Things got a bit behind, but here we have a double update!

Warning for: gore, death, drugs, and medical unpleasantness

[You failed!]

The words echo across the field, tangible and hot and you gnash your teeth against your double's sickly-sweet smile. "Good luck on your evaluation," she says. It turns your stomach to think of that false kindness spread upon your own features. You've never looked that way, have you? "Maybe I'll see someone with better mettle next week."

You stare straight down the barrel of her pistol. "Or I've doomed us both. A class on each side or not at all, right?"

There's little satisfaction in the way rage overtakes those familiar features before she squeezes the trigger.

She dispatches you with a single shot.

Your fingers curl against concrete as you push yourself upright in spawn, drawing blood from the inside of your cheek. Failed. Even your best was not enough. There are no tears pricking at your eyes; the thought only makes you cold, an emptiness settling in your chest as your mouth fills with an arid, metallic taste.

Both Sniper and Scout tumble out of respawn behind you. Neither will look at you, and your fingers stray to the Lancaster on your thigh. Comforting, heavy, cold.

"Ah! Spezialist!" Medic bounces in on the balls of his feet, Heavy not far behind. He claps your shoulder, smears a splatter of blood across his cheek with the other sleeve. "Marvelous work today. Now, before dinner, I'd very much like to check over the—"

You wet your lips. Furrow your brow as the man chatters on, nearly vibrating with excitement. "We lost," you manage.

"Hm?" He arches a brow. "Oh! That's such a small matter, now! We'll win it all back come Monday. No one ever really gains an edge. Now—"

"WE LOST THE DAY, MAGGOTS!"

Scout groans, head thumping against the door of his locker. "Here we go."

"I EXPECT TO SEE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU RUNNING THOSE COURSES STARTING TONIGHT, YOU SORRY SARDINES!" Soldier tramps about before finding your little corner of the room, and one thick finger levels directly with your nose. "ESPECIALLY YOU, ENSIGN GREENIE."
You open your mouth to reply, to agree—after all, what else is there to do besides pack; you've royally fucked up.

But: "Excuse me, Herr Soldier." Medic fixes the man in an amiable gaze over his spectacles. But something in the arch of his brows, the quirk of his mouth is… undeniably chilling. "Am I mistaken, or did the Specialist double your kill-count today?"

"THAT DOES NOT EXCUSE—"

"What about this? I will personally see to zhe Specialist's study of maps and our usual tactics, hm? Since the problem, clearly, has nothing to do with her physical prowess."

"THAT MAY SOUND REASONABLE, BUT—"

"Soldier, why don't you an' I go over the plans in the boardroom now?" You hadn't even seen Engineer come in. "We'll bring everybody up to speed later, when they're really payin' attention."

Soldier, much to your surprise, seems to consider this. "All right," he mutters amenably. Then: "PREPARE YOURSELVES, MAGGOTS. WE MEET FOR DINNER AT 1800 TO TALK STRATEGY."

He and Engineer leave, the latter throwing a thumbs-up your way.

"Thank freakin' God," mutters Scout, and slams his locker shut. "Gonna get a shower in freakin' peace."

"Well—" Medic's energy is back immediately, eyes alight. He rocks on his heels. "—I'll prepare the infirmary and you can meet me zhere once you've taken care of your gear. Be prompt! Or I'll come looking for you, and the procedure vill cut into dinner again." He barely waits for affirmation before flouncing out of the locker room, not bothering to store the syringe gun or bonesaw beside his sullen teammates.

You stand there a few moments, trying to reconcile an embarrassing loss with the doctor's absolute cheer.

Scout appears beside you. "You uh—got a surgery scheduled with the doc?"

"Something like that." You purse your lips, swallow. "I have no idea what it is."

He nods. "That makes sense."

Your brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"Never seen him go outta his way with Soldier like that for somebody else. Makes sense if he did it for a surgery." The boy shudders and pats your shoulder. "Good luck with that!"

Heavy turns from his locker, shakes his head. "Do not listen to Scout. Is not so bad."

The boy snorts. "Says Mr. Indestructible over there."

