NOTE: Thank you so much to my patient readers, and most especially to my editor, Shiqq, and to my beta-readers kilgamesh and diananock! My work wouldn't be nearly so well-polished without them.

WARNING in this chapter for: blood, death, graphic violence, high levels of self-loathing, more literary references than you asked for

Today, staring down your double is not so much like looking into a mirror as it is staring at your very own William Wilson*, a Dr. Jekyll, all-infuriating in gentle perfectness.

A backward reflection, all in blue, coat neatly buttoned, collar flat, uniform crisply ironed, every hair in impeccable place, her pistol gleaming, shield black as the desert night. Her grin is as polished as her boots.

But you-? Oh, you can only imagine the sight. The remains of your shirt hanging in bloody tatters from your back, face striped with sandy burns, pistol weighing your hand down at your waist, boots scuffed and trousers dusty-worn. Ragged and blood-soaked, you must look like you crawled out of the Pit to bring tidings of Hell.

Her brows arch into a familiar look of surprise. "Shit." At least, for all her pristine appearance, she's no more loquacious than you.

You simply fire your gun.

Alas, either she is too quick or your aching arms are too slow, taking aim just a little too obviously before pulling the trigger. Her shield is up in time to absorb the hissing bullet.

"Let me put you-"

You know before she finishes the statement, what she's going to say. You know she's going to shoot you and have done with it as soon as she finishes. It's what you would do. It is what you tried to do. For a moment, you entertain the idea that maybe, somehow, she is you, whether through some science fiction miracle or explanation beyond your imagination. Does it matter? It does-oh-it does . For if she is so, how dare she? How dare she leave her mother at home and send half a paycheck that does nothing if she isn't alive when it arrives. She plays at living, pretends there's nothing wrong.

You know before she finishes what she's going to do.

"-out of your misery."

So you grab her gun and it fires harmlessly into the air, savor the surprised intake of her breath just before your fist connects with her jaw. She splutters, draws her shield up. Her pistol clatters to the ground, and you strike again. As the blood on your hands smears across her skin. You savor that, too.

The shield comes up a second time, and you know you can't take it down-so you catch her boot with yours and tumble down atop the doppelganger, pinning her arm and the shield against her body. Her free hand claws at your elbow, tangling fingers in your dusty sleeve, but you bring your fist down on her face.

You remember well how it feels to be trapped under the one thing that keeps you safe. The BLU Specialist struggles and writhes, but like a turtle stuck on its back, she finds no purchase. She abandons your sleeve and forces her hand up to scratch at your neck. You seize the wrist with one hand and break her nose with the other.

She's as much a mess as you are, now.

All the while, she has been swearing, screaming, spitting. But you take little notice as the edges of your vision flicker and darken. Adrenaline sings through your veins, takes the edge off the burn in your back, and the blood , so much blood slips through your fingers, turns your stomach with every copper-laced breath, but you can't stop now.

Her arm twists out of your grip and braces on the ground and you have to throw yourself forward to keep from losing your balance, forehead landing on her sticky cheek. Fingers dig into your back and you scream. Bandages are no protection against her blunt nails, which seem to find each hole and gash and bring new blood bubbling to the surface.

Your hands fist in the sand and flaking soil, pushing you upright enough to drive your elbow into the side of her head. Her arm drops, eyelids fluttering. Your injuries burn where she sought your weakness. You want to get up and finish this with the Lancaster. You're not sure how long she will be stunned, not sure if she'll regroup the instant your weight is gone from her chest.

But you're feeling weak again. You don't have much choice; you search your thigh for the Lancaster.

A blow to your chin snaps your jaw shut, teeth cracking, splitting pain up through your skull.

"Get the hell off me!"

Ah, words from bruised and bloody lips.

She moves to strike you again, but you reach across, barely block her hand with the arm not groping for your gun.

You're just off balance enough to be thrown to one side, tumble onto the sand, hiss at the hot ground on your back, the slanting rays of sunlight in your face-but only for a moment before her shadow falls upon you.

Crack.

You gasp through your mouth-air, air-your nose is useless now and she should have had time to grab her gun and finish this, but you need to breathe, need breath, hot and dry, dust coating your throat-

Your nose cracks again.

