Rather Lengthier Note of Author: Hello, denizens of Earth. You've clicked again. I see most of you have been following my advice regarding not wasting your valuable time on reading or leaving review unless a grave crime against fiction has been committed. Very good. For the one who left one: Indeed, Pyro must save them all from insanity, for that is the greatest irony (perhaps not as ironic as Soldier lecturing us on bigotry, though. That'll come later).

What is disturbing to me is that some (very few – phew) people appear to be reading this story, either in part, or (horror) in its entirety. Now, why in the world would you do that to yourself? I suppose you've perused all the good fiction in the world and are forced to read this insufferable drivel. Since you are so clearly desperate, I've no choice but to indulge you further. Here is some more drivel. Perhaps more ridiculous than the last one.

This is called a one-shot, right? Or is it a drabble? I can never tell.

Medic's Medi Gun

The Medic hummed to himself, wrapping up the remains of the poor sap that wandered into the wrong sterile room at the wrong freaking time. Now, many animals have many more blood types than humans do, and different ones at that, but who was Medic to reject a candidate on the basis of their blood type? What was he, a bigot? So maybe he used an iffy organ, and maybe some random postal service worker's family would be holding a hastily scheduled funeral. It was Sniper's fault, really. Giving the mailman the address to their base by sending out all those letters to his parents was completely out of line. Medic never wrote anything involving paper, to avoid leaving a trail. His prescriptions were always scribbled directly onto the patient, whether they needed it or not. Then injected into the patient.

Willing or not.

Conscious or not.

He prided himself on his affinity for medicine and mindless – no, completely mindful – slaughter. Even when stuck healing a bunch of ungrateful, undeserving, unenlightened, and uneducated (save for Engineer) piles of human waste, he still managed to steal half a dozen samples of various bodily fluids and turn breathing people into corpses. He would catalogue the fluids later, once he'd dealt with the subject who provided them. He'd get Pyro to incinerate the remains, and send the ashes to the family anonymously. No muss, no fuss.

Spy walked in, as he was wont to do. (Busybody.) He was dressed in an immaculately tailored pin-striped suit, which he wore so often it was hardly worth mentioning, but it will be mentioned anyway. Deal with it.

He looked in distaste at the blood-soaked sheet covering the disemboweled stranger.

"Is that another subject of your little experiments?"

"Nein. No. What makes you think that?"

"Well, for one, it says 'Totally not Subject No. 840' on it."

"Zat could mean anyting."

"Your accent's thickening. You must be either lying or reverting into funetik accentry. I pronounced 'phonetic' with an 'f', by the way."

"What?"

"Never mind that. Well, you're beginning to attract attention. You have to be less...obvious."

"I am the epitome of discretion! How could I be any less obvious?"

"Don't include a picture of yourself posing with your victims' skeletons when you send their remains to their next of kin."

Medic considered the advice. He was forced to acknowledge the fact that he may have taken some liberties with some of the subjects in the distant past. But he was very careful now!

At that moment, the Engineer decided to pop in. "Howdy, Doctor! I've got some new ideas for improvin' the efficiency of the Dispens– what in the dickens is that?"

Medic hid the gore-spattered instruments behind his back, whistling nonchalantly. Engineer gingerly lifted a corner of the sheet and quickly recoiled in disgust. "Aw, hell, not another one!"

"Vat do you mean? Zere were no ozer ones!"

"Accent."

"Ruhe! Sei still!" Medic yelled in WordReference German. Nun, wer einen Akzent hat? he thought to himself smugly in Bing German.

Spy ignored the blatant abuse of (often inaccurate) online translation services that didn't exist in the 1970s, replying in perfect Google Translate: "Sei nicht so kindisch nicht, Doktor. Es muss nicht werden Sie. Sie machen sich lustig über Ihre vermeintlichen Sprache. Auch Google besser."

"What are you talking about? That made no sense!"

"I hope not. Do you know what doesn't make sense? Why we keep around a doctor with no self-control when it comes to human experimentation, when all the medicine we need lies in the Medi Gun."

A few ethnic slurs later, Medic was in the midst of a fully-fledged tirade.

Spy was slightly taken aback at how many foreign curses Medic was familiar with, but quickly decided that the entire exercise was immensely amusing. Engineer fidgeted in place, eyes darting from sang-froid Spy to furious Medic, and then straying to the safe, empty hallway.

"My country has a higher GDP than yours!"

"Well, my country has a better history of foreign and domestic policy."

