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No. 4783
This will probably be at least a few parts


Four shells and... one pistol magazine, with no pistol to go with it, the doctor noted. Fantastic. Clutching his damp shotgun tightly within his red, thickly gloved hands, he carefully trotted through the torrential downpour; the Medic's entire uniform was soaked. Mud had splattered liberally amongst each of his steps, blanketing his boots and trousers. He was breathing heavily, and his vision only suffered as it was warped considerably by the increasing amounts of water seemingly magnetized to his spectacles. The dark gray sky stretched over the entire countryside as far as the doctor could tell.

I have to get back to the base, Medic thought. Have to regroup with the others...

Various abandoned fields and farmhouses dotted the scenery as the doctor's pace increased faster and faster, until barns and shacks were blurring past him while the loose strap from the weapon slapped against him in rhythm with each of his steps. He had never felt so threatened out here; the arena and the surrounding land were his home for the past fourteen months, and now it had been invaded and the proud doctor had devolved to some vile sort of scavenger. He almost laughed at how alien the pump-operated firearm felt in his hands. He hadn't used one in so long; RED's regulations didn't allow it.

The Medic had underestimated how far he had traveled from the base, as he dashed faster and faster across the withered crops. He kept his senses sharp; he knew he was vulnerable and he didn't know if or when he would encounter resistance, and he was so poorly equipped to defend himself. His mind was racing feverishly from one thought to the other: get back to base. Warn everyone else. Pray they're not dead. It was impossible to stay focused.

Suddenly the panicked doctor came to a complete halt, kicking up mud as crouched down. Gunfire, at an erratic pace, as if from an automatic weapon. No, several weapons, Medic corrected himself. But it was muffled, probably from an interior location. Medic spun around toward the source; a white two-story farmhouse, perhaps forty yards away. The first floor window facing him lit up brilliantly in white light corresponding to each shot fired. The doctor kept low, moving quickly over the drowning grass engulfing his black boots. The gunfire had ceased by the time he reached the house, a victor apparently decided. No, there was yelling... though Medic couldn't make out what was being screamed, it was definitely from a man.

Crouched just below the first floor window, the German slowly rose and peered over the sill into the house. The wide hallway inside was dark, though both sides of it were clearly abused liberally with bullet holes. However, there was a man in the hallway, carefully leaning against the walls just outside one of the rooms of the left side. The glass between them prevented Medic from properly hearing whatever was being yelled so aggressively, but the man he saw in the hallway... tall, garbed in dark fatigues and a flak jacket laden with pouches and containers, an automatic assault rifle gripped in his hands, face protected by a transparent riot mask screaming what could only be obscenities at such a furious rate. He was no ally of the German, and he was merely a few feet away.

The enemy commando hadn't noticed the doctor, his attention still clearly too distracted. Taking note of the man's armor-clad chest, Medic made sure to aim for the face. Aim for the face, he reassured.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor took a careful step back and rose to a standing posture, shotgun trained at the window, barrel carefully lined up with the commando's head. Though the rain had impaired his vision, it would be hard to miss at this range. Squeezing the trigger with one latex-wrapped finger, the shotgun kicked backwards violently in the German's arms. The window before him shattered, sending hundreds of transparent shards inwards. Before the Medic could even survey whether his shot had hit or not, he had already chambered another large shell into the barrel of the weapon, returned his aim and fired again.

The lower half of the window was destroyed, and the commando in the hallway was no longer standing, but now lying limp on the floor. The doctor crouched back down and exhaled, while pumping the shotgun again. Two shells, he counted.

The German slowly moved to the front side of the house, onto the porch. The front door had already been demolished, lying on the floor in the entryway. Weapon trained, the Medic scanned the foyer across from the kitchen as he entered, threatening every corner with his shotgun.

In the hallway was a body; shattered riot shield, face mutilated grotesquely from the many pellets now lying within it. Blood had pooled around it. Medic lightly stepped over it toward the room the now dead commando had been yelling into. He crouched over the body and freed his left hand from the grip of his shotgun, slowly reaching for the man's hip, and removing the sidearm. The doctor slung the shotgun his shoulder and glanced at the pistol; it was surprisingly heavy. He ejected the magazine. Definitely not like the spare clip I have now, the German thought. Same caliber bullet though. He slammed the magazine back into the bottom of the gun, and moved closer to the open doorway. Both hands wrapped around the new weapon, he inched his head around the doorframe, the room slowly coming into full view. On instinct, the doctor spun into the doorway and raised the handgun into the room straight ahead; there were two bodies inside.

Sprawled across the floor to the doctor's right was another commando. Though he was clearly dead, his eyes were wide and his mouth gaped open. His throat had been torn open. The second body was propped up against a bookcase across from the door. Three features immediately caught the Medic's attention; his dark skin, the blue uniform beneath his grenade-bound vest, and of course, the rifle in his hands that the doctor could easily see down the barrel of.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, guns trained into each other's faces. He's BLU, the Medic thought. But... he's not one of them. Slowly lowering the pistol, Medic looked sternly into the expression of the Demoman. Unfortunately, it's rather difficult to read the face of a man obscured by an eye-patch and a trained gun.

Medic's handgun was now completely lowered, relaxing below his stomach.

