Medic made you keep a plastic ball in some sort of tube afloat with only your breath before declaring you fit to depart. Breathing feels more natural now, and your chest seems too small yet for whatever the hell the doctor put in, but the scars are little, pink lines now, and the pain minimal. One long, eight-inch line between your breasts, and little rays branching from it where each stitch had been looped. Sensitive, yet, but well. All-in-all, better than lying in recovery for a month, you suppose.

The first thing you want to do upon being cleared and told to re-dress is take a bloody shower. Then, upon getting the pungent iodine scent off your body and its coppery residue off your chest, you want only to go back to your room, flop onto crisp sheets, and stare at the ceiling for about an hour. Then, you believe you'll be fit to eat.

But when you draw back the curtain, Medic stands genially on the other side, lips upturned in a smirk. Back straight, coat crisp, white—impossibly so, and you realize with some annoyance that he had to have donned a new one—spectacles high on the bridge of his nose. "Shall I escort you to the mess hall?"

"I'd really like to shower first." You don't bother adding that the others had already shown you the mess' location.

He ignores your pointed look. "You may miss dinner in that case. It's already eighteen-hundred hours."

A stifled groan. There go the pleasant dreams of a nice, hot shower on your tender incision site. Your fingers find the rusty iodine stains showing at your collarbone. "May I have a cotton ball and some alcohol for a moment, then?"

"Ja, ja."

After a quick bath of sorts, you join Medic by the doors, just as he flips the manila folder on his clipboard closed. He gives you a strange, sidelong glance, and you're not sure what to make of it before he strides to an adjacent office and deposits the records on a large desk, locking the door behind him.

You don't question it. Instead: "Dinner?"

He nods. "Yes." But his expression has not changed—intent, a focus you cannot pin down. "And, needless to say, anything that occurs in this room or my office…" He gestures to the now-locked door; the plaque on it reads simply: 'Medic.' No name, no indication of a PhD. "…is strictly confidential and will not be repeated. Anything you might tell me will not leave this room."

"Except to go to the Administrator's desk." You're not stupid. This is a good opportunity, not a free one.

Medic isn't disturbed in the slightest by your remark. "Of course. But you need fear no immediate breach of confidence. Und, if you have any problems here, you may contact Miss Pauling with your concerns."

This is… odd. You open your mouth to reply, to ask—

"There is a phone," he continues. "Upstairs, on the second floor, near the stairwell. Pick it up, dial zero. You'll reach Miss Pauling."

You nod dumbly. After all that—? Have you passed some sort of test? Now that you were compatible with the system, did that mean he actually considered you a member of the group? Actually dedicated to the job?

Or, worse—did he anticipate such trouble?

But he only returns your nod and strides out the door, holding it open for you to follow. You do, silent.

"Do you have any questions?" Medic asks amiably as you walk together down the sparse halls.

Only a thousand you aren't sure how to broach. "What's for dinner?"

Medic laughs outright. "Hungry, frau?"

"More than a little." You're glad the moment has passed. Whatever it was. "We had lunch just outside Phoenix—that was hours ago now."

"I don't know what Herr Engineer has planned, but it will no doubt be satisfying."

"Does he usually cook?"

"Nein. We take turns every other day. If anyone has a problem with what you have selected, they can make a sandvich."

You chuckle. "I like that." Sounds like home.

The scent of something warm and sweet reaches your nose, and your stomach growls. You resist the urge to walk faster toward the half-open door at the end of the hall, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. "Where does it come from? The food."

The medic adjusts his glasses slightly, pushing them down the bridge of his nose, eyes fixed on the hall ahead. "We receive a shipment every two weeks of standard ingredients. At first, it was—ach—what do you call army food? In zhe cans and zhe foil."

"Charlie-rats." You shake your head. "MCIs, I mean."

There's a glint in his pale eyes, and you nearly bite your tongue. Shit. That's not common knowledge is it?

"Ah, yes! They shipped MCIs first." You decide to keep your mouth shut, rather than ask why they didn't send A- or B-rations in the first place. Perhaps he had been lying from the start, hoping you'd expose clues about your origins. Is this because he recalled your response to the soldier's initial greeting? Perhaps you're on the paranoid side. "We convinced Miss Pauling to see about real food, and here we are—milk, fruit, relatively fresh vegetables, lunch meats. Anything else you need, you can find in town, not that we're exactly welcome."

"So Miss Pauling said." Your best innocent tone: "Something about property damage?"

He waves a hand. "They still accept our money at zhe grocery market."

You push into the mess hall; a kitchenette and long table with rickety chairs, smelling delightfully of—

"Pancakes!"

