'Respawn'.  That was what they called it.

	'It' seemed like nothing more than a supply room, with a cold tile floor, and a fairly boring tile ceiling.  The tiles seemed to shift, move, and waver, but it was the bright lights that Fleischer finally closed his eyes against.  He forced them open again when he heard someone enter the room – heard footsteps approaching him.  It hardly mattered, though; the figures – three of them – were entirely too blurry to make out their faces.  He could only assume that the one that kneeled next to him was a Medic, given the blurry white blob that seemed to occupy the space from his neck down, in the vague shape of a lab coat.

	The other Medic said something, but the words were lost in the low, pulsing thrum that seemed to be coming from inside of Fleischer's own skull.  The sound of the three figures talking amongst each other was entirely too much – as were the lights, and that incessant buzzing, and he finally just closed his eyes again, trying to drown everything out.

	When Fleischer opened his eyes again, the lights were just as bright – but the tiles on the ceiling looked different, and considerably more [i]familiar[/i].  He blinked his eyes a few times, and tried to sit up so that he could get a look around the room.  He couldn't quite manage it, though, and when he tried again, he realized that he was being met with considerable resistance.

	He tried again – tried to lift his hands to feel what was on his chest.  His arms hadn't moved more than a few inches off the – the bed? – before he felt a tug at his wrists.  He was strapped down.

	/"It's for your safety,"/ a voice said in short, clipped German.  Its owner caused Fleischer to start by rather suddenly looming over the bed.

	The other Medic was older – maybe sixty – graying more than a little at the temples, and looking [i]entirely[/i] too pleased with himself.  /"You kept thrashing around in your sleep,"/ he continued, frowning slightly.  /"How are you feeling?"/

	Fleischer had to think about that for a long moment.  He was exhausted, for one – and dizzy, and maybe a little nauseous.   There was a deep, dull ache in his chest, and in his knee, right where the bullets had…

	…right where the bullets had hit.

	Fleischer tried to place a hand on his chest – to feel for blood, or some kind of wound.  His arm just wound up jerking against the strap cuffed to his wrist, though, which caused that pulsing thrum to return full-force.  The thrumming was soon joined by the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to turn his body so he could sit up.  Turning his head did afford Fleischer a view of the IV line in his arm, which his eyes quickly followed to the stand next to the bed.

	"Herr!" the other Medic started, sounding almost more amused than worried, /"please calm down, you are going to injure yourself.  I doubt the League will want you damaged when they come to pick you up."/

	The idea of his employers 'picking him up' was bad enough for Fleischer, but it was a touch – a caress – against the side of his face from the older Medic that truly set him off.  His thrashing started anew, but the straps over his body and around his ankles and wrists didn't afford him enough movement to build the momentum he would need to break free.  His panic-stricken mind didn't know that, though, and wound up telling his sore, exhausted body to fight harder.

	Fleischer was vaguely aware of the other Medic saying something, and [i]very[/i] aware of the man removing a loaded syringe from one of the pockets on his lab coat.  He didn't want to think about ([i]couldn't[i/] think about) why his older counterpart was carrying such a thing around in his pocket, but the needle being drawn closer to his IV line did nothing for his confidence.

	The sight, in fact, only drove Fleischer to thrash harder, twisting in his restraints, chest heaving, and heart pounding.  He was quite certain that he was protesting quite loudly – could feel his lips moving – but the sound was drowned out by that thrum, and the loud beating in his ears.  His pleas were ignored, though, and he soon saw the needle slide home into the IV line's injection port.  He gave one final effort, a hard pull against the straps, as the plunger was depressed.

	It wasn't an effort that could be sustained.  Fleischer's limbs suddenly felt even more ineffectual against his restraints.  His arms and legs were slow to respond, and his brain was becoming equally slow in even trying to command them.  The thrumming remained, rapidly drowning out the sound of his pounding heart and gasping breaths, and growing into a low, almost pleasant buzz.  His limbs felt incredibly heavy, and his eyelids followed suit.

	Fleischer was distantly aware of being lifted and moved – of the ceiling tiles passing by overhead.  There were muffled voices – yelling – and a blue light that prickled over his skin.  He wasn't sure at what point his vision wound up going entirely black.

***

	"It is absolutely imperative that we test his cognitive functions."

	The voice was male, distant, and quite adamant.  Fleischer wasn't entirely sure, in the dark, whether it belonged to someone, or if he was just dreaming it.  His uncertainty, however, didn't stop it from speaking.

	"Without a baseline, we can't be certain of the effects the alterations will have on mental condition – we don't want a team of vegetables."

