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tinynerdz360 · 5 months ago

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Above and Beyond Chapter 11: The Sam and Jazz episode

The flickering neon of the cheap motel sign cast an eerie glow through the thin curtains. Sam paced the worn carpet, her combat boots leaving imprints in the fibers.

"Are you done with that letter yet, Jazz?" Sam groaned, flopping onto the creaky bed.

Jazz looked up from her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Almost. I want to make sure it's perfect. We can't afford any mistakes when requesting a meeting with the President."

Sam rolled her eyes. "This is taking too long," Sam growled, running a hand through her raven hair. "Every second we waste, those GIW creeps get closer to the President."

"Patience, Sam. We need to do this the right way," Jazz replied, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

Sam's fists clenched. “They left him! They think he’s dead…….and he is…...but they think he’s dead dead. We don’t know how long Danny has; just cause he’s a halfa doesn’t mean he can survive for long up there.”

“Well, they think he’s an alien; they don’t know he’s a ghost. They don’t know anything. Which is why we need this meeting before the GIW.” Jazz mumbled as she continued to type.

Sam stood abruptly. "I need some air. This room is suffocating me."

As she slammed the door behind her, Sam's mind raced. She couldn't wait any longer. Danny needed them now. Her hand brushed against the Fenton shrink ray in her pocket, and a plan began to form.

Thirty minutes later, Sam found herself on a White House tour, "And here we have the East Room," the guide droned. Sam's violet eyes darted, searching for an opening. As the group rounded a corner, she ducked behind a large potted plant and activated the shrink ray.

The world suddenly loomed impossibly large around her.

Sam steadied herself, now barely taller than a mouse. "Okay, Manson, you got this," she whispered.

She hurried along the baseboard, every sense on high alert. Voices ahead made her freeze. Two men in pristine white suits rounded the corner, following a nervous-looking aide.

Sam's blood ran cold. The Guys in White. Here. Now.

"This way, gentlemen," the aide murmured. "The President will see you shortly."

“I still can’t believe they left the ghost there on Mars.” One of the GIW agents said.

The other agent nodded in agreement. “No matter; once we speak to the president, we can retrieve the ghost body and eliminate the ecto-scum once and for all.”

Panic clawed at Sam's throat. She pressed herself against the wall, wishing herself invisible. Agent W passed inches from her, his polished shoe a gleaming monolith.

Suddenly, a shrill beeping pierced the air. Agent W's wristwatch flashed, its ecto-detector going haywire. His head snapped down, eyes widening behind dark sunglasses as he spotted Sam's tiny form.

"Ecto scum!" he bellowed, his booming voice nearly deafening Sam at her current size.

In one fluid motion, Agent W yanked out his pocket ray gun. The weapon hummed to life, its barrel glowing an eerie green.

Sam's heart leapt into her throat. "Oh, crud," she muttered, her legs pumping furiously.

Agent W's finger squeezed the trigger. A blast of ecto-energy sizzled past Sam, scorching the polished floor mere inches from her feet.

"What are you doing?!" Agent F hissed, grabbing his partner's arm. "We're in the White House!"

But Agent W shook him off, firing wildly. "It's contaminated! We have to neutralize the threat!"

"Are you insane?" the aide, who was the GIW mole, hissed, panic evident in his voice. "You'll blow our entire operation!"

But Agent W was beyond reason, his face contorted with zealous rage. "No ghost or ghost lover escapes the Guys in White!"

Another blast. Sam leaped, the heat searing her clothes. She zigzagged across the floor, desperate for cover.

The hallway erupted in chaos. Alarms blared, and heavy footsteps pounded in the distance. Agent W's voice rose above the din: "Come out and face justice, you miniature menace!"

"W, holster your weapon now!" Agent F pleaded, grabbing his partner's arm again.

But it was too late. The sound of safeties clicking off filled the air as White House security converged on their position.

Sam dove behind a column supporting a bust of George Washington, her tiny form trembling.

"Drop your weapons and get down on the ground, now!" The commanding voice of the lead CIA agent ricocheted off the marble walls, brooking no argument. She stood squarely, her eyes fixed on the GIW agents, her own gun drawn and steady.

Amidst the tension, Sam seized her moment. She fumbled for the shrink ray tucked in her pocket, her fingers trembling as they wrapped around the cool metal.

Agent W snarled, "This is GIW business! You have no jurisdic—"

Before he could finish, Sam aimed and fired. A brilliant blue beam engulfed both GIW agents. In an instant, they shrank to three inches tall, their shouts of surprise becoming high-pitched squeaks.

The room fell into a stunned silence.

"Wha— What the hell just happened?" one of the security guards stammered, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared at the diminutive forms of the once formidable GIW operatives.

"Contain them," ordered the lead CIA agent.

Sam peeked out of her hiding spot, watching as one of the CIA agents finally snapped out of his shock and scooped up the diminutive GIW agents in his massive hand.

"Let us go, you giant oaf! We're on official business!" one of the tiny agents protested, shaking a minuscule fist.

"Official business?" The CIA agent held them closer to his face, scrutinizing them with bewildered fascination. "You mean terrorizing people with your... toy guns?"

"Those aren't toys!" the other pint-sized agent piped up, indignant. "And we're after an ecto threat. A ghost!"

"Ghost?" The agent's expression shifted from bewilderment to incredulity. "Are you serious?"

Before he could probe further, his partner called out.

