Sleep was fitful, but you woke alert enough, donned a clean uniform in the morning-dark, and shuffled down to the kitchen, where the scent of coffee and a hot kettle waited. You take a seat across from the demoman, half-slumped in his cup of tea. There's the distant sound of a bugle, but it's not enough to jostle either of you into more than a grunt of "g'morning," and you're halfway to a light doze over your own steaming mug when a gloved hand clicks something onto the table before you.

You blink. It's a little, brown bottle. "What's this?"

Medic stands at your shoulder, hands behind his back. "Dietary supplements. You will take one each morning, and two each evening." He moves to the cupboard and draws a mug down for himself. It sounds a hollow ring on the countertop.

"Why?" Your brow furrows. He can't be criticizing your eating habits already!

"It compensates for nutrients lost during respawn," Medic replies as he pours the coffee. "Potential negative side-effects vill be negated or at least slowed over time."

You press a hand to your brow. First, your identity in exchange for this position, then, your heart in exchange for temporary invulnerability, and now, your damned nutrition, too. "Nothing's free, is it?"

The question had been rhetorical, but Medic meets your eyes over his spectacles. "No." The doctor takes his cup and carries it to the door, back the way he'd come. "Remember to take them. You won't like it if I have to administer zhem for you." And then he's gone, door swinging shut behind him.

You frown at the bottle; a bright reflection of the fluorescents winks cheerfully on the amber glass and white, metal lid. There's no label—no indication of what, exactly, the capsules inside might supplement.

"Best t'just take it, lass," advises the demoman, slurping his tea. It occurs to you that this is the first time you haven't seen him nipping at the bottle. "Migh' not be exactly what 'e says it is, but it's better than th' alternative."

You might have some idea, but you ask anyway: "What's the alternative?"

The man fixes you under his singular, tawny gaze. "Y'had the surgery, did ye no'?"

"Yes." Your fingers tighten around the mug's porcelain handle.

He nods. "Well, there ya go."

The shiver elicited by this non-explanation and your decision to take one of the red capsules are absolutely unrelated. Mostly unrelated. You swallow the pill, supposing you ought to eat something with it, though Medic gave no particular indication either—

[Alert: BLU spy in the base! A BLU spy is in the base!]

"Aw, bloody hell!" Demoman knocks back the rest of his tea in one gulp and nearly upsets his chair on the way to the door. "Bloody boggin bassa can't fookin'—"

You're scrambling up, tucking the bottle into your pocket as a siren begins to whine over the speakers. "What? What's going on?"

"Grab yer gear, lass, and get down to th' intelligence room!" He takes the moment to tighten his belt before bolting down the hall, calling one more complaint over his shoulder: "The bloody scadge's started early!"

Well… you're not entirely sure what a 'scadge' is, or exactly how the spy might have gotten into the base before seven in the morning, but you're already careening down the hall toward your room, sparing more than one furtive glance about the corridor, as though you might see the smarmy bastard lurking around any corner. You wish now that you'd just taken your weapons to breakfast. In fact, you're seriously considering strapping on your Lancaster as part of your daily routine—like brushing your teeth, or finding a clean pair of underwear.

As soon as you throw open the door to your room, you're reaching for the weapons lined neatly upon your bed, ready for the day: howdah pistol first. You strap it immediately on your thigh. Then, Gyrojet, and then: ballistic shield. These you can carry and buckle into place as you run, making your way through the unceasing din of sirens toward the south-facing spawn—the one linked to the vault where RED's secret documents were stored.

You see the pyro turn the last corner up ahead, and fall into place beside them as you enter the spawn room. Everyone else is already present, holstering weapons and slamming their lockers shut—all, you notice, except Demo, Engineer, and your team's spy.

"Ah, neue!" Medic appears beside you, smiling—a complete and utter change in manner from mere minutes ago. The air around him practically buzzes with an excitement too reminiscent of the disconcerting glee he displayed your heart surgery two days ago. "You're ready for a hunt, ja?"

It makes sense now. "You knew."