	Fleischer finally managed to force his eyes open, and found himself staring up at another set of ceiling tiles.  His body was slow to respond, but he did steal a glance around the room.  It was another hospital room – but, too new and too small to be his familiar infirmary.  His was the only bed present – and, he was strapped down to it.

	"Ah, you're awake," the voice spoke, again.

	The Medic's attention was quickly drawn to its source – another doctor.  The man wasn't in a League Medic uniform, though – just a regular lab coat with the company logo embroidered on the lapels.  He didn't look very intimidating – he was thin, and silver-haired, and leaning slightly against a cane, though he almost looked as though he was a little too young to need one.

	"Where am I..?" Fleischer asked, finally daring to speak, and relieved to hear that his voice sounded the way it should.

	The older man pulled up a chair, and hesitated a moment before sitting down.  "At a League medical facility," he started, picking up a clipboard with a patient file on it – though Fleischer couldn't quite make out the lettering.  "My name is Doctor Isaac Davis– but, the question is, who are you?"

	"Nicklaus Fleischer," the younger man replied, after a small moment of hesitation, and a few nervous glances around the room.

	"[i]Doctor[/i] Nicklaus Fleischer, isn't it?" Isaac replied, raising an eyebrow and smiling, just a little.  "Give yourself a little credit – Heidelberg is not an easy school to get into, let alone to graduate from with honors.  You are obviously a very intelligent man…" the older man trailed off, flipping a few pages in the file before adding, "and very… resourceful."

	Fleischer remained silent, which made the sound of the other doctor clicking his pen to write a note seem overly loud, and sharp.  He had a million questions, but was afraid to voice them.  He wasn't even sure where he would start.

	"Tell me, Doctor Fleischer," Isaac started, breaking the rather tense silence, "what is the last thing you remember before waking up here?"

	"BLU infirmary," the Medic said with some hesitation, "at Well."

	Isaac nodded and gave a small, thoughtful hum before making another note in his file.  It was a frustratingly neutral reaction.  "And, before that?"

	That was a question that painted much more vivid memories in Fleischer's mind – and triggered a much more visceral response.  He tensed up without even realizing, and his heart beat a little faster.  He was shocked, really, that it was beating at all.  "I… was shot," he finally replied, his voice considerably quieter than it had been before.  "I thought… I thought I was dying."

	"You [i]did[/i] die," the older man said, adjusting his glasses a little.  He paused, only continuing when he realized that Fleischer was stunned into silence.  "I can understand your confusion," he stated, offering a small, indulgent smile.  "The large majority of the mercenaries were not informed about our fledgling Respawn system.  We didn't want people thinking they were suddenly invincible when we weren't entirely sure that the devices would work."

	The Medic, at that, just had a hundred other questions spring into his mind.  He could understand the logic regarding not telling anyone about such a device until the company was sure it would work.  How could such a device even exist, though?  The healing powers of a Medigun were a miracle of science, yes – but, even they couldn't raise the dead… could they?

	"I can tell that you want to know more," Isaac said with a nod, and a small smile – one that could, under other circumstances, almost be considered warm.  "We'll get to that.  In fact, you will get to be very well-acquainted indeed with the system's inner workings.  For the moment, though," he continued, before Fleischer could interject, "we should get you something to eat.  It's been a few years since your last meal, and I'm sure you're very hungry."

	Fleischer was dumbstruck.  A few [i]years[/i]?  Did it always take that long?  How [i]many[/i] years?  He didn't get the chance to voice his questions, though – his mind kept tripping over them.  Before he knew it, Isaac had walked out, along with his answers, and the door was shut behind.

***

	Meals at the League medical facility were usually fairly simple – easy to digest, and not terribly flavorful.  It was food, though… and, it was filling.

	Fleischer had not been expecting steak.  Not 'hospital steak', but, an honest-to-God prime cut.  It was delicious, too – the best he could ever remember having.  He had scarcely believed his eyes when the nurse walked in with it, and said with a sweet, demure smile that it was for him.  As much as he tried to hide it, however, he was not pleased when Isaac walked in behind her – and, he felt his heart sink a little when the nurse was politely dismissed.  The Medic liked talking with her – or simply listening to her talk.  She had a sort of reassuring presence, and seemed, in all honesty to be far too innocent to be associated with someone like Davis.

	Davis made Fleischer nervous.  He tensed up as soon as Isaac sat across from him.  The man offered a smile that would have seemed friendly if it wasn't for the fact that Fleischer's mind found something slightly, unnervingly [i]off[/i] about it.  Then again, something seemed 'off' about Isaac, in general.

	It was after stealing a few glances to his meal that the Medic finally, hesitantly said, "I… appreciate the gesture, Herr – but, what is the occasion?"

