A/N: Welp, here's a -somewhat- long-awaited chapter. Sorry for the break, my muse died sometime in the long car rides, and I just got it back. But anyway!
Found out I called Medic's expression 'sour' a couple of times. Soldier calls Medic a Kraut. This would make Medic a SourKraut. I...it's a stupid joke but omg I could not stop laughing when I figured it out.
Sorry if this chapter seems full of filler, but it's all necessary, I can promise you that! Thanks for all the story-alerts, guys, and enjoy~!
Heavy picked up the unconscious Scout, carrying him over to the table that Medic had prepared for him. He laid the kid stomach-down, fitting his head into the specific pillow the doctor had provided which prevented him from suffocating, even if he stayed face-down for an extended amount of time.
The Russian sat back then, and listened as Medic called for Engineer to come to the hospital wing – over the channel, of course. The response they received was a "give me two minutes, an' I'll be there." While they waited, Medic prepared a few further things and Heavy stood between the table and the door, observing.
As the doctor worked, he talked, explaining the procedure, switching between German and English, so it was clearly for his own benefit and not Heavy's. It was a habit of the man's, talking while he worked, and he usually went over what he had to do – it helped him concentrate, Medic had explained to him once. Heavy wondered if that came from his years of work as a doctor before. Had he once been surrounded by assistants, ready to do his bidding at a moment's notice? Perhaps.
The doors opened and Engineer strode in, making his way to the table. His arms were laden with sheaves of blank, blueprint style paper. Behind his ear, under his helmet, was a pencil, and Heavy would have been surprised if the man did not have three more tucked away on his person. Medic gestured for Heavy to bring an extra cart over while he pulled off Scout's headset and set it aside. The German then reached for his scalpel and forceps, not even looking up to see if Heavy had obeyed his unvoiced request. He probably knew he would.
Heavy went and grabbed the low cart, pulling off any extra supplies and wheeling it over to Engineer. The Texan thanked him and pulled it up to the side of the cot, laying out his papers and weighing down the corners with nuts and bolts from his overalls. By the time Heavy looked over to the table again, Medic had made a small incision in the back of Scout's neck. The Russian leaned over curiously, surprised to see a miniscule metallic square glistening wetly.
"Vhat is dat?" he asked, certain that his queries would not disrupt Medic's work. He kept his hands away from the table, watching as the doctor lifted the skin, clearly displaying the…thing.
"It's a microchip, implanted inta' him fer…fer Respawn, we think," Engineer replied, his gaze flicking back and forth from his papers to Scout. Heavy had not even realized that he had begun drawing, though now his pencil flew across the blueprint. "We also think it's what started 'is headaches –" Engineer paused, looking up for a split second and meeting the Russian's gaze. "This is top secret, awright? Doesn't leave the room."
"Very good," Heavy replied.
"Vell," Medic absentmindedly corrected him. "Very vell," he murmured to himself, carefully examining the chip and its various qualities. Heavy stared at it as well, and realized something startling: the chip was connected to a multitude of things, but none of them were connected to it. It almost appeared as if the contraption was a parasite, latching onto everything, but unnecessary.
"Why does leetle Scout have chip if it give ache in head?" he asked, frowning. He very much wanted to curse his ineloquence in English – it made everything far too frustrating, to be unable to express himself properly. He wasn't a genius, to be certain, but he was no dummkopf, as Medic would put it.
"We all do. They've never acted up like this before, though, so we think there could be a problem with 'em and the system. We're pullin' it outta' the kid in the hopes that it'll help 'im, and we can find out more 'bout 'em." The Texan worked, and finally seemed mostly satisfied with his drawing, stopping and looking between the papers and Scout. "I think I got it. Though, from tha' way it looks, we shouldn't have trouble puttin' it back. Go ahead, Doc', I'm all set," Engineer finally said, setting down the pencil.
Medic nodded and reached in with the forceps, latching onto the chip – careful not to damage anything – and tugging. It resisted for a few moments, before all of the connections suddenly detached from Scout and slipped back into the chip, as if they had never existed. It came away easily, then, and Medic inspected it, setting it gently down on a clean tray beside Engineer.
