Gunter woke and wasn't sure where he was. Light came in through the window, and there was… something walking on him.

Fears of rats made him bolt upright, looking around wildly. The thing walking on him turned out to be a bird, which flew to the foot of the bed, then looked at him reproachfully, if a bird could.

Gunter looked at the bird, and the headache caught up with him, along with vague memories of drinking on the roof, and bad dreams that woke him up during the night. And now there was… a dove. One of those little native doves that hung around the infirmary.

"You the same one as before?" he asked out loud, feeling very foolish talking to a bird. "How'd you get in here?" He squinted at the light; the window was a little open. "Forced the window?" The dove didn't laugh, but it wasn't a good joke. It cocked its head, stared at him with those beady black eyes, and hopped onto the blanket, then walked up to him.

"You're a bold thing," Gunter sighed. "You want me to get up?"

The dove made it to his hand, which rested on top of the blanket, and waited.

"I don't know what you want," Gunter said. "If you want Dr. Lamb, he's gone. It's just me."

It was… Saturday. He had a couple days to figure out how to get out of here.

"Hay, Doc!" Liam's voice came from behind the door. "Get yerself up and out here!"

"All right, all right," Gunter said. "Sorry, bird." He got out of bed – slept in his clothes again – had to stop doing that. The dove fluttered to perch on the alarm clock. "Did you have a name? I wonder if anyone knows. I don't even know if you're a girl or a boy." Gunter had no experience with pets or dealing with animals, and didn't know if he should chase the dove away, feed it, talk to it – what did people do with pets, anyway?

This one hung around for a while, but flew out the window while he freshened up. That was all he could do, freshen up; he needed spare clothing, and they wouldn't go into town anytime soon. Maybe they had some spares, or a way to order some. Otherwise he was going to smell pretty gamey in a few days, even with a daily shower.

After breakfast, Vlad set them to learning how life really went around BLU base.

Everyone had to do a week's worth of cooking, morning and night, and a week's worth of cleaning the dishes afterward. This required planning menus and making a grocery list, which was then added to the supply runs. Liam would run an impromptu class for the newcomers on how to do this, later in the day.

Laundry was generally infrequent, but it was polite to make sure nobody else had plans for the laundry machines at the same time. All the mercs except Gunter had off-duty clothes and something to wear for weekends into town, and there were two washers and dryers.

How to make supply requests. Equipment requests. Any requests at all for anything that had to be shipped in.

Then it was out into the yard for more practice before the heat of the day got too powerful. Gunter worked with almost every member of the team that morning; only the Engineer, Spy and Sniper were left out. In turn the other newcomers were also taught how to work with their new teammates.

They broke for lunch, and Vlad said they'd do some more in the evening. Gunter gladly hung up his equipment and changed out of the coat and gloves. Training still wasn't so bad, because there was no blood, no killing. Vlad didn't want them attacking each other, just learning how to communicate and move and work together. Gunter could handle that. It was much easier for him to pay attention like this, and by lunchtime, he thought he was starting to get the hang of it. Maybe, he thought, he could get to a state where it was automatic, and he wouldn't be distracted by gore. To that end, he tried hard to remember the directions, where things were, what he was supposed to do.

He sought out Martin and Samson during lunch. "About last night – "

Samson waved it off. "De nada."

That's right, Samson did speak Mexican Spanish. "Gracias por la ayuda. Me alegro de que tu alma ha regresado." [Thank you for the help. I'm glad your soul has returned.]

Samson laughed, a short hearty bark of a noise. "Estoy feliz de pagar la deuda." [I'm happy to repay the debt.]

Gunter smiled, grateful for the friendship. This was better. If he just didn't have to face the violence…

He ate several bites of sandwich before continuing. "I thought, after this, I'd look at the infirmary. Are either of you familiar with it?" Martin had sure been in there often enough.

Samson shrugged. "David was the doctor. I might help him move things, but I didn't trespass on his office, and he didn't tell me how to fight."