	Isaac just smiled again, almost the sort of expression a man might give his favorite grandchild – almost.  "You are," he replied.  "You've made a remarkably fast recovery; years stuck in the Respawn system, and your faculties are all intact.  Your physical health is ideal, too."

	That was something Fleischer had gathered, given all of the tissue samples the medical staff had been taking.  At least they had finally unstrapped him.  Someone had finally caught on that he was more willing to cooperate if he wasn't tied down flat to the bed.  He was never left unrestrained when Isaac was in the room, though.  The older man didn't trust him – the feeling was mutual.

	Isaac had said he was unpredictable, and the Medic couldn't really blame him for coming to such a conclusion – not after what had happened at Well.  They weren't at Well, though, and, not for the first time, Fleischer was simply grateful to be alive, as much as he knew he didn't deserve it.  Not after what he had done to his team.  It wasn't the first time in his life that disaster had followed a lapse of his stringent self-control, and he could understand why Isaac feared it would happen again.  [i]He[/i] feared it would happen again.

	A pull on the cuff around his wrist as he moved to lift his fork served as a quick reminder to Fleischer of the position he was in.  It was awkward, at best, having to bend forward in his chair to meet his fork halfway – and the other doctor's eyes never left him.

	"I apologize for the restraints," Davis started, sounding [i]almost[/i] genuinely regretful.  "Usually they offer a little more freedom, but, they weren't quite designed with someone of your height in mind.

	Fleischer frowned slightly at that, as he stuck his fork into the last remaining bit of steak.  He found that hard to believe – that an advanced  League medical facility wouldn't have restraints that would fit him properly.  He knew he wasn't a small man – at least head and shoulders taller than the older doctor.  Their heavy weapons specialist at Well had been ever so slightly taller, though, and much more stoutly built.  Fleischer said nothing about it, though – just swallowed the last bite of his meal, and pushed his empty plate to the side, out of the way.

	"When was the last time you had a steak, Doctor Fleischer?"

	The Medic hesitated for a moment before replying, "during the war."  He knew better than to think that anyone at this level of the League wouldn't know about his former employment.

	"And you were, what, forty-two?  When you were shot, I mean," Davis noted.  "So, at least twenty-three years, right?"

	Fleischer nodded at that.  It still seemed surreal to him – that he had been stuck having the data that composed 'him' reconstructed for thirteen years, and looked the same age that he had on the day he'd been shot.  He didn't want to contemplate the nature of Respawn, and his data, and 'him' too much, because he knew it would only lead to some sort of existential meltdown.

	"Most people would have killed for your looks during the war, Doctor Fleischer," Isaac continued.  "But, you already know that."

	Yes, he did.  He was practically the picture of Aryan perfection – something that he had been constantly reminded of.  His so-called 'perfection' had been a never-ending source of frustration and undesired attention.  And, yes, people had killed for 'his looks' – had killed to try and replicate them in labs, and 'labs', across occupied Europe.  He knew that first-hand.

	"What a terrible waste of human life," the older doctor went on.  "Such a silly thing, worrying about hair and eye color.  Imagine what sort of progress – real progress – could have been made if the Reich had actually focused on truly improving the human body, if the Reich had used their resources for something of consequence."

	"By 'resources'," Fleischer started, furrowing his brow, and trying to keep himself from outright scowling, "I trust you mean 'prisoners'."

	Isaac gave a little nod at that.  "If they were bound, ultimately, for death, they at least could have been given the respect of helping to make a genuine contribution to science – of not having the remainder of their lives wasted," he stated, with what seemed to be a genuine, if slight, sadness in his tone.  "Passing off cruelty for cruelty's sake as science is… monstrous.  As a doctor – as a [i]real[/i] doctor – I'm sure it must have been very difficult for you."

	The Medic remained very quiet at that – found himself staring somewhat distantly at the table.  It had been beyond difficult.  It had been hard to live with himself and, frankly, he wasn't sure how he had even managed [i]that[/i].

	"The Reich, Respawn, a Soviet labor camp.  You're a survivor," Davis stated matter-of-factly.  A smile of admiration formed on his face, as he made a note on his clipboard – he never seemed to be without the thing.  "That's why you're here."

	The possible implications of that statement made Fleischer go very tense.  He had been asking himself for the past several weeks why he was there – why the League was keeping him around after he'd created such a spectacular mess at Well.  He knew better than to believe that they were keeping him healthy out of the goodness of their hearts.

	Isaac, for the moment, gave no indication that it was otherwise, even gave a small, casual smile.  "Anyway," he started, "it's good to see you're recovering.  The timing with which you entered the Respawn system was extraordinary – it's no wonder it took such a toll on you."  He trailed off for a moment, and started to stand up once it was clear that the Medic had nothing to say in return.