The Texan picked it up, pulling a cloth from one of Medic's sets of tools, and began cleaning the chip gently. Heavy watched Medic sew up the cut in Scout's neck, though he also realized that this was not the German's stronger suture thread, weak enough to be cut easily. Doubtless, that would be for when they needed to reinsert the chip.
"If'n ya' don't need me anymore, I'm'a gonna' take this down and see what I can do with it. Call me if ya' need me, or if the kid gets any worse." Engineer stood, taking the chip and holding it almost reverently as he left.
"Very vell, Herr Engineer. Danke for your help," Medic answered absently, cleaning everything thoroughly. The doors to the hospital swung shut, and Heavy finally deigned to speak up.
"If chip hurt leetle Scout, why would you put back?" he asked, sitting back and keeping an eye on the door.
"It may hurt Herr Scout more to keep it out. Ve cannot be certain because ve have never dealt vith somezing like zhis. I did not even know ve had zhese things." Medic seemed frustrated, but at himself rather than Heavy. He also looked weary, the Russian noticed, as if he had not been sleeping well – if at all – these past few nights. "How could I not have seen zhis?"
"Is not Doktor's fault," Heavy murmured, leaning across the table to put a reassuring hand on Medic's shoulder. "None knew."
"It is mein job to know zhese things, Heavy. Und still I did not know." The German shook his head, sighing, and pulled away from Heavy's hand, gathering up his tools. When he was finished with that, he pulled out a roll of gauze, making certain to keep everything else clean. With a gentleness that startled Heavy, Medic lifted Scout's head and wrapped the bandages around his throat, careful not to make it too tight, nor too loose. The Russian had never seen the doctor be tender toward their annoying, loudmouthed runner, and he supposed it could have been because the German liked the kid better when he was out cold.
Heavy broke the silence, standing up and patting Medic on the shoulder again, squeezing comfortingly, before moving to retake his position by the door. Medic said nothing.
There were noises, floating without substance amidst the calm, unending whiteness. Voices, perhaps. They were melodic, singing to him, highs and lows and every tone in between. Some had lilts to them, others rang clear. A cacophony to others perhaps, but music nonetheless. They did not sing together, or share sounds and notes. And yet they all converged strangely beautifully. The whiteness flooded and then sank away, a silent, warm ocean, devoid of taste and smell, but full of comfort. The voices kept singing, until all the high, sweet ones faded, leaving behind the lower, richer, silkier baritones. And some of those faded too, leaving only those with familiar lilts, rises and drops in intonation that he was supposed to know. That he knew. But how? He had never met these angels.
Scout jerked awake with the realization that it was his team's voices. He glanced around furtively, and realized that his headset was lying by his bedside, close enough to hear clearly.
"What the fuck," he grumbled, looking around sluggishly. And then burst out laughing.
"Laddie? What is going on over there?"
"I shoulda' known it was a dream the second I heard Sniper singing on-key!" Scout kept laughing.
"Wot are you talkin' 'bout now, kid," the Australian asked as the runner pulled on his headset, the better to hear them.
"I had this fucked up drug dream or whatever, man...you…you guys were all singing!" He felt his eyes tearing up, and any pain was wiped from his mind. "Demo, you were sober. I don't think I've ever heard you sing a full sentence before. Though you guys weren't really talking. I still can't believe it! Damn, I wish that I coulda' recorded that. Would'a been the best thing."
"So, now that we know you're good an' awake, an' pro'lly drugged up still, how're ya' feelin', kid?" Engineer asked, and Scout could almost hear the smile that was probably on his face.
"Fine enough, I guess. 'm not hurtin' all that much anymore, if that's what ya' mean."
"Interestin'…" the Texan murmured, and the sound of scribbling filled the sudden silence.
"What's interestin'? What're ya' talkin' about, Hardhat?" Scout frowned, the question hanging in the air.
"Yeah...what is so interestin' 'bout it, Engineer?" Sniper asked suddenly, interrupting Demo's next words.
