Chapter Text
Dr. Leopold Richter was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt about it. The death report was signed by the coroner, the cops, and the junior representative from Builders League United. His mangled remains were cremated somewhere far away from base. No one could challenge it, and no one could raise dispute.
Their previous Medic was as dead as a door-nail.
Spy had worked with the man’s replacement for 3 months to the day. His name was Dr. Schmidt.
The BLU Spy could admit their newest Medic was leagues better than Dr. Richter. At least this Medic hadn’t ever attempted to run experiments on any of them! And he was more polite. Courteous & gentlemanly, while remaining transparent, Spy might even venture to say.
But he could not delay this day any further. It was Spy’s annual physical… And he wanted no part in it. But, if the Administrator was going to make it mandatory in order to get paid, then he would cooperate on his terms and his terms only.
The number changed on the med bay display and the little beep above indicated that it was the next patient’s turn to enter the infirmary. Spy waited for the BLU Demo-Man to exit.
“Monsieur Stuart…?” He nodded.
“Phil.” Demo nodded back.
“...how is he?”
“Pure dead brilliant.”
“...what?” Spy didn’t believe that their Demo-Man just called the doctor excellent.
”Dinnae believe it at first. But he’s good.”
“...very well.”
Spy walked in slowly. Carefully. He noticed the doctor in question was finishing setting up fresh supplies and sterilizing the area. How…normal-seeming.
“Oh! Hallo, Spy. Villkommen!”
“Docteur…” Spy looked the man over.
“I had a few qvestions before ve begin. If zhat’s alright vith you?”
“...perhaps.”
“Ah. Zhere ve are.” The slightly older man picked up his clipboard with the mandatory checklist. “So…anyzhing I should be avare of? Family history? Past traumas?”
“...where are zee syringes?”
“Vhat.”
The BLU Medic looked up from his clipboard and noticed his teammate surveying the supply tray for syringes.
“Where. Are zee. Syringes?”
“...I didn’t zhink you vere due for shots, Spy.” Dr. Schmidt checked the charts and flipped through the pages. “Nein. You are up to date on shots. I did not prepare any for today. Just zhe physical examination.”
“...what game are you playing at, docteur?”
“Game?” Medic quirked a brow at that last comment. His expression became one of sudden terror as Spy tackled him to the floor. The good doctor felt the cold glance of steel against his throat.
“Listen very closely if you want to live…” Spy whispered. “We are doing things my way…”
“...do you vant zhe clipboard, zhen?”
“NO! I…” The Frenchman growled. “Just tell me where zee fucking syringes are! NOW!”
“Zhey’re in zhe syringe case? Near zhe bandages.”
“...very good.” Spy did not remove the butterfly knife from the doctor’s throat just yet. “We go at my pace, I will only undress to my comfort level. And you will tell me things in exchange. Damning things, as collateral…”
“Vhat? Vhy?!”
“Did I stutter?” Spy pressed the blade more directly to the doctor’s skin.
“N–no! You did not!” Dr. Schmidt surrendered. “...v-vhat happened to Dr. Richter, exactly?”
“Nothing that can be proven…” He hissed in deadly warning. “Do we understand each other plainly, mon ami?”
“...p-perfectly.” Dr. Schmidt gulped.
“Excellent.” Spy patted Medic on the cheek before letting him up.
They started over. Dr. Schmidt was allowed to keep the clipboard once he swore on his mother’s grave that there were no doves in the med bay to dirty up the place.
There were no doves to speak of at the moment. The man hadn't had pet doves since his childhood, and Dr. Richter’s doves were set free.
“Vhat alias should I put on zhe form?”
“...Phillipe Delacroix.” Spy readjusted his cufflinks as a nervous tick. “O-I-X at zee end.”
“Alright…” He jotted the name down.
“What is your full legal name?”
“Dr. Gustav Tadeusz Schmidt.”
“Hmm…” Spy took note of the name to memorize for later.
“Family history of any illnesses?”
“Non.”
“Understood.” Gustav checked a few boxes and continued with the pre-checkup questions.
“Past traumas? Many…” Phillipe admitted.
“I could tell. I apologize.”
“I will not go into detail. Those are already in my previous charts. Hopefully…”
“Zhe redacted ones?”
“Oui.”
“Alright. Zhat brings us toooo….zhe exams. Are you dressed down to your liking, Herr Delacrow?” Medic made his best attempt at pronouncing this new surname.
