Chapter Three: MEDIC!!

Author's Note: Continuing where we last left off, we finally meet the man of the hour: the Medic. The header image is a lovely sketch commission drawn by Kara on Tumblr.

With Mortimer and Spy taking the young male in tow, Miller leads them down a hallway, until they notice several chairs lined up against the wall next to a windowed door. This door is noticeably taller and wider than the others found around the base, and it's adorned with various warning signs in English and German, including one which reads “No Smoking” (catching a glance of this one, Spy slips a cigarette back into his pocket). Miller knocks on the door with his gloved hand (Mort notices that the Engineer wears only one glove. The question is, why?) and calls out, “Hey, Doc! Got a special delivery for you.”

“Vhat is it now?” answers a voice, dripping with exasperation. As the mysterious “Doc” opens the door, Mort and Spy's eyes grow wide as saucers. A rotund figure standing almost a full head taller than the Sniper, the man is HUGE. Not to mention awfully pissed. “I've got no time for your...” His anger is drained away, replaced by shock as he finally notices the body of the boy. “Vell? Vhat're you vaiting for? Get him on zhe table, pronto!”

Right away, Mortimer and Spy lay the boy on the examination table, where the doctor proceeds to inspect the extent of the damage. Neither of them could understand what he's muttering, but his relieved sigh quickly soothes the tension in the room. “He's got a few crushed ribs and a lot of bruising, but he should be just fine ozhervise.”

The boy's eyes flicker open and he lifts his head to skim the environment. “Wha...?” As soon as he catches a glimpse of the doctor's face, his lips emit a weak chuckle. “Hey, Doc. What're you doing here?” The young man coughs, a small drop of blood trickling down his mouth.

The doctor, his expression eerily stoic, grabs hold of the young man's forehead and slams it against the table; he seems unaware of or indifferent to this violent action. “I digress; he is in much vorse condition zhan I expected. But not to vorry: he vill be better in a snap!” Noticing the concerned reactions of the Sniper and the Spy, he throws in, “He'll be on his feet in zhe morning.”

“Are you sure?” Mortimer says, his brow furrowed with worry. After this incident, he hopes he'll never have to make a trip to the operation room ever.

The doctor's expression lightens up, and he waves off Mort's comment. “Sure I'm sure! Vincent iz a regular patient of mine. If he ever dies, I vould never forgive myself!” Mort still has his doubts, but the larger man's answer relieves him a bit.

The Sniper opens his mouth to speak, but out of nowhere, Spy butts in. “Nice to meet you, Doctor Hartmann!”

The doctor is taken aback at first, but he appears slightly amused by this turn of events. “It's my pleasure, Herr Spy.” He turns his attention to Mortimer. “From zhe looks of it, I take it you are zhe new Sniper?” Mortimer nods. “Vhen I heard zhat ve vould be receiving new recruits, I couldn't help but be a little... apprehensive.” Glancing at Vincent's unconscious body, he continues. “But after you've saved Vincent, I have to admit, I could not be more relieved. Danke schön, mein Kameraden.”

Doctor Hartmann's gentle smile and compliment warms Mortimer's heart, and his cheeks flush a bright pink as he stammers, attempting to piece together a proper reply. “I-er, thank you... Uh, I mean, it's nothin', really! I couldn't just stand around and do nothin' while somebody's hurt. I—”

His speech is interrupted by Miller, who, until now, has remained silent. “I guess I'd better be off now. Take care of 'em, Doc.”

The larger man glares at the smaller man in the hardhat. “Vill do, Herr Macintosh.” With that, the Engineer takes his leave, and the doctor regains his former composure. “Vell, I don't believe I've gotten your names yet. As Herr Spy had already mentioned, I am Doktor Hartmann. I am zhe Medic for zhe team here at Teufort. Speaking of vhich, I cannot keep calling you 'Herr Spy' forever. For zhe safety of our team, it vould be best if you let me know here and now.”

Spy pouts. “Zhat's confidential, fattie!”

“If zhat's how you vant to play it...”

In the blink of an eye, the Spy is knocked out, covered in syringes. The Medic blows on the nozzle of his unusual weapon of choice—a gun that shoots out syringe needles in a projectile arc—and puts it away. “Vell, how about you, Herr Sniper? Got anyzhing to add?”

The Sniper isn't sure how to react; he'll have to be cautious when answering. “Name's Mortimer. Mortimer Mundy. J-just call me Mort. None of that 'hair' stuff.”

“Oh. Vell, all right zhen. 'Mort'. Nahh. I like 'Morty' better. Fits your personality better.” He gives a playful smile, which Mort—sorry, Morty—reciprocates. Despite the Medic's hair-trigger temper, there's an air about him that comforts the scruffy Sniper.

