Notes: My thanks to thatdamnokie and phoenix-youngblood on tumblr for taking a look at this chapter for me! Should further revisions be done after my editor takes a look, I'll update accordingly, as always.

WARNING for: blood, gore, dismemberment, and graphically described death/injury

It must be killed.

Those four words are with you when you go to bed that night, and when you get up the next morning. To kill and to cure are not so separate as the hosts of physicians you've seen before pretend. Deny, deny, deny that any patient under their care had ever perished. Lie about the poisons and the radiation, couch them in fancy language, and say—as the hair falls in clumps and skin goes grey, blisters, burns—that this is improvement, that as the cells sicken and die, as the tumor is cut away, that all is well, that this is a cure: clean, clear, constructive.

Not Medic.

Returning from respawn, you see him at the second point, alone, wicked bonesaw in hand, grinning as the enemy scout sprints forward. Barbed wire catches the sun; the bat, wrapped tightly, sharp, gleaming—but Medic just rolls his shoulders like he's waiting on the morning paper. Surely he knows that the scout has greater reach, that he'll be struck before his saw can even begin to bite flesh?

And you're just out of the Gyrojet's range.

You take aim anyway, but Sniper's voice stays your finger on the trigger: ["Wait for it."]

For what? You're still running, but it's too late now; the BLU scout raises his bat, and-

The teeth of the bonesaw catch on barbed wire as Medic steps smoothly with the swing, and momentum carries the boy past. The bat clatters to the ground. Medic's fingers close around the holstered scattergun on the scout's back—

For the briefest instant, the BLU is cradled in the crook of Medic's elbow, and then-the teeth of the saw bite into his neck.

Blood spatters the point, sprays the doctor's cheeks and coat in fine flecks, and the scout's legs twitch once, twice. The corpse slides to the ground as Medic takes a little half-step back, as in a waltz, drawing his arms out wide.

He smiles, tilting his head just enough to catch you from the corner of his eye. "Another successful procedure, wouldn't you say, Spezialist?"

You stand dumbly, mouth half-open. "Indeed."

In the back of your mind, the words are there.

Agony. White-hot and absolute. Not just radiating from your screaming shoulder, not simply the phantom sensation of needles where your arm and hand should be, but across your entire body.

Tears on your cheeks collecting every sharp speck of red dust. Blood pooling in a sorry brook as you drag yourself, remaining hand clawing at the ground, sand catching under your fingernails. Every inch you gain rips like lightning through skin and muscle and bone.

You can hardly see for the merciless sun refracting through tears, for the pain that blinds in scarlet sparks. You had been close to cover when you began. Only a ghostly sliver of hope whispers that you can make it, that maybe you're already there, that you can rest.

But it doesn't matter much; your fingers feel like ice, and the world spins and spins.

One more pathetic heave of your heavy form across burning sand, nonetheless. Another tearing pain in every nerve.

"Specialist!"

You hadn't noticed… you're face-down now, huffing pathetically in the mud of your own blood and tears. "Specialist!" But-that's a voice you know.

"Medic!" Your lungs still work, protest though they may.

Suddenly, you're staring at the ice-blue sky-and then, the dark crease of a concerned brow. "Scheisse! Your arm, where is it?" He disappears from your vision, leaving only the cold, cloudless atmosphere in his wake.

A laugh wracks your chest, crackling bolts of pain through your shoulders, your phantom limb. "Hell if I know!"

He returns, frowning, searching your face through his spectacles. "Spatz…" There it is again, that foreshortening of your name. "You know I can't fix you without it."

Yes, you remember. You close your eyes against the light, the creeping cold.

"Just make it stop."

"Then give me your gun." Your hand doesn't obey they order, and you're not sure if that's because it's the one you're missing or if you simply have no strength left at all. "Unless you'd prefer zhe bone-saw?"

No. You're lucid enough to know that. "Just—" Your ribs creak under the effort of breath "—take it."

His hand, so light, closes around the mother-of-pearl inlaid handle, fingers running, in passing, along your thigh as he drags it from the holster. Warm, so very warm. Four barrels slide up and leave your hip. Then, the click of the hammer.

In darkness, the words are there again.

In crimson light, your body sings. Every step, the pounding cadence-your finger on the trigger, the heart of harmony-each push and pull of muscle, the soaring melody. In every bullet that glances off your shield, a concerto-in the cries of your enemies, an orchestra.

And when the maestro demands just a little more in the low, sharp rhythm of his voice, you take copper and lead into your flesh, let the symphony score your skin. It rends, rips, ravages, scarlet and crimson blending, melting together in crescendo to burn it all away-

Silence. The moment of impact.

"Now, kill zhem all."