"Hey, you! Stop right there!" he barked, causing the aide to freeze in his tracks.

"I saw him with those men in white," another agent said, gesturing towards the tiny GIW agents dangling between their colleague's fingers.

"Look, it's all a misunderstanding," the mole stammered, his back pressed against the cool wall, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Just let me explain—"

"Explain later," the lead CIA agent barked.

The lead CIA agent's brow furrowed in confusion. She turned to her colleague, who was now on his hands and knees, peering behind the column. “What the hell are you doing, Nelson?”

"There's another one," Nelson said, his voice filled with incredulity. "I saw another tiny; they were peeking out behind the bust."

Sam's heart raced as she saw Agent Nelson's enormous face appear, looking down at her between the gap between the column and wall. She gripped the shrink ray tightly, her palms sweaty.

"Come out with your hands up!" Agent Nelson demanded, his voice booming in Sam's ears.

Sam took a deep breath and shouted back, "I'm not coming out! I need to speak with President Davis. It's urgent!"

Agent Nelson looked thoughtful, "It's... it's just a kid," he muttered to his partner.

Sam's voice trembled slightly as she continued, "If you try to force me out, I'll shrink you too!" She aimed the ray gun at the agent's massive face, hoping he couldn't see how badly her hands were shaking.

The agent holding the GIW agents scoffed. "We could easily neutralize her at that size. There'd be nothing left."

Sam's stomach churned at his callous words.

Nelson raised a hand to quiet his partner. "Easy now, it's just a kid," he said softly, his tone shifting to a more soothing cadence.

Sam's nerves were frayed, her finger twitching on the trigger. *I need to show them I mean business, * she thought. With a surge of adrenaline, she aimed just past the agent's ear and fired.

A bright beam shot out, narrowly missing the agent and striking a painting. In an instant, the artwork shrank to the size of a postage stamp.

"Whoa there!" Nelson exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment. He took a deep breath, visibly trying to regain his composure. "Look, why don't you come out, and we can talk about this? I promise we'll hear you out."

Sam's heart pounded. She knew she was cornered. "I-I'll only come out if you promise to take me to the president," she demanded.

Nelson sighed, considering her request. "Look, I'll see what I can do, okay?" He extended his hand, palm up. "But first, you need to come out."

Sam glared at the offered hand, her mind racing. *Even if I shrink him, he could still overpower me,* she thought. *And hurting them won't help my case with the president. * Reluctantly, she stepped out from behind the column.

As she approached the giant hand, Sam flinched involuntarily. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and climbed onto the waiting palm. As the hand rose, she lost her balance, grabbing the agent's thumb to steady herself. It was like grasping the trunk of a young tree, her fingers barely reaching around its circumference.

Nelson stared at her in wonder. "I can't believe I'm holding a tiny person," he murmured.

His other hand approached, and Sam tensed. "I need that weapon," he said firmly.

Sam hesitated, her grip tightening on the shrink ray. This device was her only way back to normal size.

"Listen," Nelson continued, his tone firm but not unkind, "don't make me take it. Just hand it over."

Realizing she had no choice, Sam reluctantly handed over the device, and a new plan formed in her mind. *Maybe being small isn't such a disadvantage, * she thought. *They might underestimate me. I can use that. *

The agent's fingers, each as wide as she was tall, pinched the device between them with surprising delicacy.

"Thank you," he said. He then secured the tiny piece of technology in his pocket.

His giant fingers curled loosely around her, cradling Sam in the palm of his hand as he walked down the hallway.

****

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Sam found herself deposited into a glass jar. The transparent walls curved around her, distorting her view of the sterile interrogation room. She pressed her tiny palms against the glass, feeling utterly exposed and vulnerable.

Sam watched the CIA agents place the shrunken GIW operatives into similar containers.

"I can't believe what I'm seeing," one agent muttered, peering at the miniaturized men in white. "It's like something out of a sci-fi movie."

Another agent shook his head, his face a mask of disbelief and annoyance. "An unauthorized ghost-hunting organization? Operating with government funds? The President's going to have a field day with this one."

Sam's stomach churned as she overheard snippets of the GIW agents' frantic explanations. "Ecto-entities... threat to national security... ghost on Mars..." She watched the two other CIA agents pick up the GIW jar and leave the room. She guessed to question them without her present.

*This is not how I planned this to go,* Sam thought, her heart racing. She watched as two CIA agents loomed over her, their faces twisted in a mix of fascination and suspicion. One was Agent Nelson, the other his partner. She hadn’t gotten the man’s name.

Suddenly, the jar was lifted, and Sam found herself face-to-face with a stern-looking CIA agent. "Alright, young lady," he said, his voice booming in her tiny ears. "You better start talking.”

Sam took a deep breath, steadying herself. "My name is Sam Manson," she began, “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but ghosts are real. They're not evil, though! The Guys in White have been attacking innocent people in Amity Park, and they're after my friend!"

Nelson leaned in, his brow furrowed. "And who exactly is this friend of yours?"

Sam hesitated, then blurted out, "Danny Phantom. He's... he's the alien boy on Mars."

The agents exchanged skeptical glances.

"It's complicated," Sam said, frustration creeping into her voice. "But he's in danger, and I need to speak to the President before the GIW convinces him to do something terrible!"

Nelson spoke up, “ I hate to break this to you, but the alien kid was left on Mars, he’s dead along with astronaunt Mark Watney.”