The engineer chuckles, scooping several off an iron skillet and onto a platter in the center of the table. "I'll take that as a sign you don't mind 'em a bit."

The spy, sitting closest to where you stand, mutters something about bastardized crepes.

"It's perfect!" But you freeze, grin still reaching your eyes, even as your stomach sinks somewhere under the floorboards. The spy's eyes are unreadable, fixed and unyielding, pinning your feet where they stand.

This isn't for you. You just happen to be here.

And thank gods for that; they couldn't know. Bloody hell—you hope they can't. You shake your head. As though enjoying the thought of pancakes—even the revelation that they may be a comfort to you—could really give away your region, your home-town. The very thought was foolish; surely your voice would give away more. But you sober, smile only gently gracing your lips.

"Thank you."

The last thing you need is a breach of contract on the first day, intentional or otherwise.

"You're welcome, darlin'. Now don't just stand there—pick up a plate before these hooligans eat it all."

You don't have to be told twice. Pancakes. You pile them onto the nearest free plate with gusto—a steaming stack of flapjacks.

"Gonna leave some for the rest of us, Spesh?" Scout says around a mouthful.

"Don't pay him any mind!"

"Scout, do not talk with your mouth full!"

"Spesh?" You wrinkle your nose. "Really?"

The boy waves a hand at you and the spy, swallowing his food. "I'm workin' on it."

Your plate now full of delectable breakfast-for-dinner, you hesitate, looking over the table. Nine chairs. The spy sits at one end, Heavy at the other. Scout is nearest you, with two empty chairs beside him. Demoman and Soldier sit opposite. The sniper is nowhere to be seen, and Medic has not taken a seat, but rifles around the refrigerator instead.

"Sit next to me!" Adds the scout helpfully, and you stifle a sigh. Better than standing about like an idiot. "Snipes prob'ly isn't comin' anyway."

You set your plate down. "Does he have something against pancakes?"

"Nah," He laughs. "Just likes bein' alone or somethin'."

"He might like it better if you weren't so loud," observes the spy dryly.

Medic sets a lager at the place next to you, beside the heavy, and grabs a plate from the stack. "Beer?" he asks.

"Tea?" You return hopefully, hands resting on the back of your chair.

"Iced tea in the fridge," calls Engineer over his shoulder.

"Thank you!" You open the white, subtly curved unit—it looks as though it's seen better days, perhaps before being impacted by a rocket—and quickly find the pitcher.

"Glasses are in the cabinet to your left."

"Thank you, Spy."

He gives a curt nod, rolling an unlit cigarette between his teeth.

You pull one down, fill it, and replace the pitcher among several bottles of beer, a carton of milk, and several brown, unlabeled bottles not unlike the one Demoman drank from earlier—and, you notice with a quick glance over your shoulder—very like the one he was drinking now. Your brows draw tight in a frown; there's barely a clink at the table behind you.

An awkward silence has fallen over the mess hall, disturbed not at all as you take a seat at last between Medic and Scout, who steadily pours syrup over his pancakes until the plate becomes a soupy mess. The others eye you none too subtly over their meals. Your hands are slick with sweat as you grab a fork and knife from a pile beside the platter.

Why. Things had been going fine.

The responsibility of carrying on a conversation shouldn't be yours, should it? You cast your eyes to one side, and the heavy politely returns to his pancakes. The medic, on the other hand, stares openly, brows arched, neck of the beer-bottle pressed between his fingers. You shiver, and try keeping your eyes on your food instead, laying claim to the syrup as soon as Scout gets his hands off it.

"So—" The demoman fixes his eye on you, and your hands almost lose track of the syrup, dripping steadily onto the plate. "—tell us what you've got, lass."

You manage to tip the bottle up before things get messy. "What I've got?"

"Aye—your weapons, lass—assumin' you don't go in fists swinging. Not that there's anything wrong with that." He winked. Not a blink. A definite wink, as though he'd long since grown accustomed to telegraphing his body language to convey the gesture.

"Well." You set the bottle of syrup aside. The rest are attentive, now, open, and you catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. "Shouldn't we… see if anyone else is coming to eat?"

Engineer steps between you and the Scout to put more pancakes on the table. "Pyro already got their plate, and Sniper probably won't show 'til we're gone."

"So, out with it!" The soldier clanks his fork on the table. "What's your layout?"

Layout.

Loadout?

"Well—my favorite is my Lancaster Charles." You clear your throat unnecessarily, and immediately feel as though everyone at the table knows it was superfluous. "A—uh—howdah pistol."

"British weapon," Heavy observes. "Not common military issue—is old."

"Strange choice, considering we're not shooting tigers in the colonies." Spy lazily pinched the unlit cigarette.

