The afternoon still felt like an eternity. By the time a siren went off signaling the end of the fighting, Gunter was mentally numb. He'd vomited again, but off in private, which was more luck than planning.
If he could have paid attention to the rest of the team, he would have seen Sasha also exhausted, on rubbery legs, wanting nothing more than to collapse and sleep; Finn looking haggard; Lonnie's expression was dark and murderous, and Vlad was already starting the evening's chain-smoking.
They'd failed, as Vlad had expected. He'd known that with half the team green, the Blues would have an uphill battle. The Reds had rubbed it in, of course, especially about the new guys, and particularly Doc. Doc might as well have taken the afternoon off for all the good he did. The only good thing about being the Reds' chosen target was that it let the Blues achieve a couple of objectives before Red stopped playing around – but they shouldn't have felt they could afford to play around in the first place.
One more day and then the weekend, and Vlad decided he had to run the whole team through more drills during their spare time. It was the only way they'd get nonlethal practice. And if Doc didn't shape up… Vlad was ready to give Pauling an earful about sending him a gimp Medic.
Gunter went to the infirmary; he was the only one (as far as he knew) who had a separate room, this room, to keep his equipment. He hung up the weapons and the blood-spattered medigun. He didn't feel like cleaning it; he didn't feel like doing anything at all. No, that wasn't true…
He sat on the edge of the operating table and didn't think for a while. He realized he was looking at a door. Not the exit. Other door. He lurched to his feet and looked inside. It was a very small toilet and a single-person shower stall.
He had his own private shower.
He left his clothes on the floor and turned the water on as hot as he could stand. He had no new visible scars, but some scars don't show.
Partway through scrubbing his face – there was no soap in here and he didn't care right now – he began to sob. He dug his fingernails into his forehead, hard. The pain didn't stop the tears.
He slid to the floor and curled up again, alone, utterly miserable, and raked his scalp with his nails, crying. He lay there a long time, and eventually the water got less warm, and the tears stopped, and he felt utterly empty and devoid of hope or happiness or anything positive.
And the water got colder, and the body resisted the urge to lie down and die. Gunter managed to stand, shut off the water, and found a towel. He was exhausted, drained, and wasn't sure what to do next.
"I thought you would want clean clothes, after your shower," Martin said, mumbling around yet another cigarette and not turning around from whatever he was doing at the sink. "I took the liberty of picking the lock of your room to get them for you. I hope you do not object."
The Spy was, himself, unshowered and still in a suit that bore evidence of his day's labors. He had not been killed once in the afternoon, testament as much to the Reds' single-minded focus on Blue Medic as to his own skill, and it showed on his suit. He hadn't wanted to sully clean clothing with an unwashed body, so he had only taken off his mask and gloves while the doctor occupied the only private shower in the base.
He had taken special pleasure in repeatedly seeking out the Red Sniper, and stabbing him in his nest. Twice, he had managed the kill before the Sniper could squeeze out a shot that would have killed Gunter on his way out of the Respawn zone.
"I can leave the room while you dress, if that will make you more comfortable," he added, pouring something from a brown bottle over the cloth he had in the sink. It fizzed as it struck the fabric. "Just let me rinse this, and it will be ready for the wash, and will not stain."
Gunter could see, now, that it his own uniform from the day before, that he'd left soaking in the sink upstairs.
"Then it will be time for supper. Then a debriefing. Then the drink I promised you."
Gunter didn't have capacity for much more shock at this point. Spy getting into his room only made him feel more ineffectual. Still, he wasn't crying any more, and Martin must not have heard anything, so nobody would know of that shame.
Gunter took the clothes from the table – his own, that he'd brought with him – and dressed. He felt a little more like himself, wearing familiar clothes. Martin had got his kit-bag, too, so Gunter made an effort to comb his hair, if he still had to appear before the team. The debriefing worried him. He couldn't remember doing much correctly; he'd been a punching bag for the Reds. Combat was much worse than his half-day of practice had led him to believe.
"You," Gunter's voice was hoarse, "if you want to, use the shower here…" It was thanks for helping Gunter both on and off the battlefield.
He gratefully accepted another cigarette from Martin. As he smoked, he looked up at the clerestory window, and saw the expectant birds there.
Gunter made himself stand and retrieve the bag of birdseed. He opened the window to let the doves in, and give them their food. They eyed him this time before fluttering down. Even simple creatures like doves knew he wasn't "their" Medic. Not a real one.