You only wish you had a knife. One, two, three, four—the pistol, so easy, so impersonal, but they fall all the same-five, six—

The song washes through, makes your heart light, bids your feet to dance.

Bloody corpses disappear and leave only faintest traces in the sand like notes lingering on the air as they fade away. Scarlet and azure and burgundy.

But they will return, and when they do, you will pull the trigger again.

The words are there in the music.

Cacophony. The whistle of your Gyrojet, the crack of a pistol, boot-heels on steel, hum of the medi-gun, bullets on kevlar, bitten-off scream of frustration and rage—

Something's happened. You turn.

Medic rips the knife out of his side with one hand, teeth gritted and gnashing against the pain, the blood, medi-gun still clutched in the other fist, weighing his arm down, but it's no matter as he lashes out, sun gleaming on silver and scarlet. The blade slices a ragged tear through mask and flesh as the spy's hands fumble for his revolver.

You bring your pistol about and squeeze the trigger, once, twice.

Shu-shushh.

Blood blooms violet in the breast pocket of his sapphire suit, soaks the crisp collar of his shirt. To his knees he goes, and you fire once more for good measure, punching a hole through the spy's back.

Good.

"Danke." A whistling wheeze returns your attention to Medic as he haltingly holsters the medi-gun. The side of his coat is soaking rapidly, crimson on white.

"Medic-"

Ping! A bullet glances off your shield and, without thinking, you counter with three shots toward the enemy scout, rapidly approaching. Shit.

"It's all right." He's at your side, syringe gun in one hand, the other wrapped tightly around his torso, a vain attempt to staunch the blood. "I'm all—"

Suddenly, you're catching him around the waist, Gyrojet abandoned, spinning across the point; through your shield, you can see the scout, seconds away, still unloading his pistol in vain. He'll be upon you in a moment, and you can't draw your howdah without dropping Medic—fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—

A whistle, and the BLU scout staggers. Another. He rips the syringe out of his shoulder, but it's too late; he's weaving like a drunkard. Two more, and he's face-down in the orange soil.

Medic is grinning, though his arm trembles. He rests the gun on top of your shield. "Ha." You can feel his ragged breath on your cheek, elbow pressing into your ribs with each shallow wheeze.

"Medic, we can't—"

"Go!" You almost jump out of your skin, but it's Heavy, close behind you, nearly on the point. "I will hold. Get medicine!"

You don't wait, not even when Medic starts to protest; you simply readjust your grip, fingertips sliding, sticky, already soaked, and begin falling back. Desperately, you scramble to remember where you might find-

"Left. Storage." He's pale, sweat beading on his face when you chance a glance, tugging him along, shuffling, shuffling.

It seems like ages-but you reach the door and slam it shut behind you, syringe gun and ballistic shield clattering to the ground. Sunlight filters through cracks in the slats of rough-cut timber, just enough to see, and slowly, you lower Medic to the floor, where you help him shuffle off the heavy medi-gun. Then, you scramble for the kit.

When you return to his side, Medic is stretched out flat on his back, both gloved hands pressed tight over the wound, eyes closed. He doesn't open them even when you snap the lid off the box and begin rummaging for disinfectant. Shit. Bloody fingertips let the bottle slide back amongst the bandages twice before you get your leather-clad palm around it and pry the cap off.

"Medic." You nudge his hands, still clasped tight to his side, blood soaking his coat all the way down to his thigh now. "Come on-"

"Nein."

Gritting your teeth, you start using more force, but he holds fast. "Medic, I need to bandage this now."

He opens his eyes, alight with amusement, but not quite focused through his spectacles. "I've already lost too much. I have-mm-" He hisses softly, breath hitching. "I would say, five or ten minutes before brain death, even bandaged."

"What?" You let your hand fall back to your side, disinfectant braced on your knee. "Why did you let me bring you here?"

Medic grins. "You weren't listening."

The cap goes back on the bottle, tightly. "Shit."

He tilts his head back, closes his eyes again, and you see it now-the grey pallor slowly seeping into his skin, mottling lips and cheek. "And Heavy wouldn't exactly…" It takes three trembling, shallow breaths before he can continue "...approve of what I'm—hggh—going to ask."

The words are there between his breaths.

You know what he's going to say, and your hand wraps around the pistol at your thigh before he opens his eyes again and fixes them upon you. "The flesh is weak."

A slow, steadying breath as you stand, take aim, and his gaze does not leave you, not once.

It must be killed.

Notes: φαρμακος (Pharmakos) - druggist, poisoner, sorcerer... but also, a human sacrifice to the gods as a means of purification or atonement, often a person already condemned to death

Spatz - sparrow ; chosen here for its sound-it's just close enough to Spezialist that a non-speaker might mistake one as a possible abbreviation for another