Martin shrugged. "As familiar as anyone who is not a Medic, I suppose. Dr. Lamb did not like anyone to rummage about, and I tried to respect that." Mostly, he had.

"Where'd you get off to last night, anyway?" Krieg said to the Scout. "I thought you might want to join the rest of us – Liam was going to set up a projector so we could watch a movie – but you weren't in your room, and I couldn't find you anywhere else, either."

"Oh yeah?" Sasha knew he'd have to be more careful in future. "I went out for a run."

"In the dark?"

"I was careful." Good point, though. He had to make a better alibi next time. "We got movies? Wish I'd known."

Krieg eyed Sasha curiously. The boy was clearly hiding something, and that was unexpected. He would figure it out sooner or later, though.

"He shrugged. "Maybe tonight we can round up a few of the others, too. Liam says it's a pain to set up the projector and Lonnie had something else to do, and most everyone had disappeared. Didn't seem worthwhile for just a couple of us. But it would be good to have some entertainment, I think. All work and no play, and so on."

The infirmary appeared well-stocked despite the medigun. Perhaps the supplies were for visitors, or if they left the base. Gunter realized he'd have to learn how to use these if he stayed, and that meant practice. He hadn't been in a health class since high school.

There was the equipment, both for the field and a fair amount of real, medical equipment, all neat, clean and somehow threatening. That was ridiculous, he told himself. They were just tools and mysterious equipment of unknown purpose. He still never wanted to perform surgery, not when they had the miraculous medigun, but Dr. Lamb had been ready for it, and maybe he had a reason for that.

There was a locked file cabinet and a locked desk. The heavy wooden desk looked like it had survived a firefight itself. It was old and near-black with age and must weigh a couple of Samsons. Damage marks scored the surface in places, some of them recent.

Vlad had lent him a spare set of keys and said he'd have Lonnie look at making keys for Gunter.

Gunter opened the file cabinet first. Medical histories, blank forms, paperwork; it looked deadly dull. The desk held a brown paper bag of tobacco wads, so Gunter put the ones from before with their fellows. There was a huge bag of peppermints in a bottom drawer, a typesetter's tray of dried herbs and plant parts, all marked in small crabbed ink that Gunter couldn't immediately read, and a few books. One was a Spanish Bible. Two more were a diary or journal in two volumes. Gunter didn't want to read someone else's diary, but maybe Samson would want it. He locked everything back up for the time being.

There was a bookcase with more empty space than books, but Gunter was heartened to see a few basic first-aid guides, plus other medical texts he'd probably use to fight insomnia. No wonder they were expecting a medical doctor; they'd had one for four years, and probably one before that. Gunter wondered again how long this battle had gone on. There was a photo album sandwiched between two texts, but Gunter had no time to look at present, because the door opened. Vlad stuck his head in. "Home economics class, Doc! It'll be your week soon enough!"

Liam and Vlad's crash course was eye-opening. This didn't feel like the kind of thing paid killers were known for, and yet every one of them would have to do this. Plan meals for 10 men? (It made the math easier, and they all ate like it was going out of style.) And it wasn't just scaling up; there were real questions about how fast something could be made, how nutritious, with the least amount of work. Taste was optional but "tasty" was preferred.

Bread was shipped in weekly without needing a request, but canned goods, fresh food, and staples needed a weekly shopping list, given to Vlad in advance so he had time to order them. Gunter realized the fare was likely to get monotonous by the end of the week, but how many different meals could you put together in an hour or less, anyway?

Vlad said Fridays were meatless and would brook no argument about it. Fish or eggs were fine. Okay, so maybe there was a little variety, but were there really that many Catholics on the team?

Vlad wanted the new folks to have menu drafts (including supply lists) by Sunday morning, so they could be reviewed and probably changed. Gunter had no idea what he could cook. Hard-boiled eggs, coffee and toast, sure, and canned beans, but full meals? That didn't come out of a can? Being a single student, he was used to paying for meals, not making them.

