It seems such a short time later that you're showered and laundered. Engineer had been glad to show you how to operate the "improved" laundry facilities, which include a washing machine and dryer that look like they've been tinkered with since the day they arrived. They each have a dozen buttons that appear to be non-functional or seem to match a doomsday device rather than a washing machine—but if it means you get incredibly clean clothes in one miraculous hour, you'll take it without question. As far as you can tell, it's just one incredible device after another on this base.

Like the medi-gun.

Now, with damp hair and pants and a button-down that smells like industrial soap with a hint of lemon, you stand at your little window, watching the sky change behind the bars. Orange fades into lilac. The sun is hidden behind distant mountains, and the desert glows salmon, then lavender under the sky.

And you wonder about suffering.

What, exactly, is Medic's definition, and is it anything like yours?

Chapter twenty was your laundry-time reading today, and so very apt: "Let me make myself clear: I would fight a duel for an insult, a blow or a lie, and I'd do it with hardly a thought because, thanks to the skill I've acquired in all bodily exercises and the gradual way in which I've accustomed myself to danger, I'd be almost certain of killing my opponent. Oh, yes, I'd fight a duel for something of that sort; but for slow, profound, infinite and eternal suffering I'd try to avenge myself by inflicting similar suffering. 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.'" The Count's words ring true down to your bones.

Of course, there are some sufferings for which vengeance cannot be taken.

And your mother—your mother would advise forgiveness. But there are simply some things that simply cannot be forgiven.

Knock, knock, knock.

You turn from the window and slowly register the wetness on your cheeks. "Yes?" You wipe the clear traces of tears from your face. Damn things are becoming all too common.

"Spezialist? May I speak with you, please?"

Your heart jumps to your throat. Oh, hell. Is he ready to admonish you now, especially after that display today? Let you know that the medical report for your employers will not pass scrutiny, and you'll need to come to terms with your removal, send a letter home—

"Spezialist?"

Today couldn't have changed anything. You hardly looked any more stable strangling the life out of a man for some relief than you did during yesterday's panic in the med-bay. "Sorry—just a second."

You straighten up, shake out your arms as though you can fling the doubt and fear and frustration to the far corners of your room, take a long breath, and unlock the door. It reveals the medic, tall in his crisp coat—clean and blindingly white, his tie impeccably straight, fingers bare, polishing his spectacles on the lab-coat's lapel.

"Good evening."

"I—good evening."

He replaces his glasses with a nod. "Where would you like to speak?"

You're taken aback. "Here," is the first thing that comes to your mind and tumbles out of your mouth. "Here is fine." You step aside, and Medic glides through the door.

As he passes, you catch a scent on the air; he smells of antiseptic and spicy… resin?

The man finds a chair while you hesitate at the door. Should you leave it open? This is… a professional call, surely—as he sits, he moves the tail of his coat out of the way, lest it become wrinkled. You nod, brow furrowed, and close the door with a click.

As the sound reaches his ears, Medic's brows arch. "A far cry from yesterday."

Your cheeks heat. "I'm sorry. I am feeling better now."

"Clearly." He folds elegant hands over his lap, elbows resting on the arms of the chair.

"That wasn't—" You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. "Yesterday, when… did I hu—"

"Nein. Don't worry about that. I'd worry more about how you're going to control zhis."

"Control…" Hot, indignant tears seal your throat, but do not yet touch your eyes. "I—"

"That—I'm sorry. I did not mean to accuse." With a sigh, he removes the spectacles. "Sniper says my bedside manner needs work." A dark chuckle. "Perhaps." He cleans the immaculate lenses on the tail of his coat. "But I find it gets in the way of my work."

Your jaw clenches. Gets in the way, indeed.

"We are men of innovation, tools of destruction." He replaces the glasses, peers over their edge. "Whatever the contracts say, we are weapons. Some take to it better than others. Some quickly, some slowly."

You say nothing. What is there to reply? He's seen what you are. The episode—the… the wrath on the field today, beyond any action that should be taken in war. And it's going to cost you. Again. You bite your tongue to hold back the lingering tears. You won't cry. They can sign the paper firing you from the company, but you won't let them see you cry. Let him chastise you—he'll be just another doctor, then, faceless in a white, sterile sea of hospital rooms with their wan nurses and frowning physicians delivering news with lead tongues and dead eyes that make you want to shove four barrels down their throats and show them how lead truly tastes—still less heavy and cruel than the judgements and the treatments and false comforts—

"To have these… episodes is not unusual. You need to know this."