“No, you don’t understand! He’s a ghost, he’s survived worse then an alien planet. But if he stays trapped there, he’ll die!” Sam yelled.

Nelson tilted his head, “If he’s a ghost, how can he die?”

“Ugh! You don’t get it! Look, he’s special, he can die, he’s just tough. Please, he needs help!”

The other Agent sneered, his face contorting with disbelief. "A likely story from a pint-sized terrorist."

Fury bubbled within Sam. These dense agents were jeopardizing everything. "It's the truth! If you'd listen—"

Suddenly, the world became a violent blur. Nelson’s partner had grabbed the jar, shaking it violently. Sam's tiny body slammed against the glass walls, pain exploding through her as she felt warm liquid trickle from her nose. And the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

"Stop, Roberts!" Agent Nelson's voice cut through the chaos, deep and commanding. He snatched the jar away, cradling it protectively in his large hands. His scowl was fierce as he turned to his partner. "She's a minor, and at this size, you could seriously hurt her. Control yourself!"

Roberts rolled his eyes. "Oh please, she's fine. The little brat is lying through her teeth. Ghosts? What a joke."

Sam's head spun, her vision blurry. She touched her nose, fingers coming away red.

Sam glared up at him, trying to staunch the flow of blood with her hands. Her whole body ached.

Nelson's massive hand engulfed the jar, and Sam braced herself as he slowly tilted the container, her tiny form tumbling onto his warm, calloused palm. She felt exposed, vulnerable, yet oddly safe in his careful grip.

"Are you alright?" Nelson's voice rumbled above her, his concerned eyes sweeping over her diminutive form.

Sam pushed herself up, her legs wobbling. She wiped at her bloodied nose, glaring past Nelson at Roberts. "When I get big again," she snarled, her voice barely above a squeak, "I'm going to kick your ass so hard you'll wish you'd never been born!"

Nelson's fingers curled protectively around her, forming a gentle cage. "Easy there, firecracker," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Roberts scoffed; his face twisted in disdain. "The little brat should rot in juvie for her stunt at the White House.

Sam's blood boiled. How dare he? She opened her mouth to unleash another tirade, but Nelson cut her off.

"Here," he said softly, reaching into his pocket with his free hand. He produced a crisp white handkerchief, offering her the corner. "For your nose."

Sam reached out, her tiny hands grasping the edge of the handkerchief. It unfurled before her like a giant tablecloth, the material soft and cool against her skin. Gratefully, she pressed it to her throbbing nose, the white cotton quickly staining crimson.

Sam's mind raced as she sat cradled in Nelson's palm, the handkerchief dwarfing her diminutive form. She had to find a way out of this mess, and she had to make them believe her.

Nelson watched closely, making sure the tiny rebel in his hand was as comfortable as she could be under the circumstances.

Sam’s eyes flicked up to his, acknowledging the gesture with reluctant gratitude.

Nelson's deep voice resonated through the air. "I think we should take a break." His massive hand moved towards the jar, causing Sam's heart to race. "Sorry, kiddo, but back you go."

Sam's stomach lurched as she was lowered into the glass prison. Nelson guided the handkerchief in after her. She sank into the fabric, feeling dwarfed by its sheer size.

*****

"The President wants to see the girl," Agent Carter, the top CIA agent, announced, her voice crisp. "He's... intrigued by the situation."

Meanwhile, in a secure room, Sam sat cross-legged in her glass jar, the handkerchief she was given draped over her tiny shoulders. She was bored out of her mind. The door opened, and Agent Nelson entered.

"Looks like you've made quite an impression, Miss Mason," he said, a hint of a smile on his face. He reached for the jar, his hand popping the lid off, his massive hand descending toward her.

Sam's heart raced. "What's happening?" she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"The President wants to meet you," Nelson replied, his fingers carefully closing around her tiny form. The warmth of his skin enveloped her as he lifted her out.

As they moved through the corridors, Sam's mind whirled. *Should I tell him about Jazz?* she wondered. * No, I better keep that to myself for now. If this goes south, I might need her help to escape. *

#Danny phantom #the Martian #Sam Mason #CIA #fanfiction #Jazz Fenton #crossover #Fenton Shrink ray #GIW #danny fenton #my writing #mark watney #gt #shrinking

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some-pers0n · 2 years ago

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A Curious Case of Curing the Cold

Fandom: TF2

Characters: Heavy, Medic (Engie's also here but he has like three lines)

CW: General sickness and illness (common flu), neglecting self needs, general manic Medic behaviour

Summary: Medic wakes up one morning with a cough. He does not like this. Not one bit. He's the Medic, he doesn't get sick. He'll do anything to get rid of it, despite what Heavy says.

Word Count: 4.0k

A/N: After like. two months of working on this on and off, here ya go. Medic manic episode sickfic oneshot. Here ya go.

It all began with a short, insignificant cough. He had been sat down in his lab, hunched over his work table with a steaming cup of coffee next to him. He'd woken up a couple of minutes ago and was slowly preparing for the day when suddenly he felt a little irritation in his throat. Build-up of some kind. So, he coughed. Expelling the gunk from his system and out into the air. Nothing more, nothing less.

To be honest? Medic would've chalked it up to it being from the doves roughhousing and kicking up dust. Perhaps it was a sign that he should clean up the infirmary. Or maybe it was whatever crud that was lodged in his lungs now being disturbed.