"Mercí," Martin said, turning from the sink for the first time. "Tonight, perhaps. For now, time is short. If I might borrow your comb? I admit that I am vain enough to not wish to entire team to see me thus." He indicated the messy state his hair had been left in after he removed the balaclava.
He left the door of the little bathroom open, and watched Gunter feeding the doves as he slicked down his hair with the borrowed comb. Every movement the Medic made spoke of someone who was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, yet forcing himself to keep functioning all the same.
"Some would say they are like wolves," Martin said at last. "The Reds, and the way they targeted you today. They are under no obligation to play fair. It happens sometimes, especially when a new man joins the team, but today half our team was new. Some would say they were like wolves, looking for the weakest antelope to single from the herd."
He wet the comb again, frowning into the mirror at a recalcitrant curl. "And it is true, if they were able to drive you away, it would weaken the team. And that would be a victory for them. However."
He gave the comb a final rinse, dried it, and returned it to Gunter.
"I think they are not so rational as wolves. They are like chickens, which will work together to peck another chicken to death if it has a speck of blood – or even if it has a colored feather in the wrong place. Not even a weakness, just a minor difference which does not matter at all. Chickens have very small brains.
"Fortunately, chickens often lose focus when interrupted. And if they do not – well, chickens only attack other chickens in this way. If they do not leave you alone shortly, we shall merely have to prove to them that you are some other kind of beast."
Removing the weakest from the herd… that sounded about right. But then Martin was going on about chickens. Gunter felt he should understand, but he didn't want to any more. He wanted to crawl into bed and escape into sleep.
He realized one dove was looking closely at him. Gunter stared back dully. It couldn't think he was familiar, not after the last feeding two days ago, could it? It was a bold little thing, walking in that funny way doves do, then flying up to his shoulder.
He held very still, hardly daring to breathe. Animals had never been part of his life; animals were for eating. Having a bird this close to him was almost magical. Would it allow him to touch it? It was so close, its feathers so delicate and shining.
Gunter reached up, hesitantly, but he wasn't sure how to hold a wild bird, or even a tame one. It seemed to sense his state of mind, and flew, rejoining its flock as they exited the window for the open skies. One wing brushed Gunter's cheek. It was soft yet strong.
The previous Medic had cared for these doves, and that's why they were so tame. Gunter imagined it like a children's movie, the birds following him around and singing – did doves sing? – and he laughed at the vision of himself like some kind of princess dancing with helper animals. It was the first thing he'd had to laugh about since he came here. His laughter had an unnatural sound, combined of rawness of emotion and throat.
Well, he thought, it would be painful, dinner and debriefing, and he didn't feel like eating, but he'd better get it over with. He nodded to Martin that he was ready.
Martin watched as Gunter laughed at the bird that had flown up to his shoulder before flying away again. Though he was concerned, his expression was neutral, perhaps a bit quizzical. Laughter was probably a good sign, he decided. Even if it sounded hoarse and a bit unsteady, it did not sound hysterical.
Liam's evening food so far was always fiery hot, the morning food always blandly filling. Gunter wondered why that was. It should be the opposite. Fiery food in the morning to get everyone revved up. Maybe it was like this to keep the men awake at the end of the day.
He ate listlessly, avoiding eye contact, praying he wouldn't draw attention to himself. Not now.
Sasha and Finn still struggled with the new tastes. Nobody talked much.
At last it was done, and Vlad signaled to hold off on cleaning up the dishes. "I'll make it brief, don't worry.
"We sucked eggs out there today, boys. I know, it was the first day for a bunch of you. And we'll get better. You need practice, you need to learn teamwork all over again. We'll be doing that this weekend too.
"I'll be frank, we'll get creamed again tomorrow. But we'll keep trying, because we're Blues, and we're getting paid well.
"Sasha. You're not mobile enough."
Gunter tuned Vlad out as the soldier went over everyone's good and bad points. Just get through this and it would be over soon.
"Doc…"
Gunter looked up for the first time.
"They're targeting you, and they'll likely do it again." Vlad sighed in frustration. "I'm glad you kept coming out and didn't give up. Sometimes when that happens, when they start targeting you, you don't feel like coming back out. But you did, and it shows you've got guts."
Really?