Medic glared at no one in particular. "You cannot use the Medi Gun! It's not just pushing a lever, you don't have the medical training! Do you know what the anterior cruciate ligament is? Do you know the proper response if a febrile response triggers a seizure? Do you know the significance of abnormal hematocrit levels?"

"You're still on that? As far as I know, the anterior cruciate ligament is found in the knee, connecting the tibia and the femur, febrile seizures generally do not indicate severe, underlying health problems, and abnormal hematocrit levels are very, very serious indeed."

"Lucky guesses," muttered the Medic.

"How about an experiment? For one battle, you surrender the Medi Gun to one of us. If we succeed in our endeavour, we will take care of all our healing, and you needn't complain about our unworthiness any further. If we fail, you get a break and you will regain the Medi Gun."

"Done! I'd like to see you Sch-"

"Uh, if I may jus' interrupt," interrupted the Engineer. "I am going to leave now."

He hurried out of the infirmary, clutching his toolbox to his chest.

After an eternity of deliberation, it slowly dawned on Medic that he could use this as a lesson to that francophone upstart. Cursing profusely under his breath in (idk what) German, Medic hauled his beloved-but-not-as-beloved-as-vivisection-itself Medi Gun up from behind one of the gurneys. He threw it (albeit not very hard) at Spy, who cloaked and reappeared behind Medic. The Medi Gun thudded to the ground, lying pathetically on its side as both mercenaries stared each other down, daring the other to pick it up.

No one spoke for a while.

Medic and Spy were the first ones up the following morning. They went through the motions of preparing for battle with exaggerated purposefulness. This upset Soldier greatly, as he took great pleasure in being able to personally yell at every one of them for being lazy wastes of skins that had to sleep past 0500 hours. But today, even he couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"I don't think you're actually French!"

"And why is that?"

"You don't pronounce your 'th's like 'z's, and you never pepper your English gratuitously with your mother tongue!"

"J'espère que vous n'êtes pas aussi bête que vous semblez."

"Deux personnes peuvent jouer a ce jeu! Erdäpfel! Schneeflocken! Auf Wiedersehen! Something else German!"

"Why are you using anglicisms with missing accents, and why you talking about potatoes and snowflakes?"

"How can you hear the accents?" demanded Medic, bewildered.

"Never mind that," the Spy said smoothly. "Hand over the Medi Gun."

"Schweine– " Medic cut himself off. There was no use arguing with the deceitful Spy, who was obviously not French and possibly committing cultural appropriation depending on who you asked. He clearly had no compunction telling his blatant lies of disrespect and deceptive duplicity. He probably drowned children in their sleep and ate their corpses with fries and jaywalked while cheating on his taxes. There is no way to reason with a man so amoral.

By the time he concluded his ruminations about the nature of the morally deficit Spy, they had arrived at the control point, with no BLUs to be seen.

"Well, we appear to be the first ones here," mused the Medic. For a moment, all seemed to be peaceful. Then chaos exploded into life around them.

The enemy Demoman had laid down an intricate matrix of transparent stickybombs, invisible and innocuous against the overpowering blue of the surroundings, with the utmost care: by spraying them in random directions. Their foe's calculated guile was only matched by his utter idiocy in placing stickies everywhere except the control point. All of them detonated in terrible, exquisite, perfect, yet utterly ineffectual harmony. Spy and Medic stood unharmed and unimpressed in the eye of the fiery maelstrom, as the BLU Demo screamed incoherent obscenities at them from his tactical position lying drunk at the bottom of a ditch.

"Should we go and kill them now?"

"After you."

Unfortunately for Medic, nobody was letting him kill anyone.

"No, Medic, we need you!" insisted the Engineer, frantically trying to set up a dispenser as he repaired a flagging Level 2 Sentry. (However flattering this is, it's not the time – I have a point to make! Medic seethed internally.) "Stay back to heal the injured!"

"I don't have the Medi Gun, Spy does! Let me go!" he cried indignantly.

"WHAT?! Why? 'Ave you been wearing Pyrovision goggles, mate?" the Sniper shouted, trying to aim at the enemy Sniper and the enemy Medic simultaneously. "Are you wearing them right now?!"

"I am not insane! Now let go of me so I can go and stab some people armed with rocket launchers in the chest with a bone saw!"

The Engineer stared at him briefly, then went back to hammering away at his Sentry. Sniper shook his head in disbelief, then ducked as a spray of Tomislav bullets flew past Medic, barely missing Sniper by a hair.

Medic frowned disapprovingly, and stomped off, yelling, "YOU'RE MORE OF A DESIGNATED MARKSMAN ANYWAY!"

Spy was not having a very good day at battle.