You shake your mother's weary eyes from your mind. "The circumstances here—"

"Are unusual. But no less real, as you've learned, I'm sure. Particularly after yesterday."

You're quite certain 'improved bedside manner' doesn't include reminding a patient of events that triggered a… panic. Panic. That seems like the right word.

"What happened to you yesterday—in the war, we called it shell-shock, and it didn't often include such violence—at least, not right away." Medic steeples his fingers, drops them, curls his fingers along the arms of the chair. "You'll forgive me; psychology has never been my focus, but you have had two attacks so far, and I will need you to describe—"

You freeze. "Two?"

"Ja." He sighs. "The second day, during your shower; that was the first one, nicht? Unless there was one I missed. I suspect you were experiencing a flashback to the battlefield or some recollection of pain?"

You purse your lips, nails digging into your palms. "How did you—"

His lips curl in a smirk. "While I may lack bedside manner, I have an affluence of attention, Specialist. If someone needs medical assistance, I know it."

"Oh." You swallow, settle on the bed, draw your legs up, crisscross, beneath you.

He nods. "Now, I need you to describe these episodes so that we can form a means of treatment."

We?

Your mouth moves, but no sound comes out. This… even when the Navy discharged you from training, the doctors never… You frown. "It was like being back there," you begin. "I can't… tell that I'm actually at the base. It was the pain and—" Torn flesh, blood, wicked eyes. "—everything again. I don't… I can't make it stop, because I can't tell it started."

He's pulled a little flip-pad from his pocket with a fountain pen. "And the emotions that accompany it?"

You hesitate.

Medic catches your eye over his spectacles. "Spezialist, it isn't your fault."

Your fingers curl, missing the grip of a pistol. "I really—"

"You don't understand." He heaves a sigh, taps a finger on the edge of the little, leather-bound notebook. "Heavy has experienced episodes like this."

You blink. "Heavy?" It—it would explain how he had calmed you with such ease, but…

"Yes. At zhe risk of violating doctor-patient confidentiality, I will say—though—" He fixes you under his gaze, the harsh line of his brow igniting an instantaneous shiver down your spine. "I trust you will tell no one. Ja?"

Your flesh crawls. You nod. "Of course. I won't."

"Gut." And the wrath leaves his features as quickly as a lone cloud in the desert sky. "You would say Heavy is fearless, yes? A pillar of strength, truly an Übermensch?"

You know that word. Dostoyevsky expounded upon it in his Crime and Punishment—and now you have a greater inkling as to why the book was given to Medic. "Yes." Heavy seemed implacable as stone, a great mountain both on the battlefield and there in the infirmary.

"He has a history of extreme stress reactions. For years now, after…" Medic catches himself, clears his throat. "Let us say his past was not a happy one. He no longer has zhe hallucinations—the attacks, reliving the memories—but his nightmares can be insufferable. All this, years later."

Years? Heavy? If Heavy has nightmares even now, how can you possibly hope—

"You are not weak." He frowns, turns the sleek pen between his fingers. "Experiencing fear is not weakness—you would not say that Heavy is weak, would you? Nein. Of course not. And so neither are you." His attention returns to the notes. "Now—zhe relevant emotions, please."

You release a long breath through your nose. It's not an argument you can beat. "Fear," you admit at last. You look at your hands. "Sometimes anger."

Medic nods, scribbles readily on the pad. "We can use that."

Your brow furrows. "Anger?" Last you checked, that emotion was a source of destruction. One that could well have ended up sending Medic through respawn.

"Jawohl, anger. In much the same way as earlier today; I trust you did not have any episodes between then and now, ja?"

"I didn't." You frown. What if… he could write you a treatment and send you packing right here, right now, could he not? Truly, this means nothing unless… "Medic, I need to make this work."

He does not look up. "Of course."

"No—" You press your fists against your knees. Your jaw tightens. "It's not… not just this. It's everything."

Medic lifts his head. His brows arch. "What is it?"

Your face heats to the tips of your ears. "I—need to know. Now. If I won't—if there's no chance of staying." You fixedly stare at your legs, folded tightly on the scratchy bedspread. You will not cry. "My mother—my family thinks—" You take a breath. "I won't be able to go home right away. I need to find… I need another job before I go back. I can't go home like this."