That's what he thought until he went to sip his coffee. The sweet aroma wafted around him, but when he tried taking a moment to sniff it, he snorted. He hadn't noticed that his nose was stuffed up. One nostril was blocked entirely, with the other one barely even being able to let the air through.

It was a downward spiral from there. Like tripping on the second step and crashing all the way down. Every feeling that could possibly be a symptom he was now hyper-aware of. An ache behind his eyes. A slight headache and feeling light-headed. He felt weaker than usual. His muscles were sore and the mere idea of going out to work made him dizzy.

He grabbed onto the table, nearly dropping his mug in shock. He held his head in his hands. It was warmer than usual, feeling some slight relief when pressed against his cold hand. "No," he cursed. "No, no, no... Hurensohn!" He smacked the table. "What do you mean?! How could this happen?"

Immediately upon his small outburst, he entered a coughing fit. Too much strain. He hacked and wheezed, spewing out god knows what from his body. He held his chest, trying to regain his composure. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face, trying to comprehend it.

Sick? How could he be sick? That isn't what's supposed to happen. He's the Medic! He is the one who tends to others; mostly by chucking whatever medication is close enough to what they need or using a borderline magical machine to heal them of their paper cuts and bullet wounds. He doesn't get sick. Being ill? That's for some lowly, weak-willed person. He's stronger than that. Better than that.

You know what? No. It's fine. Like he said, he had a machine that can heal the wounds of anybody. If it can fix up a man's entirely missing arm, bringing him back to health as though nothing had happened, surely it will heal whatever affliction he was cursed with.

He stumbled out into the lab. His precious medi-gun was hung up on the stand from a recent operation. He flicked on the switch, relief and hope rushing through him upon hearing the gentle whirling as it came to life. Medic twisted it around, pointing it directly at himself. The brilliant red beam connected with him. The power and energy of the healing ray shot through his system.

Yet, nothing. In fact, he sneezed only a moment after some painful silence.

Medic's expression faltered. "...wie bitte? Why aren't you working!?" he snapped. "Years you have worked for me, performing miracles and defying God's will, yet now you refuse to treat me?!" He grabbed it by the nozzle, shaking it as if that would somehow make it work.

Nothing. He did not feel better. If anything, the stress made him feel worse.

He pushed it away. "Fine. Be like that." He paced around his lab. Well, at least he made a new discovery. The medi-gun could bring a man back from the verge of death, reforming and reshaping the body back to its original state, sealing cuts and restructuring the muscle tissue and bone of arms that were chopped off or flew off in an explosion...but it could not kill a virus? Whatever infection or aliment that was festering within him?

Perhaps it could reform and heal wounds, patching them back up without issue, but it couldn't kill any sort of infection. It could fill in empty space, but cannot possibly destroy what may be harming the body at a cellular level.

Ough... Medic held his head again. Thinking and theorizing was tiring him out. Mixing that with the rampant pacing resulted in him being sapped of his energy.

Of all of the mercs, why was he the one to be sick? Well, perhaps some other ones had caught the bug, but him? He's too good for whatever this is. Ever since he was young, he hated being sick. Helpless and at the mercy of others. Might as well have been classified as some form of psychological torture to be bound to a bed all day. At least at that age, his parents were kind enough to get him textbooks and novels to read.

Now? He has a job! He has mercenary work during the day and possible experiments to conduct in the quiet hours of the night. He couldn't be bothered by books and research papers.

He can't be sick. This could not be happening. He needed to fix this. Now.

----

It was a long, long day for Heavy. Work was tireless and tedious with one member of the team missing. The Medic, no less. They lost their control over the Turbine district and had to come home with a resounding failure and a cut from their pay. He didn't let him affect it that much. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don't. Such is being a mercenary and working in this profession.

However, he couldn't help but notice the other teammates were feeling down. Not only by the loss, but were no doubt coming down with something. Scout had been complaining about his nose constantly being plugged and had been sneezing nonstop since the moment he got up. Spy had been coughing and hacking more than usual. Engineer was griping about having a headache. Even Heavy was feeling a bit more tired and weak.

So, what does he do? What normal men do when they see their fellow friends sick. Grab the bear shoulder he had gotten from a recent hunting trip out of the freezer and start making solyanka. Thick and hearty soup that warms the soul when it's unwell.

Cooking was an outlet of Heavy. He learned how to help around the kitchen when he was young, chopping and peeling vegetables and searing meat along with his mother. Many hands were needed to give everyone a meal to eat. Once they escaped the gulag, he often found himself being the main breadwinner. Going out, retrieving enough bear meat to last them several months, before then making whatever it was they felt. Kotlety, shashlik, sometimes just heating up the meat over a fire and eating it off the bone.

He'd been working on the broth all night. The base smelt of rich meat, mushrooms, and cabbage brine. He was now pouring out a bowl for himself when he heard another voice.

"Hey, mind if I get some too? Don't think you're hogging the whole thing to yourself now." Heavy turned to see Engie standing in the doorway, arms folded and leaning against the frame.

"Heavy made soup for everyone," he said.

"I know, just lightly teasin'." Engie's expression soured. "I tried getting the doc to come out, but no dice. Thought telling him that you're making something would bring him out. Not a chance though. Deep in whatever it is he's doin'. Said that he doesn't want to see anybody until 'it's perfect', whatever that means. Ah well. His loss."

"You think he is sick as well?"