"Not indestructible. Just sturdy." Heavy throws you a conspiratorial grin, and you chuckle.

Scout casts a glance between you. "Now, hey—wait a minute! You tryin' ta suggest somethin'?"

Heavy shrugs, meeting your eye again with amusement before turning to his locker. "Some are more sturdy than others."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey!" Scout jerks a thumb at his chest. "I'm as sturdy as they come, alright?"

But the Russian is already making his silent way toward the door.

"No, hey! C'mon!" The boy dashes through the locker room, leaving you standing over one of the benches as he bounds toward the hall. "No way Spesh is sturdier than me! She's got a shield, and that's cheatin'—c'mon, Heavy! Whatdaya mean?"

You chuckle as the indignant shouts fade into the hall, and roll your shoulders, stretch your neck to either side. The shield and Gyrojet are heavy on your belt, the uniform coat clinging weightily along your arms. Best to get all your gear sorted and… get to the med-bay.

A sinking feeling settles in your stomach as you move through the empty halls. The others are already hitting the showers or—you suppose—the board-room. Pyro has already disappeared to their quarters. You don't recall seeing Spy at all since the match ended, but that is hardly unusual. So, you try to find comfort in silence but only end up catching your lip between your teeth as the quicksand swallowing your stomach threatens to rise up and enfold your mind, too.

Failed.

It's just never enough. Why isn't it ever okay? Things don't have to be good; you're beyond that now. You just want them to be fine. Just… decent.

You need to call your mother.

You need to know if she is okay.

With a constricted huff, you dump your belt—shield, Gyrojet, and all—onto the wrinkled bedspread. You strip off your gloves and add them to the pile, then your thigh-holster with the Lancaster, and finally peel the coat from your shoulders, leaving you standing in tall boots, trousers, and a white, cotton undershirt, feeling like you should be sweat-soaked—but there's only the electric clean feeling of respawn still clinging to your skin.

Automatically, you reach into the wardrobe for a button-down, but stop halfway, turning the scarlet fabric over in your hands. Does it matter? The medic will probably just have you take it off anyway to check your…

You shudder, and swallow the sudden lump in your throat.

No use thinking about it now.

You pull the shirt on, one arm at a time, but don't bother buttoning, and hurry into the hall before you have the opportunity to change your mind. Why did you agree to this again?

Never mind. You know why. Fold your arms tightly across your chest, wrinkle the fresh-pressed shirt, and grit your teeth. Step, step, step down the empty halls. Pass Demo, just out of the shower, drops of water clinging to tightly shorn curls, running down his brow. He grins, and you wave absently as he passes, filthy uniform balled under one arm.

He was wearing nothing but a towel.

You don't have the capacity to be even retroactively embarrassed. You don't turn around. You just press on, pushing your way through swinging doors into the infirmary.

"Ah! There you are! I was afraid I vould have to come find you. Please-sit up on zhe gurney and we'll get started!" You swear his voice climbs an octave in excitement as he buzzes over to the sink to wash his and yank another pair of those red gloves up his elbows.

You try to ease the tight fist of your stomach as you sit upon the cold table, scratchy sheets crackling.

"Today vas most certainly a success!" You look up and he's right fucking there, grabbing a thermometer from the tray beside him. "Open, bitte." You do, letting him tuck the instrument under your tongue. "Close."

You do. The glass is cold.

Not as cold as it will be when he decides to use the scalpel. You try not to grit your teeth. Medic would likely not appreciate mercury all over his workspace.

"Everything worked beautifully, Spezialist! Zhe rate of decay decreased by oh-at least a quarter! With some tinkering, I might be able to increase the duration of die uber by half! What do you think of zhat? Ah, herrliche! We'll just check the integrity of the hardware, ascertain zhere are no side-effects, though respawn does impact zhe data more than I would like-"

You did, in fact, think it was quite amazing, not that Medic so much as took a breath long enough for you to interject your response. But it would be far more wonderful if this did not involve opening up your chest and poking around the organs again. Not that this would make Medic change his mind. So, it really makes no difference that he has not stopped his excited tangent since you arrived.