I think we're gonna be the best of buds...!

That thought is interrupted by the emergence of another figure. Well, two, actually—Mort didn't see the other one being carried into the room. As it turns out, they're the two men in the fitness room earlier. And from the looks of it, they still haven't completely gotten over their squabble yet.

“Sorry, Harty. Jane's been awfully irritable lately,” the dark-skinned man says, his tone genuinely apologetic. “Ah can't figure out what's wrong with 'im.” Meanwhile, the one he refers to as “Jane” appears to have simmered down to simply miffed. “I gotta go. Take care of Janey for me!”

Hartmann smiles as he takes the shorter man in his arms, treating him like a baby. “Vill do, Duncan. Auf Wiedersehen, my friend!” The moment the black man—Duncan—is right out the door, the good doctor's countenance instantly transforms into a devious one. “Now, zhen, Balg, explain yourself. Vhat satisfaction did you feel vhen you beat up my dear Kaninchen?”

Unlike Mort when he spoke to Hartmann earlier, the man named “Jane” is showing an excess of confidence, bordering on arrogance. Not to mention he's awfully loud, with the voice and tone of a drill sergeant. “I had to teach the brat a lesson about messing with the big boys. If he can't back up his words with action, he doesn't deserve to be on the battlefield!”

“Vincent is just as much of an asset on zhe battlefield as everybody else.”

“He's a spineless little whelp who's holding the team back.”

“As if beating the Scheiße out of him vill make him more useful. Yes, let's impair his mobility, vhile ve're at it!”

“Kick him off the team. It's better off that way.”

“How about I kick you off instead, you little—?”

“HEY!”

The two of them quit bickering and turn their attention to Mortimer, whose face is contorted from frustration. “I don't know what's goin' on here, but all this yabberin' ain't gonna fix nothin'!” He looks at Jane. “Mr. Jane, or whoever you are, I saw what went on in the gym. I dunno what happened, or who started it, but I don't care about that. When Vince wakes up, the two of you are going to talk it out—no fightin' or bickerin', just a nice, simple chat 'til you resolve things.” Then to Hartmann: “Hart, you're a doctor. If you really cared about Vincent, you'd know better than to take yer anger out on Jane, even if he did start it. I'm pretty sure that goes against some kinda doctor code or somethin'.”

The doctor and the sergeant-wannabe say nothing, their glances alternating between each other and Mort. Then, after a long moment, the silence is finally broken by a loud burst of laughter.

“Gut one, Morty!” Hartmann says as one of his large hands ruffles the Sniper's hat, making his shaggy brown hair even more out of sorts. “Vell, I only have one operating table, so I'll spare you zhe pain zhis time, Janey. But I expect you and Vincent to talk it out after he vakes up. I'll make sure of it.”

“Yeah, all right, all right. Just keep that kid reined in or something. Can't have him freaking out in the middle of battle.”

“Of course. Off you go, little one!” Jane, storming out, grumbles a bit at the nickname as Hartmann cheerfully waves him goodbye. The doctor then turns back to Mort. “Zhat vas unusual. Under most circumstances, I'd send him to zhe emergency room, but it seems like ve've come to a more peaceful resolution.”

“Do you guys always fight?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Fighting is all anyone does around here. 'Specially me.”

“But it doesn't always have to be that way.”

Hartmann's face turns grim. “Look, kid. You may have kept me from loading Jane's arse vith syringes, but I highly doubt you'd be able to pull zhat off again. There's not a soul here who doesn't vant me dead. None except Kaninchen.”

“Now, I know that's not true. You and that Duncan bloke seem like good friends t' me!”

“Only 'cause he treats me like Jane's babysitter.”

“But look at it this way: if he really hates you, or doesn't give a hoot about you, would he even trust you with Jane in the first place? An' look at us now! We're talkin' like a couple of chums, wouldn't you say?”

A pause, then: “I suppose.”

“So quit bein' so glum an' put on a smile! Fits yer personality better.” He wraps his hands around one of Hartmann's (or tries to, anyway) and grins.

The giant of a doctor is absolutely gobsmacked. Such an open gesture of kindness was rare for him: the Australian man's grin reminded him of a certain other young man who treated him the same way, and the way he turned one of his own compliments towards him was less-than-expected. But it's as an old companion of his said: “kindness is contagious”. “Ja. I suppose ve are 'friends'.”

The sweet moment going on between the two of them is interrupted by a sickly groaning sound coming from the syringe-laden corpse lying on the floor. “Speaking of friends, I zhink you should do somezhing about zhat Spy lackey of yours. He's going to be an obstruction, I just know it.” As Mort carries the groggy Spy upstairs to the barracks, the good doctor says to himself, “A Sniper und a Spy... Zhis isn't going to end vell.”