“...indeed.” He was still in his full three-piece suit, gloves, and balaclava.
“Easy enough.” More notes were jotted down. “I vill add zhis as your preference to your chart.”
“Merci.”
They continued to take Spy’s height and weight. Dr. Schmidt was allowed to look into Spy’s open mouth, but could not touch his neck to feel his thyroid. Not today. Needless to say, touching other parts of his body directly would be out of the question.
Next was the stethoscope to listen to his lungs.
“...may I?”
“Non.”
“Now, I vill not force it. But…” Gustav thought about it and came up with an idea. “...vhat if you do it? Und I guide you zhrough it?”
“...?” Spy’s features softened slightly. “That I will tolerate. For a price.” He took the stethoscope offered to him. Phillipe placed both earpieces into his ears and watched Gustav very closely.
“Ok. Move zhe applicator on zhe end around slowly, after a few breazhs each. Take slow, deep breazhs, bitte.”
“Alright.” He began to do so. "What am I listening for?"
“Listen for…any rattling or vheezing sounds.”
“...hm. Nothing yet.” He took more deep inhales and exhales. “Ah. A slight wheeze. No rattle.”
“Okay. Zhat is likely from smoking, mein freund.” Dr. Schmidt jotted down their findings. “Any pain?”
“Non.”
When they were done, Spy handed back the abnormally clean stethoscope.
He looked around the med bay and noted how it was nearly spotless. A few months ago, there would have been bloodstains and bone chips in various nooks and crannies. Doves would have been given free roam of the place, as well as the chest cavities of the patients. It seemed Gustav ran a very clean, tight ship.
“So… zee price …” Spy hummed.
“Javol.”
“...tell me one of these damning secrets of yours. And nothing stupid, like you skipped zee third grade. Tell me something that would ruin you…”
“...” Gustav sighed. “Und you vill cooperate if I do zhis?”
“This is my way , is it not?”
“Right…” Dr. Schmidt steeled his nerves as best he could. He didn't want to be tackled again. “I am… not exactly licensed …”
“...did you lose it? Malpractice?”
“No. Never had one.”
“...but you seem…very professional.”
“I am a medical doctor, Herr Delacrow.” Gustav admitted. “Und I vas a research fellow. But not licensed...”
“So you must always appear to be above board…I see.” Spy began to understand. "But why?"
"Mein ozhers secrets vill explain zhat..."
“Acceptable for now, but I do expect more.”
“After ve test your reflexes?”
“...very well.”
They started with the knees, then the elbows. This time, Dr. Schmidt was allowed to touch very briefly. And he was smart enough to stay clear. Phillipe kicked high. This was all noted in the chart without any sass or backhanded compliments. No poking, no prodding, and no syringes.
Good. Spy preferred it this way.
They moved on to eyesight. Spy covered his own eye with a gloved hand, and Medic moved a small flashlight to assess his pupil’s reaction. He did so slowly, and stopped once he had the results he needed. He never ventured too close. Spy switched eyes, and they repeated the process.
Things were going uncharacteristically smoothly, Spy thought.
“Anozher secret?”
“I think I am deezerving.” Phillipe gave a sly look. “I have cooperated.”
“Of course.” Gustav sighed again and prepared to expose another ruinous secret. “Believe it or not, Herr Delacrow…I understand your position. All too vell, from how you have reacted so far.”
“...how do you mean?”
“Um. Vell? I am a…survivor of sorts.”
Dr. Schmidt rolled up his sleeve slowly and revealed to Phillipe an oval-shaped scar on his inner left forearm. It looked faint and very neat. It was likely done by his own hands. Spy saw no sign of later infection.
The Frenchman didn’t need to ask. He knew it was a tattooed set of numbers the doctor carved from his own flesh all those years ago…
“...Auschwitz?”
“Dachau.” Gustav stated quietly as he rolled up his other sleeve. There was no scar to match. “I vas eleven vhen I broke out.”
“...what were you…charged with?” Spy began to frown. He was starting to actually feel sympathy for the fellow survivor before him. They survived different horrors, of course, but survived nonetheless.
“Being born Polish.”
“Oh...” Spy began feeling even worse. "...my apologies."
“...” Gustav gave a knowing look.
“How did you escape?”
“I vill not tell you how I escaped until AFTER ve take care of zhe bloodwork.” There was a pause. “You draw zhe blood yourself?”