"-so, of course, my ultimate goal is a heart that won't suffer wear during uber. I made a concession with crafting a half-artificial organ. More opportunity for wear and tear with non-organic parts-pah! But! You appear to suffer no ill effect-" He takes the thermometer from your lips and holds it to the fluorescents. "Hrm. A little low, but zhat is normal, nicht?"

You nod. "Gut." He shines a pen-light over your eyes without warning. "Don't squint, please." You do your best, hands folded tight together on your lap. "Gut," he says again. Next are your ears. And then cold, thick rubber at your neck.

You flinch with a hiss.

"Agh! Your lymph nodes," Medic explains shortly, and strips the gloves off his hands, tosses them aside on the tray with a clink of disturbed instruments. "I'll be checking your lymph nodes; be still, bitte."

You squeeze your eyes shit, jaw tight. He'd completely forgotten about fair warning. Your stomach turns, and you brace yourself.

Cold fingers on your skin, gentle.

You hope he doesn't forget when it comes time for something major. "What are you going to do?"

Expert fingertips press along the contours of your neck, massaging into tissue. You swallow, and feel your skin shift under his cool hands. "I am checking your lymph nodes for signs of infection," he grumbles.

"I know. What will you be doing?" You add "please" as an afterthought.

"Oh—I'll be looking at your heart to check for damage." His fingers leave your neck, and you open your eyes to see Medic snapping the gloves back on. "Visual check, today—I don't want to tamper vith zhe data. I'll be checking structural integrity, overall health, swelling, buildup of fluids in zhe chest cavity."

"Oh."

Well, that's better than poking and prodding, isn't it?"

"Now, please lay back und I'll begin zhe procedure—I find no sign of outward complications."

Marginally.

You have to uncurl your fingers to do so, and you wince when the blood returns to a normal flow through stiff joints. You push yourself back and pull the unbuttoned shirt from your shoulders. "Medic?"

He barely turns his attention from the sharp implements spread across the tray. "Hm?"

"Should I be wearing a gown?"

A crease forms between his brows. "Should you… Oh! Ja, I suppose." He bends over at one of the cabinets and tosses you the red-stringed cotton monstrosity, immediately digging through a drawer as soon as the garment reaches your hands.

You take the opportunity to remove your undershirt and bra and toss it all in the direction of a chair near the door. They mostly make it, and you pull the gown over your shoulders and lie back, closing the front but not tying it.

Medic holds a syringe to the light, pulling a colorless liquid from a stoppered bottle through the needle.

You feel a bit sick.

"Just zhe same as before. I'll numb zhe area, make zhe incision, und make an assessment." He sets the bottle back in the cabinet, and flicks the syringe gently before bringing it to the table. "Of course, eventually, we'll do it vithout drugs."

"What?"

Medic's brow arches. "Your pain tolerance is high, and zhe medigun, as soon as it won't interfere with zhe data, will do fine. Morphine doesn't grow on trees, after all!"

Your chest is tight. Your breath comes in the slightest gasps. "But—we get supplies every month, don't we?"

He tucks the gowns edges to the side, probably not unlike the way he would tuck your skin in just a few moments to expose— "Ja, but my budget goes elsewhere."

His eyes linger on your breastbone, and one gloved finger pokes the thin scar that bisects your chest. "Zhat healed very nicely."

Self-consciousness mingles with anxiety, and you're quite sure you're going to be sick.

And then he's sterilized the skin and stabbed the needle in before you can blink. You dig your fingers into the edges of the gurney to keep yourself from moving. The metal cuts under your knuckles as the liquid seeps, hot, under your skin. If you had something, anything to distract as the needle pulls out of your flesh with a pinch—

"Where—" your voice cracks. You try again: "Where's—ah—Archimedes?"

