinfectant and poured it on a soft cloth, briefly turning his head to the mercenaries in the room whilst he did so.
"Obviously, he's quite dehydrated... Herr Spy," he said to the uncannily focused assassin, who of which looked over expectantly.
"Oui?" he asked.
"Zhere should be a bag of saline in zhe closet next to the mini-fridge, I trust you know vhat zhat is?" the Spy responded with a slow, knowing nod, "Good. Fetch it, bitte. Und zhe mobile rack for it is around zhe coffin in zhe far corner. Can I trust you to get zhat, Herr Sniper?"
The red sleeves of the Sniper's T-shirt ascended into a shrug for a response, and with the swift gesture, the marksman was running in a jiffy over to the other side of the room. Satisfied his orders had fallen on sound ears, the Medic carefully began to pad the damp cloth on the kid's forehead to mop up the blood peppered across the skin.
"Can't ya just use th' Medi-gun to patch 'im up? We'd be done a lot faster!" asked the Engineer unsure of the Medic's manual doctoring abilities, before gaining an idea, "...Hell! Why don't ah build a dispenser?! Ah could-"
"'Patch him up,' by using a device that functions very similarly to zhe Medi-gun, so much so zhat it could make him go into cardiac arrest, UND seal zhe pus into his bloodstream?" he asked with a laugh as he sponged up the crimson showered all over the boy's clammy, ashen forehead, "Tell me; vhat could possibly go wrong?"
"...That's a good point," frowned the Engineer, folding his arms, "Ah guess, it's just... He ain't lookin' so hot, y'know...?"
"Actually, quite zhe contrary," mused the Medic as he prodded the forehead, "...In fact, I do believe zhe Junge has a fever!"
"What?! Aw, fer God's sake!" growled the Engineer, "What isn't killing this kid?!"
"Hmm... My ink pot?" suggested the Medic whilst his skillful fingers gently bandaged a fresh, pallid rag around the wound on the kid's forehead.
"Hilarious," grimaced the Engineer as he stuck his hands in his overall's pockets, "Y'know, since ah figured yer ink pot would be as barkin' mad as you-" the Engineer caught the smidgeon of cruelty on his own words before the Medic did, "...Oh... Oh, that-that wasn't-"
"Und?"
"...'Und'... What?" asked the Engineer nervously, while doing a horrid impersonation of the Medic's accent.
"Vell, vhat did you mean by vhat?" asked the Medic, the Engineer unable to determine what emotion was on his voice – if there was any at all.
"...Well... Ah meant-"
"Be honest, now."
The Engineer squeezed his fists, praying to god that he wouldn't be struck down by some knife hidden in the Medic's pockets, "...Well... Y'all can go from soundin' like a real hoss to soundin' like a complete, bonafide nutter in th' time 'a two dang seconds. That's... That's what... ... ...Ah'm sorry."
Bizarrely, the Medic didn't seem that knife-happy. In fact, he actually chuckled a little at the Texan's words. "Hey now, don't go singling me out," smiled, brushing his curl back along his forehead, "Ve're all mad here, Herr Conagher."
The Spy's cotton gloves slipped between them before the Texan could respond, a clear, plastic bag full of dilated water and a coiled I.V in the assassin's fingertips.
"Zhe saline," offered the Frenchman, typical serious expression an immense contrast to the Medic's Cheshire-cat grin.
"Danke!" smiled the doctor as he put down the bloody cloth and took the bag from his colleague, "See vhat happens vhen you're actually helpful, Herr Spy?"
The Frenchman rolled his eyes, unknowingly at the exact pace of the rotating wheels of the iron rack for the saline rolling over to them, the slender iron slowing to a stop about three feet away from their gathering around the table. Slowly, their gazes turned to the Sniper on the other side of the room, his lanky leg lowering from an apparent kick to the wheeled rack. A dirty, fingerless glove simply adjusted his hat.
"Sorry, it was stuck on a coat!" he called.
The Medic's eyes, in the meantime, flickered in anger as his left hand firmly gripped the slender metal. "Zhat's because zhis is my coat rack, you fucking idiot! Vhere's zhe ozzer vone?!"
"It-" the Sniper stopped his response, mouth shut. Wedged under his drying tongue rested the smartass response he longed to spout, but it just refused to roll out for some reason. So, instead, he hesitantly substituted it by pointing a calloused finger to the black monitor behind them, directing the gazes of the three mercenaries to the flat line darting along the screen.
Everyone's heart stopped for a moment.
"...Herr Sniper. Zhe defibrillators, bitte," the Medic requested, voice eerily calm.
The Sniper's shoes instantly propelled themselves off the floor as they carried onwards to do what had been instructed. The Medic, in the meantime, wasting no time in applying CPR to the boy's chest, teeth clenched as his voice yelled at the Spy to setup the saline and the I.V for the technically dead boy, to which the tuxedo-wearing gentleman quickly followed. Within the time it took to blink, the Spy's slick gloves were speedily moving to work in an environment unfamiliar to them, silver eyes glinting in determination as he fiddled with the hook to suspend the thick, transparent water over their youthful patient, while the Engineer stood in shock, brain numb.
beep... ... ... ... ... ...beep... beep-beep... ... ...beep... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Oh god..." murmured the Engineer, unable to move in the chaos besieging the room, "He's..."
"Not necessarily," assured the Medic as he hastily preformed the manual CPR while the Spy ungracefully began uncoiling the tube connected to the bag, "Zhere's still... Ugh, Herr Sniper, sometime today, bitte!"