His brow creases. "I never said anything about your leaving, neue. Zhis is to help you stay to the best of your health." You lift your head to find him frowning into his notes.

"Now... racing heart, rapid palpitations, during these episodes?"

"What?"

"Palpitations," he replies shortly. "Fluttering, pounding rhythms of the heart. Stuttering or racing in the chest or throat. Difficulty—"

"I know what palpitations are. My mother's had them." Your arms fold tightly over your chest, bite your lip. Your mother's been on your mind too much, and you're getting irritated. Forge on—perhaps he won't notice what you'd let slip… "What I don't understand is—why—how can I be staying? I mean, keeping me until the week is up, sure, but after—the medical report—"

"Because there is no reason for you not to stay." Medic arches an irritated brow. "Unless, of course, you've suddenly decided that you cannot answer simple questions—"

"No, I—all right. Sorry."

He nods, slowly. "Gut. Now. Palpitations or racing heartbeat during these episodes?"

You frown. You can't—you don't recall anything like that at all. Just adrenaline, a fast beating, yes, but nothing that made you ill or particularly short of breath that you can recall. Nothing like your mother had described. "No… nothing like that."

A slow grin, and Medic's spectacles catch the low light from your window. His chuckle raises the hair on the back of your neck. "Perfekt!"

Surely it was a far cry from perfect. Ok, fine, no physical symptoms is great, but you're quite sure you'd tried to strangle your own medic yesterday and—

Your heart.

That's it.

That's fucking it.

You laugh, low in your throat, until the chuckle shakes your stomach and racks your shoulders. Ha! For a moment, you'd almost been under the impression that the doctor actually cared! Of course not! No, this—this makes sense. Your damn bloody heart is what he's after!

Oddly enough, the thought actually makes you feel a bit better, in a backward sort of way.

You may not know much about the medic, but you do know that the man is devoted to his work. And you're walking around with one of his experiments in your chest. And after the way he's behaved since yesterday—it's apparently a very important one.

He's motivated to keep you around. For science.

"Something is funny, Specialist?"

You can't seem to stifle your laughter. "Is there—a way—to help—" You draw a gasping breath and giggle anew. "—or are you fullofit?"

His regal look of indignity only makes you laugh harder. "Of course! I would not be here if it were not possible. "I have sedatives that can help you avoid nightmares, if necessary, and—please control yourself, Specialist! Vhat is so amusing?"

You cover your mouth, draw deep breaths, try to smother your amusement. "Sorry—I'm sorry—just…" You heave one last, long breath. "I'm the experiment. Or…" You recall the stolen intelligence. "A living briefcase, you might say. I just realized that you won't tell Miss Pauling I'm not working out—you can't. Because of my heart. I've been worried since yesterday and—"

Now the medic chuckles, but only briefly. "You were worried you're unsuitable for this kind of work. I did not lie when I said this reaction is normal, neue. Didn't you hear me when I said I've seen many soldiers go through such things? You are new to this environment; many of those here had already become accustomed to battlefield trauma before being hired—though not all. Had you been here a year ago, you would have seen half zhis team share your experience." He flips the little notebook closed. "Now, as for my experiment—yes. You cannot overstate my investment in it at this time." He shrugs. "But what of that? It is what I am here to do. Innovate medicine."

What of it, indeed?

Medic tucks the notebook and pen away, studies you with an icy gaze. "Does it disturb you?"

You still.

Does it disturb you any more than IVs hanging from silver hooks like so many transparent nooses, dripping golden fluid in a dirge's rhythm? More than skin, red and raw, so slow to heal that eyes prick more from frustration than pain? More than a head shaved clean and hidden under a scarf, whose cheerful colors seem only to mock that which it covered?

"No." You draw your knees up under your chin, and meet the Medic's even gaze. "As long as things are kept where they're supposed to be, and that BLU son of a bitch stays on the other side of respawn, I have no problem with your investment."

If this is what it takes, you'll work with the doctor to overcome your… shell-shock and get back to proving your worth on the field first thing in the morning. You'll be the best damn experiment this base has ever seen.
You'll seal this fucking contract if it's the last thing you do. For Mom.

Medic grins, teeth glinting in the low light like the bone-saw. "Ausgezeichnet."

And… maybe a little for you, too.