"Hm? Oh! Archimedes is usually resting there by the window in the afternoon—they're all eating, but—a moment—"

You follow the click of his boots with your ears and open your yes slowly to the fluorescents, but don't move. He's somewhere there above your head, aaaaaaaa…

Aaaand there's the flood of warmth at the base of your skill, crawling under your skin, lighting up your veins, a cold contrast against heated skin. "—yes, you've napped most of zhe day, haven't you? But, Neue asked, und you wouldn't vant to disappoint, would you?" Somewhere through the fog, you wonder if he always addresses his doves that way. "No, no, I'll let you out after, Lister—just Archimedes for now."

A slow smile starts on your lips, even as your stomach clenches.

Medic, with a click of his boots on the tile is above you again, Archimedes nestled between his palms. He lifts one and lets the dove free. It hops down onto your stomach with a soft flutter. "Better?"

Your fingers, stiff, uncurl from the gurney's edge. You open your mouth, but your tongue feels slow. Instead, you nod, and the room drags behind your gaze. You stop that immediately. "Thank you," you manage.

"Gut, gut. Here, Archimedes, make up your mind! I can't have you at zhe incision site!"

Indeed, the dove has hopped along to the sterile area, but you can't feel a thing.

"Archimedes!" With a huff, Medic gently sweeps the dove to nestle in the gown by your shoulder. "Fine?" But you're not sure if he's asking you or the bird.

He saves you the trouble by drawing up the larger syringe, with its thick, menacing needle. You close your eyes against it.

"Und zhe second." There's some kind of sensation near your chest, but it's not pain, exactly.

You feel Archimedes stir at your side, tucking himself closer and making a nest of the open gown. It brings warmth to your chest. Well—so do the drugs, you suppose, but that's another matter entirely. You do your best to uncurl cramped fingers again and be… somewhat relaxed.

Dinner. You could have dinner soon. That would be nice.

"I understand you performed a revenge kill on zhe sniper."

Oh. Even through your fogged mind, there's no mistake. You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth, and bite perhaps a little too hard in the soft, red haze behind your eyelids. "Yeah." Did he really have to bring that up now, fragments of bone splitting, splintering, blood raining through the perch, wood drinking it up like-

"I wish I'd seen how you performed after zhe uber."

Horrifyingly.

"Fine."

"Hm." His thoughtful hum seems distant. "No strain? No extra energy? Changes in heart-rate or breathing?"

"Don't think so." Your chest is starting to feel heavy.

"Hm. Perhaps next time I'll be there. Now-do not speak please-zhe same as before."

You don't mind that in the least. You're pleasantly light-headed, and would rather not shatter the calm. Archimedes makes a little sound before changing positions again, tickling the skin of your shoulder.

"My concern is zhat there tend to be a variety of reactions after experiencing invincibility. Unnecessary risk-taking is one."

You should probably feel admonished. You just feel a little floaty.

"But my main concern is physiological at zhe moment. So far, all your tissue looks marvellous! A little bruising here on zhe surface near your clavicle, but when we fix you up with zhe medi-gun, that will be gut as new! Nothing to worry about. Now, your-"

One, two, three, four beats of your heart.

Your brow furrows. You can't hear him at all. There's only the hum of the overhead fluorescents, the quiet whir of the medigun on standby.

You open your eyes this time.

He is still there, tall and decorated with little smears of blood along his sleeves, his lapels. As you watch, Medic raises a hand slowly to his chin, draws his fingers slowly along his jaw, painting his skin a shadowed red. He reaches his ear and tugs the spectacles up higher so they no longer catch the light.

His gaze is intent, softer than you've ever seen it, fixated somewhere below your neck, burning still, but lost its blade's edge. His lips are parted, as though he had something more to say, and found the words suddenly gone.

"Medic?"

"Spezialist, please!"

If your chest weren't so heavy, you might have twitched at the sudden bark. And there-the chilly, sharp edge to his gaze again.

"Do not speak. I'm going to… if I'd-well." The blood on his jaw catches the light. "Your heart looks better than I expected." He grows quiet again, and you don't close your eyes. His gaze turns to your open chest again, below where you'll let yourself peek. "The desire of my double to bring you back to life before examining your heart is not lost on me."

There's a great weight constricting your breath.

"Truly," he says, quiet, and you strain your ears. "This is the only way to see it."