Chapter Text
Medic POV: (??:??, Day ?)
The creak of old, battered floorboards was a noise that Herbert Ludwig, (un)trained and (un)authorised field medic, was quite familiar with by now.
The lack of that particular wake-up call was momentarily pleasant, before he realised what it must mean:
He was no longer in the well-worn, cramped, outdated halls of the Tuefort base.
Eyes flinging open suddenly, his suspicions were immediately confirmed by the complete darkness around him. The creaky footsteps of the Soldier, pacing at the ass-crack of dawn (because for some god-forsaken reason he felt the need to wake at 4am) were replaced with the subdued rattling of… something. He was moving, he knew that. A van? He also became increasingly aware of his immediate surroundings; a wooden box that his feet were kicking at the back of the van, a hand over his mouth, the warmth of someone next to him and yet another few someones on the other side.
He pretended he was still limp, asleep, as he listened, trying to get any indication of where he was or who he was with. How could he have possibly been kidnapped? With the Soldier never sleeping, the Sniper’s van posted up keeping watch outside of base, the Spy’s uncanny ability to sense everything and the Heavy’s fierce protection of the mercs, especially of ‘his doctor’, that would be near impossible.
He heard nothing save for the rattling of wheels, the squeak of metal, and the occasional sniff/grunt. Medic’s eyes, readjusted to the dark, made out the massive hand over his mouth and he realised he recognised the creases and wrinkles. The scars and callouses on the palms and fingertips, the particularly thick skin over its thumb, the remnants of nail polish on its nails. He relaxed instantly. This wasn’t a kidnapping.
‘Doktor?’ The presence on his right, feeling this shift, whispered. A rather loud ‘Shhhhh!!’ comes from the person on his left, cut off by a thwack to the head. The hand lifts, and Medic turns to see Heavy, who smiles at him tiredly.
‘Guten morgen, Heavy!’ Two more shushes. Heavy grabs Medic by the shoulders, bringing him up to sit directly next to him on a crate. Leaning into his ear, his warm breath ghosts Medic’s neck, making his hair stand on end for just a moment.
‘Sorry about the hand, could not risk you screaming. We must whisper. Will explain everything like this but cannot make too much noise.’ Heavy considered something, then tapped the Medic’s arm twice. ‘Do this when you want to talk, or ask question, da?’
Grateful for the silence (because he didn’t trust his voice right now), Medic nodded.
‘Good.’ Heavy cleared his throat. ‘Miss Pauling came to base, early this morning. There is threat to whole team – someone wishes to kill us all. Permanently. Is not like regular killing that we do every week.’
Medic considered this. The RED team faced threats of death daily – it was a consequence of the job. They had many enemies. Why was Pauling so worried about one person?
‘Killer came into headquarters, knocked out Administrator. Broke the screens, cut all surveillance, respawn, communication. She is fine, but this is first time this has happened. Nobody has gotten close to her before. They left Pauling a message – a file with every medical record, family information, life histories, her own as well. Is big threat. Do not know who this is from at this point, just that we must all go off grid.’ Heavy paused, sighed, continued. ‘Pauling is coming with us. Appears that she is main target. While RED figures it out, we are in hiding. Cannot make noise incase truck is bugged, or we are bugged. About to arrive at RED cargo port. We will be scanned for bugs and then flown out of America, temporarily.’
Okay. Maybe this was more serious than anticipated. Medic tapped Heavy urgently on the arm, and the man turned his head to listen.
‘How do we know it isn’t the BLU team? They hate us more than we do them. What if they just got tired of the war?’
Heavy shook his head, turning to whisper again. ‘BLU has been threatened also. They are being shipped elsewhere.’
Medic called his attention back. ‘Well, where are we going? Somewhere ‘off-grid’… what exactly does that mean?’
A huge grin overtook Heavy’s tired, stoic features, and he whispered ‘Have offered house in Siberia. Impossible to locate, except by me. The killer has no information about current residence, only gulag. We ran very far from there, in thick forest.’ His grin widened. ‘Only someone very dumb, strong or suicidal would live where I built home. And family is very, very strong.’