Warm. Gentle.

Red .

The BLU's bloody, swollen snarl drops slack, and your lips curl into a shameless grin.

One solid blow of your open hand under the chin sends her reeling back, and it feels good -oh, Lord , so good! The plane of your back is strong and solid again, so free of pain that you're almost shocked, revelling in the play of muscles you'd nearly forgotten could work with such ease as you fall upon your double again. This time, as she struggles to find her weapon, you yank her up in one hand by her mussed collar and, in the moment before she rights her head, drive your open hand down on her throat. Tissue shudders, gives, and her breath leaves in a whistling wheeze. You drop her, watch as she folds and writhes in panic on the ground.

Blood and orange dirt cake her uniform. Boots, scuffed, lash out blindly. Her face no longer bears resemblance to yours,swelling blue and glistening scarlet.

Your hand finds the Lancaster-Charles at your thigh, takes aim at her chest, and fires without another look. She will have stopped moving, chest rent open, bare to the sky, but you don't need to see it. Instead, your eyes trace the translucent energy that hums along your skin back to its source.

"Medic," you say.

But he stares. He stares like he's been doing it a long time. He stares like he has no intention of doing anything else.

"Thank you," you say.

You strap the Lancaster into its holster and recall that, though healed, you must look a fright. Your shirtsleeves hang loose around your wrists, and between blood-soaked bandages and ragged clothes, you must still seem like you clawed your way through Satan's gates. Something dribbles past your lips and you wipe it on the back of your hand.

Oh. The blood from your nose is still there and still wet. You try to clean up the rest on your sleeve. Nothing wrong with more red on red.

Medic blinks at last. "I had heard you needed healing, but it seems you were doing quite well."

"Something like that." You catch his gaze behind the spectacles and find it sharp. The ice-blue unsettles your stomach.

He chuckles, but it seems hoarse. The curve of his throat contracts tightly as he swallows. "Vell, I won't say my intercession wasn't… timely."

You bend to retrieve the Gyrojet you're reasonably sure belongs to you. "I can't argue that." You're rather relieved to have broken eye contact, and so you purposefully fix your gaze just above this time to find the single, unkempt curl that adorns his brow.

"I'm rather close to having enough energy for über… zhe damage was somewhat extensive." His gloved hand plays along the medigun, perhaps thoughtfully. "Shall we continue, Specialist?"

You unbuckle the shield from your belt with a nod. Before they start wondering where you've gone again. "Yes. Final point?"

" Jawohl ."

You steal one final, furtive, glance ( In me didst thou exist… ) at where you left your double, ( …and, in my death, see by this image- ) but all that there lies is a rusty stain on disturbed soil.***

Medic is still at your side when the last bell rings to announce victory, and cackles right along with your breathless whoop that rises in response to Pyro's muffled shouts and Demoman's wild cries of joy. The point flashes red behind you, and your heart sounds a triumphant rhythm.

[ Victory! Until tomorrow. ]

It is the call that returns you to the base, and you don't disobey it, Pyro skipping ahead while you holster your weapons. You roll your shoulders as you walk, already daydreaming about a nice, hot shower, when you hear-music? The notes are distantly familiar and you turn your head for the source of what you realize now is a proud hum.

It's Medic.

There's a very distinct little roll to each of his steps, and he's humming as though he either does not know he's doing it, or knows and does not care if anyone hears. You're not sure if you've ever seen him so happy outside of surgery or battle-not even under the same circumstances as these. There's a small smile gracing his lips that seems… content. It's a smile, not a grin-not manic or mad or biting. It is… pleasant.

When someone claps you on the shoulder, you almost trip over your own feet. "Not a bad day for a slow start, eh, lass?" Demoman asks, flanking you.

You hope he didn't notice your stumble and try to scrape together enough dignity to reply. "I won't say no to a victory," you manage.

There's a muffled grunt of agreement, and now Pyro has turned, walking backward in their heavy boots, waving a simple "yes" with their fist.

"Don't know a one who will," Demo says with a chuckle.

"Not willingly," Medic agrees.