He looked back at him. "I mean, I dunno why else he'd be like this. Nothing really set him off. Come to think of it, haven't really seen him sick...ever." He chuckled. "He'll come out eventually though. Maybe. I mean, I've been like that. So focused on something you just don't wanna leave it for even a second. But, eventually, you finish it and then, uh-oh, a couple day's worth of exhaustion knocks you right out." He let out a nice, hearty laugh. "Ahh...never too great. Always worth it though in the end. Making somethin' beautiful."

Heavy blinked. "I see..." he muttered. He poured the rich soup into another bowl, placed in a spoon, and handed it to him. "Here."

Engie grabbed it, taking a whiff. "Whoo-ie, that's one mean stew you've got there. Thank you, big guy." He grinned. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be taking this back to my lil' workshop. I'll tell the other boys you're done with the stew. I think they've been looking forward to it."

Heavy cracked a smile. "Many thanks." He grabbed another bowl. "Heavy will give it to doctor."

"You're gonna try and talk him into eating?" Engie snickered. "Alright. Best of luck with ya there, big guy." Engie tipped his head and then walked out of sight, leaving Heavy to himself. He looked back at the bowl, let out a long sigh, and then picked it up before going out into the base itself.

It wasn't uncommon for Medic to lock himself in his lab for hours. Heavy had seen him stay in there for hours, days, once or twice over a week. Staying in there to do god knows what. Whenever he'd crawl back out, he'd go on a long rant to whoever was closest and explain his newest medical achievement. Rambling and raving about how he "once again surpassed the bounds of which humans were meant to accomplish". Usually, it involved some random person he plucked off the streets of Teufort being subjected to an impromptu lobotomy or being injected with some solution meant to have the body simulate rigor mortis, with Medic coming out having learned something apparently.

Heavy found it endearing. He knew enough about anatomy and physiology to get the basic idea, but the actual accomplishment wasn't nearly as captivating as how Medic explained it. Overtired, bags under his red eyes, breath reeking of coffee, clothes stained with blood and gore. Despite it all, he'd rave about his grand victory in medical science with such enthusiasm and manic thrill. Waving his arms around and so incredibly happy to be sharing this moment with somebody else.

When Heavy came here for mercenary work, the last thing he'd thought was that it would be anywhere near entertaining like this. Making nice memories with the fellow men he worked with. One of them was coming out to the kitchen for a late-night snack, only to see Medic raiding the cabinets and causing a mess. Heavy called out to him, only for Medic to turn around, staring him down like a rabid animal spotting the closest thing to prey.

They then spent the next couple of hours sitting at the table, with Medic going on and on about how he's been experimenting with the rabies virus. He found that Soldier's little raccoon friends carried it and went wild trying to isolate it and test it on random things, including himself. He managed to survive through his own makeshift vaccine full of the virus, dirt, loose change, a bird feather, and who knows what else, but that's not terribly important.

Medic was an interesting case. A man so passionate about science and eager to do anything for his cause. Not simply that, but watching him on the battlefield. So engrossed in the violence and mayhem. Joining in the fun of mocking the other team in slaughtering them like weak cowards, while also losing what little patience he had for his own team. It was infectious to see him express these emotions.

He cared about him. Odd to say that about a man who kills people for a living and makes it exceptionally clear that he enjoys completely disregarding any sort of medical code, but it's true. On some level, he wanted to see his doctor well.

He paused in front of the doors to the medical infirmary. The sign above read "Closed", yet Heavy could hear Medic inside. Faint whispers and the soft sounds of clinking glass. Through the doors, he couldn't make out the words, but he still figured it was enough of a sign that Medic was awake and possibly able to have dinner.

Heavy knocked. "Hello?" he began, "I've brought bowl of solyanka. Fresh and warm. Would you like some?"

No response. Not even a slight pause in Medic's murmurs that at least gave Heavy the idea that he was listening. He tried pulling on the door handle. It let out a distinct clunk as it refused to open. Locked.

Heavy knocked. "Medic? Would you like bowl of stew?"

Nothing but the same old clattering of glass and soft mumbling.

Maybe Engineer was right. Perhaps there was no way he could exactly get to him. It was worth a shot anyway. He'll simply eat the stew himself. Heavy had just turned around to walk away when...he heard something.

Stillness. So quiet that one could hear a pin drop. Then, the sound of light, if a bit deafened, manic giggling. It bubbled and boiled over into full-on laughter. Heavy stood there, holding the bowl, not quite sure what to make of it. He seemed...happy? Then again, with Medic, laughter could either mean he's just completed something delightfully twisted or is on the brink of tearing somebody's jugular out. Hopefully, it's the former.

Eventually Heavy heard footsteps rapidly approaching him. The jingling of the door before it clicked open. Standing before him was Medic.

He was a wreck. There wasn't exactly a better way to put it than that. His hair was unkempt, curly and messy. His glasses rested upon his rosy red nose. His eyes were sunken and he smelt faintly of sweat and blood. He was wearing a white dress shirt stained with blood along with pyjama bottoms, little diagrams of anatomically correct organs dotted on them.

He looked at Heavy. A crooked smile was etched into his face. His eyes were wide, locking onto him like he had finally found a target. That familiar manic look.

"Heavy!" Medic cooed. "Oh, it's so nice to see you." His voice was hoarse and scratchy.

"Da, yes. Is nice." Heavy glanced back into the lab. "What has doctor been doing?"