"I'm just surprised the kid's feelin' alright when Medic didn't heal 'im up all the way with his gun," the Texan answered quickly.
"I ain't no kid!" Scout snapped, scowling.
"Whatever you say, kiddo," Engineer replied, and if Scout had been thinking, he would have noticed that the Texan sounded relieved about the subject change.
"'ey, I'm a legal adult, alright? Talk to fuckin' RED's Scout if ya' wanna' be callin' someone a kid!" he grumbled.
"He's a legal adult too, laddie," Demo pointed out.
"But he can't drink!" Scout pointed out.
"Ah, then yer right, it would make 'im a kid," Demo replied thoughtfully.
"See what I mean? 'm not a kid!" Scout huffed, and sat up, reaching up to absentmindedly rub his neck. When his hand scraped over bandages, he froze, instantly tuning out any response he could have received. "What-," he murmured, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbled for a moment, and staggered slightly across the room, reaching the tall mirror Medic had hanging against one of the walls. He stared at himself, tilting his head so he could see his neck better. "What the fuck is this…?" he asked to the air.
"Wot is wot, mate?" Sniper asked, making Scout realize he had been heard.
"I…I wasn't hurt any on my neck, but there's bandages here…" he murmured, confused, staring at his reflection as if it would tell him something.
"You sure they didn' hurt you there?" the Australian asked, and it sounded as if he had stopped whatever he was doing.
"Positive. They didn' even touch my neck. Pro'lly scared they'd kill me or somethin'. But…what's this then?" Scout felt a trickle of fear slither down his spine and curl around his heart, and he did his best to ignore it. He didn't like the idea of someone digging around him while he was out cold.
"That's bloody strange. Maybe you can ask Medic," Sniper replied, though he seemed confused too.
"I will," Scout replied, staring down at the wraps on his hands, not noticing the door open behind him.
"You called?" the German asked, smirking as the runner whirled, a hand going to the holster he wasn't wearing, searching for the gun that wasn't there.
"Doc'!" Scout shouted in surprise, his hand sheepishly dropping from its course the instant he recognized who it was. When had he gotten so jumpy? "What's all this for?" he asked, rubbing at his throat.
"Zhere was…a small procedure I did to cure your headache. It is no longer hurting, ja?" When the runner nodded dubiously, his smirk grew. "Perfect! Zhen why are you asking?"
"What did you do to me?" Scout asked, vaguely recalling trying to get away, being caught, restrained, subdued. With each returning recollection, his dread grew.
"Nozhing! Simply a little trick I know, and it obviously vorked. Vhy are you complaining?" Medic's smirk soured into a frown, and Scout was almost afraid of asking further.
"I just remember some weird things, man," he began.
"Ach. Dreams." The German huffed, as if offended that Scout would waste his time with such things.
"No way, man! The dreams were all fluffy and shit. You tried to…do somethin' with one of your syringes, and I jumped away, and Heavy caught me, and you stabbed me anyway, and then I fell asleep." The runner watched Medic's expression drop further, transforming into rage.
"Vhat are you implying?" His voice dripped poison, and Scout belatedly decided he had taken the wrong approach to this question.
"Nuthin', man! 's why I'm askin'!" He raised his hands, palm outward as if surrendering,
"And I answered. A simple procedure to cure your headaches." Medic turned away, ending the argument suddenly.
"Whatever, asshole." Scout returned to the bedside and snatched his hat and bag, leaving the hospital room.
He trudged through the hallways, his stomach rumbling loudly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in a while. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he pulled down his headset to put his hat on underneath it, carefully replacing the headset afterward. Silence filled his ears, disturbed only by the sound of his footsteps, and he reveled in it, suddenly glad that the BLU team did not chatter anywhere near as much as the RED.
This startled him, as he was always the one who supported noise and racket, causing it himself if the base was too quiet for his tastes. But then, he had not really appreciated noise when he could barely see straight just the day before. He shrugged it off, content to leave the pondering for people who got paid to do it, and pushed open the doors to the cafeteria.