To start with, once people caught on that Medic didn't have the Medi Gun, nor any health-restoring devices whatsoever, they had come after him, alternatively begging and demanding him for healing while he was cloaked, in full view of the enemy. (Not that that mattered – half the time, the Medi Gun didn't cloak with him. This led to more deaths than he was willing to admit.)

That in itself was manageable, if annoying: he simply flicked on the Medi Gun, healed the ungrateful troglodyte in question, and went about his business. But the Pyro of the opposing team was playing with new toys. Spy would normally have no trouble trickstabbing the little firebug, even when it was armed with the W+M1-enabling Phlogistinator and shooting at people willy-nilly with its Flare Gun, but today, he was holding the blasted Medi Gun. He had forgotten what exactly he wanted to prove – was it that they didn't need a Medic? Yes, that was it – but he had wanted someone else to wield the Medi Gun.

Unfortunately, nobody that was intelligent enough to wield it was available. He was stuck with it, cursing its inability to fade as he Dead Ringered for the thirtieth time to escape from a cackling BLU Pyro, spraying gleeful flames over what seemed like an entire football field.

Suddenly, a piercing scream rent the air.

Whirling around, Spy was greeted with the sight of the enemy Heavy being confronted by a bonesaw-wielding Medic. Medic had been hit in the left shoulder, but he still tried valiantly to swipe at the BLU Heavy. The Heavy revved down his Tomislav, picked up the RED Medic, and casually ripped one arm off.

Well.

Spy dropped the accursed Medi Gun discreetly, and changed direction abruptly. He stifled a grin as the Pyro blasted the area once with the Phlogistinator, and finding no flaming Spy, wandered off confusedly towards the control point, where the Soldiers were having a duel of nitwits. Spy stole quickly behind the BLU Heavy, chuckled, uncloaked, and plunged a knife into his heart.

Judging by the screeches coming from the control point, the everyone was there, except for Medic and Spy.

Spy walked leisurely around the disintegrating body of the Heavy and crouched down so he was almost level with the violently shivering Medic, who was making a low keening noise that sounded like a cat in labour.

"You had to butt in, didn't you?" Spy asked. The Medic, glassy-eyed and increasingly pale, still managed to glare.

Spy brushed himself off, walked over to where he had left the Medi Gun, pushed on the lever, and trained it on Medic. "Leave the fighting to the professionals, will you, doctor? Stick to what you do best – oh wait, I'm doing it right now."

The colour returned to Medic's face as muscle and bone knit back together. "You don't understand," spluttered the Medic. "Stop vat you're doing!"

"I'm healing you, you imbecile. Be quiet."

"Dummkopf! Das is ein –"

But it was too late.

Spy stared at his handiwork. The arm had grown back, sprouted from the bleeding stump like a young sapling out of a nurse log, and it was perfectly healthy. That was not what was wrong.

Medic now had three arms.

"Scheisskopf!" shrieked the Medic. "This is why medical training is necessary to operate it! I'll bet you've given the entire team heaps of self-aware beauty marks, with how you're using zat thing!" Muttering to himself in Angrish, Medic snatched the Medi Gun from Spy with his two right hands, and jabbed a finger into Spy's chest with his left. "You must envision the healing you're doing! Joints, sinew, blood, what have it! You must have overstimulated the tissue repair and activated two sets of arm buds! Now I'll have to remove tumours from everyone, and an arm from myself! I hope you're happy!"

Spy didn't know how to respond to that. All that this day had taught him was that he was utterly done with his entire team of misfits, and though perhaps they did need a Medic, he wished the one they had would be less of a drama queen.

He decided later, though, that it was probably a mistake to annoy the one who currently (or, in this case, formerly) held a license that allowed them to perform complex surgery, as Medic stood gleefully over him armed with comically oversized scalpel and insufficient anesthetic.

~FIN~

Yes. With shameless tildes.

EDIT: Since I can't reply directly to anons to thank them for their niceness (frankly undeserved on my part), here: Thank you anons! You're like constructive IPs on Wikipedia! Rare and delicate and to be preserved. (You don't have to be nice, you know. If you hate me you can tell me. I can take it.)

I'm alternatively serious and stupid. If these stories juxtaposed comes off as disparate (I have seen collections of stories like this) – and jarringly so – I apologize. Bear with me. I would address this personally to Guest, but Guest is a faceless, nameless Guest. Sorry, Guest. Thank you for the advice, by the way! It's always appreciated.

SECOND EDIT: Freaking TF2 Wiki says it's "Medi Gun", not "Medigun". I've freaking updated it to match. *is embarrassed*