"Excellent question!" Without so much as a warning, Medic grabbed him by the hand, practically dragging him inside. He nearly dropped the bowl in the process. Before he knew it, he was inside the lab, still stuck with the solyanka.

To say it was a disaster would be an understatement. It was as though a tornado had ravaged through, throwing all of the supplies up and across the room. It was in utter disarray. Papers strewn across the desks and operating table. Several coffee mugs resting on various pieces of equipment, the contents inside now tepid. The dim lighting heightened the feeling of unease that flowed through Heavy.

What caught his eye however was a rolling chalkboard. On it were incomprehensible and mad scribbles. Numbers and formulas that were cut off halfway through. Doodles of viruses and bacteria cells. Scrawl of words that fluctuated between German and English.

"I've been busy, mein Freund." Medic appeared beside Heavy. He walked in front of the chalkboard, giggling to himself. "I assume you can gleam the basic idea, no?"

He looked at what was virtually just archaic symbols. "Uh..."

"So you would understand that what I'm trying to accomplish here is some sort of cure for this blasted affliction I've been cursed with."

He squinted a bit. Medic's handwriting was never that great to begin with. Manic episodes only exasperated that issue. For what was completely legible to Medic was little more than a random assortment of lines.

Before he could respond, Medic continued. "It's quite a simple process, really. I wrote down all of my symptoms. Headache, fatigue, sore thro–" Suddenly, he entered a coughing fit. He held his chest as he coughed into the crook of his elbow. "And, of course, the coughing. All common flu symptoms, no?"

"Yes?–"

"Perfekt! However, you'd be mistaken there. I have reason to believe that, no, this is not a normal cold."

"...is not?"

"Of course! You feel it too, don't you?" he asked. "The pathogen floating through your veins. You've encountered many diseases like it, but ah, no, that's where you're wrong." Medic turned back to the chalkboard, putting extra weight on his spin for dramatic effect. "I have reason to believe that this is not any simple cold, but rather the result of a bioweapon. BLU is trying to kill us."

Heavy blinked. "What."

Medic glanced back. "You seem surprised."

"Do you have proof of this theory?" Heavy placed down the bowl of solyanka onto a table. "Anything?"

He blinked. "Is it not enough to be suspicious of the fact that I get sick all of a sudden?"

"It is not just you, either. Whole team is sick."

"Ah, well, that further confirms it. BLU is trying to sabotage us. I wouldn't expect anything less than this. Perhaps their Medic had created something of this ilk..." He grumbled, the faint shadow of a smile forming on his face. "When I've recovered, oh-hoh, they won't know what hit them. Like they always say, all's fair in war, and 'war crimes' simply do nothing but halt progress and kill innocent men in slightly less gruesome ways."

Despite having a doctorate in Russian literature, Heavy had never heard that phrase before. Perhaps it was of German origin, with them being prone to some odd sayings, yet somehow he doubted it.

Medic adjusted his glasses. "Regardless, I refuse to be sick."

"I can see."

"Which is why I've dedicated several hours to isolating a sample of this virus in order to study it and create a cure of sorts."

"...you what."

"One moment." He pushed past Heavy and approached the mini-fridge next to the operating table. He rummaged around for a moment before saying, "ah, here we are!" He stood up, proudly presenting a jar.

Inside was something otherworldly. He almost thought it was some sort of alien creature before realizing it was a virus. Trapped in the jar was a cell the size of a football. It had the texture of styrofoam and sloshed around with every minor movement. It had nubs sprouting in all directions.

"Behold, yet another medical achievement!" Medic giggled, pressing the jar up to his face. "By virtue of my own genius design– and lightly borrowing some equipment from Herr Engineer's workshop whilst you were on the battlefield– I've created a method in which to stimulate incredible amounts of growth within a cell. Within hours, it has gone from a fraction of a micrometre to, well, this!" He laughed as he shook it around. His eyes were transfixed on the virus. A wide, crooked smile was etched into his face.

Heavy stared at it. "And why was growing cell...necessary?"

"Excellent question, mein Freund!" He placed the jar down on an operating table, fidgeting around and trying to get supplies. "Now, while it may seem like the average influenza virus at first glance, I assure you that it is anything but ordinary. Like I said, deadly bioweapon most likely used by BLU to kill us."

"Which you do not have proof of."

"Komm schon," he scoffed, "would you believe that this could be some natural disease that just happened upon us?"

"Is not just the flu?" Heavy asked. "Little man said a few days ago he had gone to Teufort. Perhaps he had gotten sick then–"

"While I suppose Scout could have been patient zero, having spread it through the base at a rapid pace with his nonstop chattering, I still have doubts."

"Of course you do."

"Until suggests otherwise, it is a bioweapon. Thus, I shall unravel its insides and attempt to deconstruct its genetic material via surgery."

"Medic is doing what now?" Heavy bluntly said.

"I am doing surgery on the–"

"I heard that part. Why are you–"

"Because I have to!" he snapped. "Figuring out how it functions at a genetic level and I could perhaps create a new virus of sorts that's specially equipped to fend it off is the fastest way for me to be rid of it! Do you think I want to be like this!? I-" He went into another coughing fit, hacking and wheezing for air. "I cannot be sick," he grimly said.

Heavy sighed. He looked at Medic for a while. He wanted to help, but was unsure of how. He could stand there for emotional support (or perhaps as a vessel for him to ramble to), but that wasn't doing anything. He was simply indulging in this self-destructive behaviour.