Scout stuffs another forkful into his mouth. "That Heavy's close enough to a tiger if ya ask me. Or maybe a bear."

That earns a round of chuckles.

You taste your pancakes with amusement. Damn—you haven't had such a meal in quite some time, not since you left home. Fluffy and golden and sweet. Warm like a summer afternoon.

"So you've got a big pistol—what else?" demands the boy.

"A ballistic shield," you say more readily. Why conceal things now? At least they aren't asking personal questions. "Collapsible; experimental, according to Miss Pauling, but as much as I've used it, it doesn't seem to have any problems—doesn't catch or anything."

"Almost as good as running in bare-knuckles!" The demoman tips his bottle back with a grin.

You're emboldened. "I think you'll like the third one best—you'll likely appreciate it."

"Well, go on, lass!"

A grin. "Gyrojet Conversion Pistol."

Heavy's face lit up immediately. "Is new! Have not gotten my hands on one yet; may I see it, please?"

His excitement is contagious. "Sure—you can come by after dinner if you'd like, or you can see in the morning?" You notice you've powered through half your pancakes already, and there's no small amount of relief when Engineer steps over to fill the platter again.

"Ya mind cluing the rest of us in, if you're done geekin'?" Scout grumbles.

You twist your fork, an extra energy to the movement. "Basically, it shoots tiny, bullet-sized rockets with extremely low recoil, so I can use it with my shield."

"WHY USE TINY ROCKETS WHEN YOU CAN HAVE A BIG ROCKET?"

You try to ignore the saliva on your forearm and pray it missed your plate. "Well, Soldier, why would I have big rockets if you already have a rocket launcher? We don't need two."

The soldier taps his chin. "You have a point, maggot!"

You can feel a long day coming tomorrow, if the man insists on maintaining the drill sergeant routine.

Demoman looks a little blissful. "Bullet-sized explosives?"

"13mm-style chamber." A shrug. "It's not an explosive so much as a rocket-propelled bullet. Light chamber—and I can convert the pistol into an assault rifle with a detachable barrel and stock. Lightweight and ready to go." You grin.

"How accurate?" asks Heavy.

"At about twenty-five yards, you start to lose it, but with a ballistic shield—"

"You can get right on top of the bastards!" Demoman slaps the table, cackling, and takes another drag from the mouth of his brown bottle.

"That's the idea." You reach for more pancakes and refill your plate. "The microjets build acceleration over time, so the best place for me to fire is mid-range."

Medic nods quietly, finishing his lager, plate still empty. "Perhaps you should accompany Herr Scout for the first hour. See how well you can defend him to the point—he's fast enough to get in and out of range, while you hold position."

You nod, trying not to pour the syrup too dejectedly. Might as well resign yourself to a very long day tomorrow.

Perhaps he'd be a bit different on the field.

"Aw, man, this is gonna be great, you just watch!" You nearly choke on your first bite as Scout slings an arm around your shoulders. "You get to watch me work! Trust me, I'm the best team playa' here. You're gonna love it, Spesh—"

Or not.

You glance sidelong at Medic, who simply grins, giving a half-hearted shrug as he helps himself to the platter. Jerk. You reach for your tea—and very nearly choke on that, too; syrup and pancakes and sweet tea is almost as bad a decision as pancakes and beer.

You should have bloody well known. If the southerner knew where the tea was, then he made the tea, and when he said 'tea', it was sweetened iced tea, no doubt about it. But even as you try to get the sickening amount of sugar and syrup out of your mouth, you can't help but feel that much better for a little taste of home. A home, at any rate.

Notes: For a fairly campy canon, I'm doing an unusual amount of research.

The weapons cited herein are quite real, and, rather period-accurate. The Lancaster Charles howdah pistol, is, however, about 100 years old at this time-though I imagine an improved version has been crafted for the Specialist. Who doesn't want a four-barrel pistol with enough power to stop a full-grown tiger?

The Gyrojet, on the other hand, was very much developed in the 1960s, though it was not immensely popular, and never made it as a standard-issue weapon in the US. There were assault rifles, flare launchers, and derringers made with this technology as well, and few remain today.

MREs (Meals, Ready to Eat) weren't the packaged meal of choice for the US military until 1981. Starting in 1958, troops were given wet food in cans (instead of the dehydrated meals that exist now), with a brown, foil accessory pack. They were commonly called "C-rations" (or "Charlie-rats") by the troops, though they were not the C-rations that had existed before, among A-, B-, D-, and K-rations, which ranged from fresh, to kitchen-ready, to high-energy food. ...You see, I was just going to have the Specialist reply: "MREs," but this is more accurate to my 1969ish setting.

The more you know. (Research is my jam.)