"Yes. We were supposed to capture the enemy intelligence today—but I did not know zhe BLU spy would be so eager to begin." He flashes a broad grin, eyes narrowing, glinting dangerously behind his wire-framed spectacles. "To track him down today would sate your lust for revenge and benefit the team. There was no reason to put your focus in jeopardy yesterday: victory is made by zhe team as a whole." Yes—it all makes sense now. Of course you should have known not to be tempted to deviate from the objective in the first place. "Now, what do you say we give the spy a taste of his own medicine?"

The very thought gives you a thrill, and you find yourself returning his grin. "Where do we start?"

"You and I—we will take the right corridor. Scout will lead Soldier and Heavy to retrieve zhe enemy papers. Engineer has already begun to set up a defensive perimeter—Sniper and Pyro will join him. Demo and Spy have already begun their task. Komm."

You do, following the even click of his boots on the concrete into the hall. The ballistic shield finds your hand as you follow close in the doctor's shadow, just on the tail of his pristine coat. Only the tap of boots and the whisper of fabric can be heard as you move down the corridor—when had the siren fallen silent?

The only eggshell-colored walls in the entire base fly by in your hurry to keep up with Medic; he was far faster than you anticipated with that bulky medi-gun apparatus over his shoulders. Your brow furrows. Still—the man has no armor, no particular defense should some distasteful surprise be waiting for you ahead. You open your mouth to tell him so when he suddenly dodges to the left, to round the first corner; you grab for the edge of his coat but your fingers meet only air as he holds his ground, aims—

Lowers the syringe gun, gives you a nod. The hall is clear.

"Shouldn't I—?" You indicate your shield-arm helplessly. This is what the ballistic shield is made for: pressing or holding a small area. An enclosed location gave you the greatest advantage; the wide field of the gravel pit didn't showcase half the possibilities of—

"Oh, you haven't seen me work in a tight space yet, Fräulein Specialist! Let me assure you, my skills are most effective in zhe closest range you can imagine." Something in his grin is reminiscent of that jagged bone-saw, and you find there's no way to reply.

So, you follow him down the too-quiet hall, moving at a steady pace. If he won't let you take point, you'll cover his six. You're sure to turn in tight semi-circles, sweeping methodically, shield high, Gyrojet low, eyes keen for even the slightest movement, the smallest disturbance in the air…

A thought occurs: "How do we know there's a spy in the base?

The doctor gives a derisive snort. "Our spy ran across him, but did not succeed in killing the man."

The spitting image of Scout leading you to sure death is one that does not readily leave your mind. Nothing had seemed off. Voice, expression—how was anyone to determine the false in such an uncanny imitation? "How do we know our spy wasn't replaced?"

"Oh, believe me, Specialist—" Medic's chuckle raises the hair on the back of your neck. "—we made quite certain."

"Ah." You fervently hope you're never in such a position, and firmly decide not to ask for details; you don't want to know.

Footsteps ahead.

With a snap, your shield extends, and you move—but Medic blocks the path with his arm, shaking his head once, firmly.

Tap tap tap tap.

He lifts a gloved finger to his lips, and readies the syringe gun as you draw your Gyrojet high, your stance an awkward in-between; not fully defensive, nor committed to attack. Why won't he just let you—

Pyro. Your pyro, thank god, rounds the corner, bent in a graceful arc over the flamethrower's shaft and nozzle, sweeping it before them like the muzzle of some great hound.

But Medic does not lower his weapon.

"Mmmrmph. Mhuddah."

And neither has Pyro lowered their flamethrower.

"Pyro. Have you found anything?" The doctor asks conversationally.

The mercenary shakes their masked head. "Muhrmn. Hrn?"

Doubtless, the sound was inquisitive; it would not be a stretch, you decide, to interpret it as "you?" Your eyes flick to Medic's shoulders, rigid beneath the starched white of his coat. You shift uneasily.

"Nein, nothing," he replies, voice perfectly even, each syllable carefully selected and uttered in exact rhythm.

"Hmrmph."

Medic gives no indication of comprehension, not the smallest nod, nor the subtlest arch of his brow. Your fingers tighten around the Gyrojet's handle.