He glanced at the table. The bowl of solyanka rested on it, pillars of steam twisting around in the air. "When you are done, you will eat stew. Is good for heart and soul." He gestured to the bowl.

"Unsure about that, but, yes, I suppose when I'm finished with this operation I will eat. Haven't had a proper meal all day; unless you were to count the sixteen or so cups of coffee as 'food'."

"No."

"Tja. It's fine." Medic rolled up his sleeves, not bothering to put on gloves. "Now, finally, I can work! Hours of preparation all for this moment." He unscrewed the lid of the jar. It hissed as the pressure released. "I'm fairly certain it'll do the trick." He gave a small smile, gesturing Heavy over. "Come, come! Watch. Not too closely, but near enough to see. Breathing too hard might make it explode."

He complied, walking over to stand near him. He watched as Medic lifted up the lid and haphazardly dumped the contents of it out onto a tray. Hazy grey water splashed onto the floor. By the end, the cell sat in a small puddle of its juices. Heavy noticed however it lost some structure. It was flattening a fair bit.

"That's to be expected. Cells are not exactly the densest thing in the world," Medic said. "But, nothing to worry about, I'm sure." He grabbed a scalpel. "Now, all I need to do is make a small incision and–"

It was an odd sound. The moment that Medic had poked at it, it released a small, whisper of a hiss. Air being released into the surroundings. With it, it began to deflate. Like a sad, old balloon, it shrunk and shrivelled up. Within seconds, it was flattened. Small bits and pieces of cytoplasm and whatever other contents inside spilled out into the water. Yet, even that began to dissolve. The bits and pieces broke up. Within seconds, they were gone. All that they were left with was the corpse of a cell.

Medic was still. He had not moved an inch since the process began. His eyes were wide, unblinking. His chest was still. Slowly, he moved. His hands shook. His mouth quivered as he let out short, feeble breaths.

He dropped the scalpel. "Ich bin erschöpft," he said in a tired, strained voice. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. "It has been a long, long day, Heavy... Hours of work, gone in seconds." He weakly laughed. "I need to sit down."

Heavy was a bit surprised to see that Medic wasn't busy flipping over a table or curled up on the floor and crying with laughter. To see him crash? It was unpredicted, but understandable.

He placed a hand on Medic's shoulder, giving him a small pat. "Will doctor eat now?"

"...ja. I'll do it." He exhaled as he looked up at Heavy. That glint his eyes held just moments ago was absent. He'd come back down. All it took was for his experiment to fail to regulate him.

He pulled two chairs and sat down, Medic following soon. He grabbed the solyanka and took a sip of the broth. "Oh. Ooh!" He took another spoonful. "Why didn't you tell me this was so good?"

"I–"

"Never mind that. It's perfekt! Danke schöen." His face lifted into a warm, content grin.

"Like Heavy said, solyanka helps with the heart and soul." He cracked a small smile. He was simply happy to see his doctor happy and healthy.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #heavymedic #tf2 fanfiction #sickfic #SP-writing #I'm going to bed now honk shoo honk mimimimi

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webthreecorp · 21 days ago

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Mastering Linked Lists: Beginner's Guide

Hey Tumblr friends 👋

After learning about Arrays, it's time to level up! Today we’re diving into Linked Lists — another fundamental building block of coding! 🧱✨

So... What is a Linked List? 🤔

Imagine a treasure hunt 🗺️:

You find a clue ➡️ it points you to the next clue ➡️ and so on.

That's how a Linked List works!

🔗 Each element (Node) holds data and a pointer to the next Node.

It looks something like this: [data | next] -> [data | next] -> [data | next] -> NULL

Why Use a Linked List? 🌈

✅ Dynamic size (no need to pre-define size like arrays!) ✅ Easy insertions and deletions ✨ ✅ Great for building stacks, queues, and graphs later!

❌ Slower to access elements (you can't jump straight to an item like arrays).

Basic Structure of a Linked List Node 🛠️

data -> stores the actual value

next -> points to the next node

📚 CRUD Operations on Linked Lists

Let’s build simple CRUD functions for a singly linked list in C++! (🚀 CRUD = Create, Read, Update, Delete)

Create (Insert Nodes)

Read (Display the list)

Update (Change a Node’s Value)

Delete (Remove a Node)

🌟 Final Thoughts

🔗 Linked Lists may look tricky at first, but once you master them, you’ll be ready to understand more powerful structures like Stacks, Queues, and even Graphs! 🚀

🌱 Mini Challenge:

Build your own linked list of your favorite songs 🎶

Practice inserting, updating, and deleting songs!

If you loved this explainer, give a follow and let's keep leveling up together! 💬✨ Happy coding, coder fam! 💻🌈 For more resources and help join our discord server

#programming #data structures #computer science #c++#cpp #coding #linked list

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numbuh · 1 year ago

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i absolutely love comparing sector v to like any average sector that likely hasn't been through nearly as much. y'know, it's almost like they're the main characters and the original concept of the knd as a group was just them. they're brave, they're reckless, they can be a bit controversial— they do what they need to do if they think it's right, even if it may get them in trouble.