"TODAY IS A GOOD DAY!" Soldier declares, and though you take a quick look around the scorched and bloodied area, you have no idea where he could be, nor any idea how he could have overheard the conversation.

You chance a glance at Medic again, but of course he's stopped humming, and while he still seems reasonably content, that little smile is gone, too. Instead, a little crease sits between his brows as though he's already moved on to thinking about his next experiment.

You really hope it's nothing to do with a post-battle surgery because you're not sure you can take it. You're almost fresh from respawn-rushing back to the point with the doctor after a minor setback involving a rocket-but all you want to do is take a hot shower and curl up on your bed for a quick nap before dinner. Your hangover might be gone, but there's a new, gentle throb in the back of your skull, as the adrenaline subsides, that has nothing to do with alcohol nor the nasty tumble you took scrapping with the BLU scout just a few minutes ago.

"Ah, it's a fine day!" Demo pushes a hip flask in your hand, and you immediately push it back. He laughs-"Lost the appetite, Specialist?"-and takes another swig.

"You could say that." Your hand unconsciously rubs your temple and you brace yourself for Medic's smart comment.

It doesn't come. He looks at you, catches your gaze, looks away just as quickly.

You're absolutely baffled.

But Demoman just trucks along, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "I don't blame you, lass! Next time, next time we'll do it on a Saturday, an' spread the drinkin' out the whole day-no better way to blow off some steam, let me tell ye! An' it's the one way to get Sniper to utter more'n four words together, you know."

"Maybe not this Saturday?"

That earns you another peal of raucous laughter. "As ye say, as ye say!"

In the locker room, you shuffle off your coat and gear as quickly as possible, knowing full well that you won't get to the showers first, but you might at least get to read a little in the quiet of your room beforehand. That is, if you're quick enough to avoid Medic's prodding. The Lancaster, as always, stays with you to be stored under your already lumpy pillow, so as you lock your Gyrojet and shield away, you're ready to finish the day. But just as you sling your coat over one shoulder to head in-

"Specialist."

And you had nearly thought you would escape the infirmary. You turn, resigned, to face him. "Yes, Medic?"

But he isn't really looking at you. He's hanging the bonesaw and that wicked syringe-gun in his locker. "How do you feel about lentils?"

What? You blink, and you can feel your brows furrow. Lentils . "I-like them fine?"

"Good," he says, crisply.

You wet your lips, weighing the options and wondering if you ought to ask. "Why?" Honestly, what else are you supposed to do? Let a lentil non-sequitur just fly by?

Medic looks up from his task. "To know whether you'll be eating or not, of course."

"Oh." That would make sense, you suppose, if he's concerned about portions. "Well. Yes-yes, I'll definitely be having dinner-"

"I don't like 'em, and I have to eat anyway!" gripes Scout from the corner.

The doctor doesn't even turn to acknowledge him. "Make yourself a peanut-butter sandwich."

"Heavy used all the bread!"

"Go to zhe grocery market and save me the trouble." Medic shuts his locker with a click.

Scout throws his arms in the air, and you stifle a chuckle at the display. " C'mon , doc! Can't ya just make some pasta?"

" Nein! " He whisks a gloved hand in your direction. "Dinner is at seven, thank you."

You fight and lose the battle not to roll your eyes as you go.

*And if you're making such an obscure reference**, you must have lost more blood than you thought.
**The reference in question is to Edgar Allan Poe's short story William Wilson, wherein the title character's doppelganger is a better person than he.
*** "In me didst thou exist, and, in my death, see by this image, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself." -Edgar Allan Poe, William Wilson

Translations: Jawohl - yes, respectful and emphatic, especially in a military context (i.e. "yes, sir")

The More You (May Not Want to) Know: It only takes approximately 11lbs of pressure to crush the trachea…which is about as much pressure as it takes to crush a soda can. Using a "knife hand" technique as Spesh demonstrates here (striking with the edge of the hand to prevent breaking your own bones), it can be done. Please don't try this at home. Or anywhere, really. In my research, however I also learned that by learning to hold air in your esophagus, you can withstand more pressure, like a hose full of water that won't bend. I'm less sure of how legit that bit of information is, but it does seem to make sense.