"In that case, Herr Engineer could use some assistance." The doctor steps aside, turns to indicate the hall through which you had just trekked. He gestures with an open hand, elbow tucked close to his torso, and the barrel of the syringe gun sweeps with his pivot, pointing ineffectually at the wall just ahead. "He is setting up a dispenser close to the central intersection." You complement Medic's position, turning to allow your team-mate to pass.

"Huddah!" Pyro gives a thumbs-up.

Medic's lips curl. "Excellent. We'll have that spy soon enough."

The pyro strides past, eclipsing your view of the doctor for only a moment.

First is the sound of heels scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. Your eyes missed the instant of movement—and for a moment you're not sure who struck first. The flash of silver. The glint of blood. A waver in the air as Pyro melts away in a flash of blue.

And Medic, a triumphant grin, fluorescents glinting on his spectacles, hair in a disheveled sweep across his forehead, constraining the BLU spy's limbs with an arm across his waist, jagged bone-saw pressed to his neck, the smallest flecks of crimson coloring the blade's edge. A shallow wound shows in a tattered tear of the spy's trousers, blood upon his thigh.

Holy hell.

"Well, Specialist? He's yours."

All trussed up and glaring steadfast, suit mussed—so very, utterly, deliciously opposite yesterday's meeting—for you. You can feel your heart race a little faster, a hollow thump behind your breast.

"Monsieur," you say, a grin creeping over your lips. "I'm afraid I did not introduce myself properly yesterday."

He spits, and you frown. "Now that is rude. Are you not a gentleman, Mr. Spy?"

"As though you're worth my consideration," he snorts. "I'll get what I came for—this little game is of no consequence."

You raise your eyes to Medic's. The doctor has adopted an expression of keen interest, brow high, mouth quirked so very slightly.

"You'll be gone by the end of the week," the BLU spy sneers.

You're suddenly not sure what to do. The spy granted you a quick, clean death—twice. You don't have a knife with you to make your retaliation suitably messy (in keeping with revenge) and short (in keeping with simple fairness). The Lancaster is already in your hand, wood warm against your palm. Leaving him to bleed out is simply too risky. But the pistol alone seems too easy, after the way he'd played with you yesterday, and Medic—observing, intent—you suddenly feel as though this is some test of… mettle? Mercy?

You can feel beads of sweat prickle your brow, slick your palm.

"Neue." Medic nods, letting his mouth curl in an inviting grin. "Anything."

"The girl requires coaxing?" The spy laughs outright, full, sound echoing along the hall. "Go home, cherie: this is no place for a soft heart. Tell your mother you've failed utterly to—"

His lips are moving, but you do not hear the rest. The world is dark, and it is red, and you force an open hand against the blunt edge of the saw. Silver teeth grind against leather, pierce soft flesh. One beat; two—and blood, crimson, glinting in the white light, pours from a dozen jagged slivers in pale skin, running, splashing upon the blade, and the spy's voice gargles, scratches, catches, stops, nothing but ragged, rattling gasps—and you level the four barrels of the howdah with his head.

"Ready?" you ask him, a bitter mockery.

But the spy only gasps ineffectually, gaping like a fish. He drops to his knees, gloved hands scrambling to stop the blood for even a moment—

"The Specialist. At your service." You pull the trigger.

Scarlet and crimson and burgundy. Sticky, bitter iron prickles your throat with each breath. You wait. You watch, until the white shards disappear from the wall, the heavy lumps of matter and shreds of leather fade from the floor, the body evaporates from view. Until respawn takes every trace of consequence from your action, leaving only the spray of blood, a memory on the walls, trickling derisively down your nose.

Notes: The More You Know: The title 'Fraulein' ("Miss") is rather out-dated in the present, often considered rather offensive-almost like "missy" or "little miss," as my beta mentioned. Neither of us are sure when it became condescending, but I wanted to keep it here for that reason-whether or not the title was still in accepted use in the late 60s-because it is a bit condescending. Because sometimes Medic is kind of an arse. [EDIT: My beta found out that the word was banned from formal use in German in 1972]