take operation maurice for example. when 1 suggests monitoring maurice 24/7, 2 points out that it's against regulations to interfere with a decommissioned teen's life. numbuh 4 says "who gives a crud, maurice was our friend!", and 5 is unsure about the idea. numbuh 1, however, is unfazed by what 2 said. all the other order disobeying/reckless stuff one does aside, this is the leader of the sector agreeing with the sentiment of "who cares about the rules?". if they didn't try and stop maurice from getting recruited (without knowing about the tnd), who would've? what i'm saying is: i doubt this would fly in most sectors— that whoever might suggest something like that would get scolded for even thinking it. two was right. what if you did get your whole sector in serious trouble? do you care more about the knd, or do you care more about your friend?

my point is: imagine any random operative trying this stuff. imagine a sector that doesn't have the sector v dynamics and the tension some of these decisions could bring to a group. it's crazy. i love it

#knd #codename kids next door #kids next door #transmission.txt #sector v #THIS is why benny and his sector are fascinating to me. to see the perspective of a kid who is in some ways the odd one out of his group #and he's questioning all of these things and he's scared. he isn't entirely understood so it's stressful. because despite any parallels #he is not nigel. he is not the leader. it is not the same. something something hope this all makes sense something #cohesion is not my strong suit at this very moment but it's like yeah it's connected somehow i just do not know how to explain

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nazmazh · 2 months ago

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Batman AU #2

This came about while I was thinking about that first Batman au and the kids buying Bruce all that shark stuff:

Scene: It's a charity gala of some sort (let's say, thematically, a charity for foster homes and adoption programs in Gotham, which sadly never has a shortage of tragic orphans)

Bruce and all his kids are seated at a table. Alfred and Babs are there too (and Jim's probably sitting with them, just because)

The host/emcee is doing a little spiel to keep the crowd engaged and thanks Bruce for his generous donations and mentions of course that Bruce may be the city's most famous orphan and how he's turned that around and doing everything he can to help others who have lost their parents.

And in this he tosses in a quick quip about Bruce not just giving money - I mean, just look at how many orphans he himself has adopted or fostered.

"I mean, between him and Batman, they'll have every kid in this city either set up to become a highly-successful icon or a vigilante cleaning up the streets. I mean, it seems like the two of them are in a race to snap up all the kids in Gotham. Anytime Bruce adopts a new kid, it seems like Batman has to find himself a new Robin just to keep pace".

This gets a big laugh out of the crowd. Everyone at the table laughs right along with them, but the nervous glances start being exchanged around the table.

Crud.

If they're noticing this (even just chalking it up to coincidence), this could compromise their identities if people start making those logical connections.

The solution, of course, is to adopt some non-Robin[/Batgirl/etc. - Robins is gonna be my generic term for a Batman sidekick, okay?] kids.

[I'm gonna say 2 or 3 just for set-up purposes, but you could make it work with just one, but give them some friends as prominent recurring characters to interact with for the rest of this set-up to work]

Now, if you wanted to be "smart", they'd be very careful and choose kids that they can trust with the secret of the whole Batman operation, because even if they're not going to be Robins, they could very easily get caught in the crossfire of things, so they should know enough to help protect themselves in case of such an event.

But... While I have no doubt that Bruce and the others would definitely at the very least teach all the new adoptees *suspiciously good* self-defense techniques, for this premise, I'll say they want to keep new kids out of the Batman business altogether.

And so, in the vein of Chuck/every dual-identity show with domestic comedy elements, it becomes a game of "keep the kids from finding out at all costs". Wacky hijinks ensue. You know the routine.

But, of course - These kids aren't completely dumb. They don't know what's going on, but something's definitely up. Plenty of already hushed conversations stop pointedly when their big siblings notice them. They catch an odd glimpse of something here and there. There's plenty of rich weirdos in Gotham. Some of them might be the "collect orphans for blood sacrifices" kind. Bruce doesn't seem like that, but he is definitely far more than he presents to the world. He tries to play a lackadaisical playboy out in public, but is far wiser and sharper when he's not wearing a mask, so to speak, for his public appearances. Bruce being friends with the likes of Oliver Queen and Diana Prince makes a certain amount of sense, but Uncle Clark? That farmboy reporter from Metropolis? How did these two ever get so chummy?

So the kids start their own investigation, of course.

I mean, heck, Bruce and Alfred and the others have been imparting nuggets of wisdom about situational awareness and observation on them anyway, so might as well put those to use.

After a "that was too close" scene where two of the Robins had a near miss with the new kids almost seeing them partially in-costume, the new kids run back to their common room [look, it's a manor. I imagine there's like a whole suite/wing where they each have their own room, but there's a little common room for them to hang out together in]. They've got their bulletin board, including full-on conspiracy theory-grade webs of pictures connected by red string set-up. They start adding new evidence to this, when one of the "near-miss"-scene Robins [Cass, Jason, or Damian for maximum scary potential. Dick, Duke, Tim or Steph for more-chill, friendly vibe, depending on which way you wanted the scene to play out] pops in to check up on them/gauge just how much they noticed, so the kids have to quickly hide their ersatz batcave, giving them their own "Whew, that was too close" scene after their older sibling leaves.

Further twist: Keep the story *firmly* anchored to the new kids' perspectives once the intro is done and they're introduced to the story.

We know generally what the other characters are like and what they're up to. We don't necessarily need to cut to scenes of them to give fuller context to those near misses. Keep it very focused on the experience of the new kids feeling uprooted to begin with, and then feeling like everyone new in their life is definitely hiding something from them. Show those hints of the kids noticing *something*, but not really being sure how to approach it or assuming at first that it's too ridiculous to consider as a possibility.

#batman #batman au

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