Finn had a question (Vlad and Sasha had been translating to Russian). What about wild game? Yes, anything he could hunt, skin and butcher was fine.

Dr. Lamb had kept a garden going for four years, and Lonnie had been maintaining it. That provided much-needed fresh vegetables and fruit depending on the season. While Dr. Lamb had been handling it, Vlad now wanted to add it to the duty roster so Lonnie wouldn't be stuck with both that and maintenance.

"Why don't you do it?" Sasha asked cheekily.

"Because I'm in charge and I have enough to do. Next up: dishwashing duty!"

To be fair, Vlad was on the schedule for that, and the cooking, and the cleaning. Every week, each man had some different chore to do: cooking, dishwashing, cleaning, gardening, laundry, maintenance… Gunter thought it seemed designed to keep them busy as well as self-sufficient. A free weekend or a trip to town would be a holiday in comparison. Trips could be withheld as punishments, too. Shirkers would find themselves stuck in this place while everyone else went to have fun and see the girls.

I've joined the Army, Gunter thought, except no pushups, no shaved heads, and I have a private bathroom.

After that, back to training for two hours. Gunter was encouraged to use his weapons, but he was reluctant to. First, he felt he would do better healing the team, though he knew that would hardly protect him against Red Medic. But the second reason was because the Medic weapons were no good.

The syringe gun was clunky, and Gunter couldn't hit anything with it no matter how hard he aimed. Maybe its sights were off, but if he tried to hit anything smaller than a barn, he missed, and that was frustrating as hell.

The bonesaw wasn't intuitive. You couldn't stab with it, it was a slashing weapon. Who used a saw in combat anyway? Gunter got the symbolism as a doctor's tool, but still. "Could I use something else?"

"Like what?"

"Red Medic has a different saw." Definitely not a bonesaw, more like a single-edged knife.

Vlad nodded. "Not sure where he got it, but it seems to be allowed. Why? Got something in mind?"

Gunter shrugged. "Not yet. But there can be substitutions?"

Now it was Vlad's turn to shrug. "Hell, I'm already letting Finn carry around that ax. Let me know what you come up with." It wasn't a yes, but it certainly wasn't a no, either.

This was supposed to be their weekend, their days off, but instead it was training and organization and duty rosters and more.

"This is women's work," Krieg grumbled once, during the kitchen lesson. The room went suddenly quiet, crackling with tension. Even Finn, who probably hadn't understood the words even if he'd heard them, stared.

"You see any women here, cupcake?" The soldier's voice sounded amiable and cheerful, but Krieg could hear the menace under the surface.

Krieg made a show of cutting his eyes around the room, to cover his mistake. "None at all," he admitted.

"Right." Vlad looked at all of them, but his firm gaze rested longest on Krieg. "We do for ourselves, here. It takes all of us to keep this place running smoothly, and I will not tolerate shirkers."

Krieg nodded. He knew when he was beaten. "Understood."

They returned to the lesson, and Krieg made a show now of being a willing, even eager, pupil. He should have kept quiet and tried to barter the chore away later, or displayed such ineptitude at cooking that he had to be reassigned for the good of the team; but he hadn't thought. Now, it would be a matter of pride, he would have to make it a matter of pride, to serve his weeks cooking and serve them well, or he would never be out of the shadow of suspicion that he was not there to serve the team.

Finn fretted about feeding these people. In the forests, he could have fed them easily, given enough time to do so. The forests had game, the rivers and lakes teemed with fish, and in warmer weather he could collect berries and mushrooms. You could even eat some of the tree bark if there was truly nothing else. He'd done it, during the hard times.

But this place was barren: not even streams for water, no trees, no bushes worth the name. How could he find food in this place?

He was well aware of canned food; it had its uses. And bread, and porridge. But for nine men? The soldat was right, it would take planning in this hostile land.

The German complained of something that nobody bothered to explain to Finn, but the soldat was displeased.