“OUI.” Spy whipped out his knife again.
“Alright, alright!” Dr. Schmidt put his hands up carefully in a display of surrender. “Allow me to gazher up zhe supplies, at least?!”
“…..very well.” Spy put away his knife as he dared to remove his coat. Then he gently rolled up the left sleeve of his dress shirt to minimize wrinkling. “Place them all on a tray.”
Spy did all the work himself. He tied up his arm tight with the elastic band. He carefully felt for the right vein to go for. Phillipe even pressed the needle into his own flesh with a slight hiss of pain.
Dr. Schmidt was only allowed to be on the other end, taking care of the vials.
“You fasted, ja?”
“I did.” Spy nodded. He took slow, deep breaths as he watched his blood ooze out of himself. “So. Your daring escape?”
“I’m getting to zhat…”
“You were eleven, non? That makes you….”
“Fourty three.”
“...not bad for-”
“Do not lie. I look older zhen zhat.” Medic readjusted his round rim spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “Zhe years have not been zhe kindest, ja?”
“...perhaps.” He chuckled. “At least I can hide behind zee mask a while longer. But you are not ugly, at least.”
It was true. The newer Medic was not ugly, he just had more grey in his hair. Definitely NOT Phillipe’s type either way. But he had a kinder, clean-shaven face when compared to the late Dr. Richter. A kinder face still when compared to Dr. Ludwig of the RED team. Another point in Dr. Schmidt’s favor.
“Danke.” Gustav knew this was the nicest compliment Spy was capable of at the moment. “Last vial. You are doing great.”
“...thank you. You have been surprisingly cooperative, docteur. Why.”
“All zhings considered?” Gustav smiled. “You are not a bad patient. Just a brave one."
"Do not pity m-"
"Not pity. Never pity, Herr Delacrow. I know better." His smile continued. "....und done."
Gustav offered supplies for Spy to clean the site, but not a bandage to seal it back up.
“...what is this?”
“Part of mein explanation.” Gustav wandered over to the other side of the room. “If you vill allow it?”
“....alright.”
Medic reached for the strange new Medi-gun of his.
This new machine was a “Medi-Gauntlet”, and there were two of them. They were designed by Dell B. Conagher, the Engineer of their team. (Not to be confused with Dell R. Conagher of the REDs… That was a whole story all on its own.) Just in case Medic felt the whim to heal with one hand and kill with the other during battle, he had choices.
Medic reached for one of the two machines mounted to the ceiling and whispered a short phrase as he powered it up.
"...uzdrowić..." The slower, cooler healing stream engaged.
“Is that Polish?”
“Javol. It means to heal.”
“A strange quirk, mon ami. But not a damning secret.”
“I know…”
“Then, what is your explanation forrrr–”
Phillipe couldn’t finish what he was starting to say. He just froze. Medic just took his hand out of the strange chrome-colored device and pushed it away from himself. And the healing stream didn’t end.
It was coming from Dr. Schmidt’s open palm…
“Zhis is.” Dr. Schmidt continued to heal Spy for a moment longer, then ended the healing stream with a flourish of his hand.
“H-how?!” Spy grew unnerved. “Is there a device in your hand?”
“Nein…er, no. I am vhat is called a ‘Caster’. I manipulate zhe energies around me, und-”
“You’re a wizard? Really?” Phillipe looked annoyed now.
“Not quite, but uh…sure. For zhe sake of simplicity: I am a vizard.”
"Do not skirt around it any longer...how."
"I jumped zhe fences vith magic. Ran until I could not anymore."
“An unlicensed, Polish wizard…an escapee from Dachau…” Spy pondered this strange combination. “You are far from what I expected, Docteur Schmidt.”
“Und you as vell. You are an easier patient zhen Herr Pyro.”
Phillipe couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth, but he seemed to believe the statement.
Spy rolled down his shirt sleeve and donned his coat once more. He took out a cigarette and refrained from lighting it out of respect for the medical professional before him.
“Herr Conagher knows. But please, do not tell zhe ozhers?”
“As long as our… understanding remains firm.”
“It vill.” Gustav replied. “I am zhe team’s Medic. Simply here to help.”
“Until next time?” Spy asked.
“Javol. You are all cleared.” He nodded. “Have a gute rest of your day, Herr Delacrow.”
“...likewise.” He left after that without another word.