Sniper was there, sitting back with his coffee beside him, his dismantled rifle before him. He was cleaning the gun thoroughly, carefully, patiently. Scout couldn't understand it. It was just a gun after all. Why take so much time?
"Hey, Sniper!" he called, walking over, waiting a moment as the Australian looked up and nodded, tilting his head to a place near him. Scout tossed his bag down in the seat and bolted over to the kitchen area to grab something to eat. Sniper could wait – he was an expert at that.
Scout found some bacon sitting in a pan on the stove, quietly sizzling, and he could not believe his luck. With a joyful shout, he poured it all into a plate, grabbed some toast, and turned to look in the refrigerator. There were still a bunch of eggs there, and he took two of them, cracking them swiftly and pouring them into the still-warm pan. When it was all done, he took his plate, mouth watering, and walked back to their table, grabbing a can of soda on the way.
"Man, there was bacon in the kitchen! Who the hell would leave a whole plate of bacon behind?" He asked, sitting down just a few seats over from Sniper, digging in. "And i'sh really good too," he mumbled around a mouthful of the delicious breakfast. The Australian simply smiled, shaking his head and resuming his cleaning.
The plateful of food disappeared in moments, and Scout leaned back, taking a large swig of soda. He belched loudly, and Sniper looked over at him.
"Hungry, eh, mate?" the Australian asked, smiling wryly. He had finished with a couple of pieces of his rifle, slipped them together effortlessly, and set them aside. Scout exhaled and slouched against his chair, taking another drink of his soda, smiling widely.
"Dunno' the last time I ate such good breakfast. I didn't even know we had bacon!" The runner leaned back, pushing the chair until it balanced on two legs, and stretched. He rolled his head from side to side, stretched his arms and legs, and cracked his back. When he let the chair land back on four legs, he caught Sniper looking at him oddly. "What's up?" he asked, frowning.
"D'ya' ever find out what happened ta' yer neck?" the Australian asked, looking at him strangely.
"Naw, man. Doc' refused to tell." He shrugged, not bothering to hide his anger.
"Let me see." Sniper leaned over, and Scout turned his head, showing him the side and back of his neck. "Bloody 'ell…" the Australian muttered, looking closer.
"What? What's 'bloody hell'?" Scout asked, turning quickly to look at Sniper. The older man grunted, forcibly turning his head away again.
"The bandages back 'ere," he said, very lightly touching the area, making Scout wince instinctively despite the lack of pain, "are turnin' red. 're you alright? I didn't 'urt ya', did I?" Sniper asked, and the runner quickly shook his head.
"'m fi—"
"Alright you pansies, quit making your daisy chains and GET YOUR ASSES OVER TO THE WAR ROOM. STAT." Soldier's incredibly loud shout made Scout flinch, interrupting him mid-sentence, and he had to wonder if the general had a megaphone he used to shout into his microphone.
"We're comin', we're comin', jeez," he grumbled, standing and taking his plate to the sink, rinsing it off. When he turned back, he saw Sniper waiting for him, rifle mostly assembled and slung over his shoulder. Scout dashed over and picked up his bag, slinging it on and following him to the door.
"Soldier's gonna blow our ears out one day, and then 'e'll have to shout even louder," Sniper muttered as they walked, and Scout laughed.
"That's what he pro'lly wants, man. He'd die happy if he could shout his lungs out," the runner replied, taking longer strides to keep up with Sniper's.
"I'D DIE WHAT?" Scout looked up and saw the general standing in the hall, shouting angrily – or excitedly; one could never tell – at them.
"Actually, I don't think you could ever behappy," the runner sighed and stepped past him, entering the conference room and sitting down. Sniper shook his head when Soldier attempted to question him, and walked right past him. The Australian leaned his rifle against the table as Scout tossed his bag of gear on the floor. The runner sat down and scooted his chair back, putting his feet up on the table and balancing the chair on two legs. To hell with it. He could care less if he got yelled at for getting dirt on Soldier's precious war table.
The rest of the team had yet to arrive, so the two simply sat back and waited.