"Please..." the doctor pleaded. His breathing was starting to intensify again.

"Please wha? Yer a bloody RED! Shoulda already put ya down!" the Demoman yelled. The German slowly bent his legs and carefully placed his gun on the floor. "What nonsense is this!? Enemy of me enemy is me friend, is tha' it!?"

The Medic didn't say anything, but merely stood up, hands raised above his head. He could hear the Demoman's heavy breathing now, and noticed the pool of red fluid pooling beneath him.

"You're hurt," the doctor said.

"So what? Ain't nothin' new," the Demoman retorted, assault rifle still aimed.

"You can't stand, can you?" the German asked coldly. The Scot hesitated.

"Go blow yerself ya stinkin' queer, ah can stand jus' fine!" Still attempting to keep the gun trained on the doctor, the BLU Demoman grunted, trying to use the bookcase behind him as leverage to stand up. His legs shook violently before the dark skinned man cried out in pain and fell back onto the wooden floor, his rifle clattering against as it slid from his grasp. The Medic instinctively abandoned his composure and rushed to the injured man.

"Get off uh me, I dun need any help from you..." Demo said, his voice trailing off with each word. "Ah... ah can stand so jus'... leave me alone uhkay!? Get outta here... mah legs are fine... they..." Clasping his right hand across his remaining eye, the Scot's speech devolved with every word. "Ah'm fine ya bleedin' Nazi, get... *sniff* git away from me... ah..." He hung his head lower and lower. "Ah ain't hurt, so... please Doc... ah..." Tears emerged from beyond his palm, dampening his face and hand. "Doc... ah can't walk... ah can't even bloody stand!" the Demoman cried.
Marked for deletion (old)
>> No. 4790
Curious as to how this came to be. Go on.
>> No. 4795
... You have my attention.
>> No. 4796
Poor headstrong demoman. This looks most promising indeed, but I think the "*sniff*" was a bit out of place with the style of writing you were using. I'd suggest against the stars. Sorry to be so pedantic, and proceed!
>> No. 4797
Ohohoho. I am excite!

Really, I like this grunge Medic and I can't wait to see more of his interaction with Demoman.
>> No. 4808
Just a quick update


"Get off uh me, I dun need any help from you..." Demo said, his voice trailing off with each word. "Ah... ah can stand so jus'... leave me alone uhkay!? Get outta here... mah legs are fine... they..." Clasping his right hand across his remaining eye, the Scot's speech devolved with every word. "Ah'm fine ya bleedin' Nazi, get... sniff, git away from me... ah..." He hung his head lower and lower. "Ah ain't hurt, so... please Doc... ah..." Tears emerged from beyond his palm, dampening his face and hand. "Doc... ah can't walk... ah can't even bloody stand!" the Demoman cried. His body careened forward until his fingers were pressing against the reddened floor beneath him. "Dammit Doc..." he sobbed.

"Herr Demo, please sit up straight," the Medic ordered softly, as he carefully leaned the injured Scotsman back against the bookcase. The doctor had just now realized the small room must have been a study.

"You jus' call me 'sir?'" Demo asked, confused as he rested his head into the spines of the many thick books behind him.

"More or less," the German replied. "Now please hold still bitte." The Medic's gloved hands began separating the velcro straps of the Demoman's vest below his left arm. The bottom of the vest, as well as the layer underneath, were already soaked in red. The doctor leaned back in distress, taking a deep breath and clawing his now blood-covered fingers through his dark hair.

"That bad, eh Doc?" the Demoman asked grimly. He had stopped sobbing.

The German doctor lowered his hand, and leaned back closer to the Scotsman, lightly lifting up the bottom of his BLU company uniform and white undershirt. The Demoman grit his teeth. The flesh in his stomach, just above his left thigh, the doctor noted. Clearly a bullet wound... and his left sartorius had been punctured as well. The Medic sighed in stress.

"May as well jus' finish me off," the Demo suggested, eyes lowering to the ever reddening wood beneath him.

"Nein, I am a doctor, not an executioner," Medic retorted, now ripping apart the velcro seams on the right side of the injured man's grenade vest.

"What the blood 'ell are you doin'?" the Demoman yelled.

"I can't treat you here, now lift your head forward so I can remove this; it vill only get in zhe way," the doctor answered calmly. The Scotsman obeyed, slowly tilting his head forward as his grenade vest was lifted off of him and tossed to the floor.

"Ah can't even walk ya idiot," Demoman argued, his voice starting to crack under the subject. "What are ya gonna do? Carry me all the way back to yer base!?"

The doctor crouched at the Scotsman's left side and lifted the injured man's arm around his neck, and grasped his right side. The RED medic grunted, teeth barred as he straightened his legs to stand with the BLU Demoman in tow. "Yes, I vill," the doctor replied.
>> No. 4811
Awww... Medic.

>> No. 4813
My interest...you has it

You have a very good flow going in this story; it's easy to fall right in.
>> No. 4831
Wow, this is the most heroic Medic I've read in a while. You have my full attention. I only hope you explain the commandos soon.
>> No. 4832
Not even a little bit of emergency treatment to stop bleeding? There's a lot of arteries in the leg and a bullet would there would spell trouble.

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