"OI'M TRYING!" yelled the Australian, straining his spidery fingers as they tugged on the handle of the silver defibrillator kit, the case containing the keys to reviving their patient alive thoroughly stuffed under a mountain of books in a large, wooden cupboard near the coffin. Ears only focusing on the drenching, endless beep of the horizontal line, the Spy's own fingers finally succeeded in getting the tube ready, and with godspeed ungracefully speared the needle into the boy's bicep, sending a flow of water into the child's system. The small task done, he raised himself from the I.V and store at his colleague for a moment, slight anger pulsating from his irises.
"Oh, vous inutile... I will assist," he growled as he ran over to the Australian, helping the marksman tug out the case from the mountains of variously-sized books crammed atop it.
"Engineer, zhere should be a large syringe in zhe briefcase. Zhe plastic of it has an orange tint," grunted the Medic, sweat rolling down his skin as his hands struggled to get the tempo of boy's heart going, "Can you get it for me?"
"HOW ARE YOU SO CALM?!" yelled the Engineer as he rummaged through the briefcase, hands ripping through the peculiar items housed in the case. The Engineer, under his panic, noted a pinch of curiosity grapping his alarm as saw the exotic collection of random items piled in the steel case. Needles, bottles, knives, herbs... There was even a cookbook for some odd reason. He quietly swore to himself to ask the doctor about his pastimes later, but it would have to wait, like everything else, as his fingers laced around the plastic of a rather big, orange hypodermic needle buried in a small pile of medium-sized ones.
"F-Found it!" he cried as he tugged it out with a small stumble backwards.
"Good! Now shoot his heart vith it! Quickly!" the doctor ordered past his grunts, his compressed palms thumping against their patient's sternum. The Engineer felt a twinge of apprehension flutter around the Uber compressed on his own heart at these words.
"...His heart?" he asked, dumbly.
"Yes!" cried the Medic, "It's pure adrenaline, a shot it vill help us get his heart running! Shoot him vith it, now!"
The Engineer's own heart almost stopped at that thought. Morphine in the arm was one thing, but this...
It didn't matter. His sweaty palm wavered over the point of the chest where the boy's still heart lay, the slowly warming key of keeping their patient amongst the living resting in his broad fingers. Fighting back his phobia, he squeezed his eyes shut, and with a quiver, swiftly plunged the syringe in the boy's chest, resisting the instinctive urge to empty his stomach as he drained the contents of the syringe into the boy's motionless blood-pumping muscle.
"Zhere you go!" condescendingly sung the Medic, "Now, vas zhat so hard?" smiled the Medic, still having his hands keeping the rhythm.
"Yes..." whispered the Engineer, hands shaking as the echoes of a mighty mountain of books descending spectacularly to the ground rang along the air, followed by accent-laced groans.
"Urgh... GOT TH' DEFIBRILLATOR-KIT THING! ...FINALLY!" rang the Sniper's all-knowledgeable words from the other side of the room.
"Wunderbar, bring it here!" called the Medic, before slowly turning his eyes to meet the Engineer's, "Care to finish?"
"...Huh?"
"You're still holding zhe syringe in zhere," said the Medic, gesturing to the needle suspended by the Engineer's grasp, it's needle resting in the boy's chest like a sword wedged in a corpse, "I zhink it's empty, Herr."
"Uuughhh," grimaced the Engineer as he tugged out the warm needle out of the bare chest, wincing as he did so, "Why'd ah have to be th' only one who gave a crap about keeping him alive...?"
The Medic shrugged. "No idea," he murmured, "Quite illogical of you, really."
Suddenly, out of the blue, the defibrillator kit fell next to the doctor and the mechanic, the importance of it's appearance only requiring a choir of angels to sing for it. Immediately, without so much as thanking the Sniper or the Spy, the Medic ceased the CPR and grabbed the kit and pulled out the twin, metallic defibrillators, fiddling with them to get a charge going.
"Spy, keep zhe CPR going, bitte."
"Oui," hissed the suited assassin, compressing his sweat-stained gloves and thumping his palms against the clammy skin to try and revive the heart's rhythm. The Medic, in the meantime, softly exhaled as the high frequency of the defibrillators chimed their readiness in the doctor's skilled hands, the twin saviours both prepared to do their jobs. Quickly, the Spy went back slightly as the Medic's shadow loomed over his dying patient, the tools needed to save him resting in his fingers.
"'Right..." muttered the Engineer as he watched the reading on the defibrillator's engine, beads of sweat rolling down his skin as he watched the needle precipitously reach the 300 volts mark, "...CLEAR!"
The Medic instantaneously slammed the charged defibrillators on the ashen skin, the life-sparkers sending powerful surges of imperceptible, electrical tides through the boy's system, every pair of eyes in the room glinting with varying degrees of hope in sparking life.
No response.
The needle rested at 300 volts again. "CLEAR!" the Texan repeated. The Medic obeyed, sending another surge through the skin with a swift plunge of the devices – this time followed by an unconscious gasp from their patient and the heart monitor heralding a small, but ever reaching beep.
Everyone sighed in relief as the monitor began to regulate.
"We... Is it over?" asked the Sniper, cautiously taking out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
The Medic gave a nod, glasses shining from the lights. "Ja. He seems stable now."
The Engineer sighed once more.
"Never again," muttered the Texan, sweat-drenched hand taking off his hardhat and holding it to his broad chest with an exhausted sigh, "Never."
"...Vell..." smiled the Medic as he put the defibrillators away, "...Zhat vas a fun vay to spend zhe evening!"
A/N; Huzzah. The chapter's done. :L Again, like last chapter, I'm not sure if the descriptions flow right this time around, but hey, I'm a bit sleep-deprived and working pretty hard on science and whatnot, so... I guess it'll have to do for now. I'll probably keep fixing it up as I go along.
If I got things in the medical procedure wrong, and you know how I can fix it, please tell me in a PM, or whatever.
See ya around, I guess.