"I know you've got what it takes to be our Medic. You – "
Lonnie interrupted. "He's not even a real doctor. He lost his mind today. I don't want him guarding my back."
The table went very quiet. Gunter had to agree with the Engineer. Maybe they'd kick him out. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?
Samson stirred to Gunter's right. "Nobody here remembers, except Vlad, and Martin. My brother came here as a real doctor. He had not been to war, like me. He had seen death, but not like ours. He, too, suffered at the beginning. And he had the previous Medic to show him how to do his job."
David had been shocked by what the fighting was like. He hadn't been like this one, digging in the dirt, but he'd had nightmares, been sick, had had to adjust. He'd sometimes said that none of them could ever return to civilian life after all the death and gore, when it became ordinary.
Talking about David was evidently painful, but Samson pushed on. "This doctor, nobody has trained. I think he, too, has not seen war. David struggled, but he made it. He learned this life."
Now he looked at Gunter, who looked back up at the Heavy. "I will help the new doctor. I learned a lot about how a Medic needs to behave, from David. He will learn."
Gunter was speechless. He should thank the big man, but he felt unable to move or talk.
Lonnie slumped back in his chair, silent, scowling, but not contesting Samson's words.
Martin stood leaning against the wall. It was an uncivilized way to eat, but making someone sit next to him when he hadn't gotten to clean up after the day's battles would have been worse.
His gaze slid over Lonnie's. If Samson hadn't spoken up, Martin would have; but to back up Samson would only have made their Engineer feel attacked. He surveyed the rest of the team. Scout looked both shocked and relieved, like he was glad he wasn't the object of such contention. The new Sniper and Pyro were both hard to read, and Martin couldn't tell if Liam agreed with Lonnie or would be taking him to task over this later. He would have to watch that situation.
At least Heavy would also be looking out for their new Medic, and training him on the field, where Martin could be of little aid. It made the task of getting the man up to speed less daunting.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a tiny canoe!" Liam rolled his eyes. "So the man's new, an' a real toff from the look of 'im. A'course 'e wouldn't be good on 'is first day."
"Not even a real doctor," Lonnie grumbled from the engine compartment.
Liam leaned his chair back and blew a stream of sweet-scented smoke past the open garage door. Lonnie didn't permit smoking inside the motor pool, so Liam sat right outside. "So who cares? Vietnam's likely taking all the combat medics anyroad."
Lonnie hadn't thought of that. It made sense they'd get some dandy, if that were true.
"Besides," Liam's accent became less Irish and more Indian as he spoke, "If we don't have a full team, we can't fight, and if we don't fight, we don't get paid, and my smokes aren't cheap. If we lose him, we have to find someone else, and that will take time." He shrugged. "And I seem to remember you committing a few mistakes in your first days."
Lonnie slammed the hood down and wiped his hands on a rag. "Least Samson got stuck babysittin' him."
Gunter sat on the bed in his dark room, hugging his knees again. He was so tired, physically and emotionally, and yet he had no idea how he would sleep. If he could sleep.
After dinner, Martin had disappeared, and Gunter had returned here. Perhaps he should just lie down and –
He heard a noise – at the window? He raised his head to look. Maybe a bird or a bat, or even a large insect, had fluttered against it? It couldn't be anyone outside, he was well above ground level.
He half got up, then decided not to, then the whole thing was rendered moot by a knock at the door. Gunter thought of not replying, but he hadn't locked the door, and it was probably Martin anyway.
"Come in," he said, still sitting on the bed, but properly, legs over the side.
Martin opened the door cautiously, a bottle in one hand and two glasses carefully balanced in the other.
"I believe that I promised you a drink, non?" the Spy asked, eyes flickering around the dark room. "Though if you are ready for sleep, I would not wish to intrude."
Gunter shook his head. "Don't think I can sleep," he rasped, and waved the Frenchman in.
Martin closed the door and busied himself pouring the drinks, a scant amount in one glass, a more generous two fingers in the other.
"Eau de vie de vin," he said, passing the fuller glass to Gunter. "You are not required to speak of the day, this evening. You are tired. I do not presume to know what you need most, talk or distraction or rest. You will tell me."
He took a sip from his own glass, and waited until Gunter had done the same. "But first there is one thing you need to know, I think, and that is that you did not lose your mind, today. No matter what the Engineer said, or what you may have thought."