Gunter was worried. Cooking for ten? He privately agreed with Krieg, but he'd had the sense to keep his mouth shut. How had Liam turned out those meals? And gardening? Gunter didn't know a weed from a lettuce.

Sasha didn't look too concerned. "My ma had to cook for all of us," he bragged, "Me an' seven brothers an' my dad an' sometimes aunts an' uncles an' cousins. I know all about this."

"Then you can go the week after Samson," Vlad said amiably. "His week starts tomorrow. I'm looking forward to see what you put on the table."

Sasha looked startled as the men laughed. Gunter laughed too, in relief. He was learning: don't volunteer, don't stand out. And now he had at least two weeks to learn. Maybe he would even be out of here by then, but in case he wasn't, he'd better figure something out. Maybe he could see what Sasha and Samson did. Martin probably put together those super-fancy French dishes out of frogs' legs and champagne.

"You're all dismissed," Vlad finished. "We'll have a movie tonight at 8 o'clock in the common room."

After the lesson, Finn told the soldier by a mix of words and signs that he would explore outside. The Sniper already had his weapons and extra water (that had been made very clear to him upon his arrival, always take water). Soldat made the Russian boy go with him, in case he needed to talk to anyone else. Neither party was happy about it. Finn reluctantly decided he needed to learn at least some English.

Gunter expected disapproval from Martin about his lack of cooking knowledge, and he wasn't disappointed. "I never had to learn," he explained.

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. "How is it, that men in this country can grow up never knowing how to prepare a proper meal?" he inquired of the heavens, or perhaps only the plaster of the ceiling. "And how do the women allow it?" He returned his gaze to Gunter.

"Very well, then. What is it you say you can cook? Tea, toast, eggs, and beans from cans? Have you ever learned to chop vegetables? Cook meat to doneness, without burning it? Combine spices for flavor? No? How have you lived so long, and stayed so healthy, not living with your mama? Never mind, I am not sure I wish to know."

He sighed, with just a touch of dramatic flair to let Gunter know he was teasing. "I suppose I had best teach you. It will be easiest, I think, if I take your first week of cooking – make no mistake, you will take my next one, in exchange! I do not wish to feed this crowd for two weeks in the same month – and you will serve as my sous chef in that week. That way, you can learn the basic tasks, and no one will need to fight with a belly full of charcoal."

Martin had a way of making Gunter embarrassed about not having a skill he'd never needed before. Still, he could probably learn, with Martin teaching him. "Thanks," he said, though he wasn't looking forward to two weeks of cooking for the team, either, but what could he do? They'd probably riot if he served canned beans and eggs twenty-eight times in a row.

Dinner was light, inside the base, but Finn and Sasha missed it. They did make it back in time for the movie, but Sasha complained nonstop until Finn got tired of it and slapped the boy on the back of the head.

There was no game here, no food. They were wholly dependent on the supply trucks and the garden. Even the doves that nested here were only enough to provide one meal, if Finn decided to shoot them.

The movie was from the previous year, but as Liam explained, Teufort was well off the beaten path and any movie was worth watching when you'd gone long enough.

"Like women," he said wistfully.

"Were there ever servants here?" Gunter asked him. "Janitors, cooks, things like that?"

"Na' as long as I've been here, mate," Liam said. "An' if they'd had women, you know how it would have turned out. No, I think they've always made us live on our own."

Lonnie made enormous bowls of popcorn, with melted butter and salt, and there was plenty of beer to wash it down. Gunter wondered if BLU hijacked a beer truck every week, or if the local brewery had a deal to deliver massive quantities of cheap alcohol to both sides.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly was new for some of them, and even Finn didn't need much translation. The mercs were caught up in the story of betrayals, treasure hunting and Civil War violence. Even Gunter, who wondered why it didn't bother him so much to see the blood on the screen. Because it was just a movie? Because he knew it was fake? Or because he'd seen a lot worse in the past two days? Though the beating scene in the prison camp still made him wince. He hoped nobody noticed. It wasn't like he had to leave the room.