Wine. Gunter's mouth made a twisted smile. Somehow he'd thought Martin would bring vodka or schnapps, stuff like that. Wine was probably better for him anyway. If he got drunk now, he'd really have problems.
It sure seemed like he'd lost his mind. Gunter stared at the dark liquid, then knocked it all back at once. Maybe he should get good and drunk. It tasted good, for the brief time it was over his tongue. He set the glass on the end table and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. He wanted to talk, but his thoughts jumbled around themselves like those white flecks in a snow-globe.
"How do you do it?" he blurted. "How do you keep going, all that blood, all that… they wanted me to be a surgeon, you know that? They did." He grabbed the glass and held it out for more wine. "I couldn't stand the blood. I don't faint or anything sissy like that, but I don't like getting it on me, or seeing it. I'm no coward, I got through the surgery, didn't I? But God, the… I don't know how you all do it, how you aren't bothered by it…" He sneezed, and nodded at Martin's murmured French, probably the equivalent of 'bless you.' "Or seeing the, the bones and lungs and," he began to laugh, and this time it was slightly hysterical, "you know my last name, you said it yourself, it's Slaughterhouse, you'd think I'd be perfect for this, wouldn't you? Oh God." Gunter stopped laughing, shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. He didn't need to start bawling again. He tried to calm his breathing, but he felt like hyperventilating. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, aware he was shaking and wishing he wasn't. "All the damn blood," he murmured. "I saw his head. His head," his voice shook, "and it was staring at me, and even seeing him alive later, it doesn't change the fact that it was his severed head."
He raised his head to look at Martin, who was listening to him babble in the dark. "Does this – does everyone – ? Samson said his brother had a hard time too, but I don't know if he said that to make me feel better. Like Vlad saying I kept trying. God, you know he had to – to chase me out of there. You know I fell apart. I don't know what to do. If I stay it's horrible, but I can't leave either."
He was reluctant to make eye contact after so much babble. Even if Martin had said it was okay to talk, didn't mean Gunter had to have a mental breakdown. He reached directly for the wine bottle.
"Non," the Frenchman said firmly, and placed the bottle out of reach. "If you drink more tonight, you will regret it tomorrow. Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow night, you may get as drunk as you wish. Now."
He crossed the room and sat gingerly on the bed near Gunter – not too close, mindful of Americans' need for personal space – and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"You did not fall apart. You did what was needed to hold yourself together. It is a shock to everyone, when we arrive here. Some more than others. For Doctor Lamb, it was very hard. I am not certain that he could have adapted without his brother to help. And he was warned, what he was getting into. You were tricked."
Martin exhaled loudly, an exasperated noise.
"And that is heinous. This is not a life to send a man to, unprepared. But I meant what I said, before. You have the strength to do this. I can see it, even if you cannot. Samson, he will show you what to do in battle. Outside of battle, I will do the same, and make sure you learn to… to find your own strength."
The ghost of a smile curved his mouth.
"To make sure your soul does not get lost, yes?"
Gunter smiled too. "Yeah. I don't want to be like that." The wine was stronger than he'd thought, and it glowed happily in his stomach. He felt drowsy now, not just exhausted. He could probably sleep. "Thanks, Martin." He offered his hand to shake.
He did sleep, and mercifully remembered no dreams.
Samson had seen Martin go to visit the Medic, so he'd stayed away. He would still help this new doctor, who had shown surprising understanding in requesting a shaman. He must know something of the ways of the People, and that was unusual.
Teaching the new doctor would be like helping David, all over again. It would hurt. But it must be done.
Sasha had discovered how to get to the roof.
The main way, through the attic, was locked and blocked, but Sasha had climbed out of his window, then hooked a hand over the gable and hauled himself up. He was small enough and light enough to get away with it – the Heavy sure couldn't.
He wasn't the only one, either. He found cigarette butts in a beer bottle, so someone else liked to come up in here and smoke, or had. Maybe they'd found a way up through the attic, or they'd come up like he had. Either way, it meant he wasn't the only one up here, and that was good to know. And they didn't know he knew.
He could also reach any of the mercs' dorm windows. If they left the window open, or at least unlocked, he could get into their rooms. Maybe this was how Spies got around. Of course, he'd have to learn who was in which room. And he didn't have a good reason to snoop in his teammates' rooms. That was a Spy job. He smirked.