	"It's getting late," the older man started, pressing a button by the door to call the nurse in.  "It wouldn't take a doctor to tell that you're exhausted, not that I can blame you.  I suggest you get some rest," he added, offering only another small, cordial smile before seeing himself out of the room, and letting the nurse in.

	Fleischer admitted quietly, and only to himself, that it was a relief to see her.  He even managed just a little smile as she walked over, along with a quiet greeting.

	"Hello, Doctor Fleischer," she replied, smiling in return.  She offered a quiet thanks as her patient lifted his arms – as much as he could, anyway – so she wouldn't have to lean over to undo his restraints.

	Fleischer breathed a sigh of relief when they were off, and rubbed just a little at the skin over his wrists, where the padded leather had been secured.  His efforts didn't amount to much, though – the woman still had to kneel down to undo the restraints that secured his ankles to the bolted-down legs of the chair's metal frame.

	"I can get that," Fleischer insisted.  He was already sitting down, after all – as awkward as it would be to try and lean over and reach his ankles with the table in the way.

	"It's alright, Doctor Fleischer," the nurse insisted, stepping back once the Medic was unrestrained, to give him some room to stand up and stretch his legs.  "You really should get some sleep, though, Doctor," she continued, gathering up the empty plate and cutlery.  "Is the bed uncomfortable?  I can get you an extra pillow or blanket, if you'd like."

	The Medic just shook his head a little at that.  A hospital bed was a lot more comfortable than a lot of the places he logically could have woken up, in.  "It's just fine," he stated.  He'd been having trouble sleeping, but, he had the feeling it had little to do with the bed.

	"Alright," the nurse replied with a little smile, before starting towards the exit.  "Just ring me on the call button if you need anything, Doctor.  And, try to get some sleep, okay?" she added before quietly walking out.  The lock, once the door was shut, clicked behind her.

	Fleischer just wound up breathing a small, frustrated sigh.  He [i]was[/i] tired, not that that came as a surprise.  Brushing his teeth seemed to take a lot more energy than it should have, and he was quite certain that he nodded off at least once in the shower.  By the time he was dried off and dressed, he was ready to collapse into bed.  He felt exhausted, and comfortably heavy, and, really, it was entirely too much effort to keep his eyes open.

***

	It was quiet – quiet, warm, and comfortable – a far cry from the hospital bed that Fleischer last remembered lying on.  When he finally pried his eyes open, he confirmed that he was in a bed, and, not even a hospital bed.  He was immediately treated to a piercing headache, though, and pressed a hand to his forehead, wincing.  There was no tug – no resistance from restraints, and that in and of itself was at least some reassurance.

	No restraints, a regular bed, and – and a regular room?

	Fleischer sat up quickly – and immediately regretted it.  He gave a small, uncomfortable groan, and covered his face with his hands as he waited for the room to stop spinning.  Once the world had stopped tilting and lurching, at least a little, he forced his eyes open again to get a proper look at the room.

	It was about as far removed from the other places that Fleischer had woken up in as it could possibly get.  There were no ceiling tiles, or stark white walls, and the floor was covered in laminate wood – there was even a couch and a television set and, beyond a half-open door, a bathroom.  It looked more like an apartment than a hospital room, and it did little, if anything, to put the Medic at ease.

	He finally thought to look [i]himself[/i] over, as well, and threw the bedcovers aside so that he could do so.  The doctor was at least slightly relieved to see that he was dressed, albeit in a plain white cotton shirt and pants.  He wasn't surprised to see that his uniform was gone.  He was surprised, however, to see that he still appeared to be in one piece.  That didn't stop him from half-stumbling out of bed to check in the bathroom mirror, though.

	Nothing was different.  Fleischer looked exactly as he had remembered himself.  There didn't seem to be even a single hair out of place, and that was part of what bothered him; everything appeared to be normal.  There had to be something, though – something he couldn't see, and he palpated his abdomen, and breathed slowly in and out, and tested all of his joints, and could find nothing added, or misplaced, or [i]gone[/i].

	The Medic finally breathed a small sigh of relief, at that, and decided to start inspecting the room, instead.  It was well-furnished – aside from the couch, television, and bed, there was a wardrobe, a small table, a desk, and even a night stand with a little lamp on it.  They were quickly ignored, however, in favor of what appeared to be the exit.

	There was nothing on the door to indicate that it could be opened from the inside, though – no handle, no knob, not even a card swipe – just an intercom set into the wall to the side of it.  Fleischer hesitated a moment before reaching for the device, and his finger hadn't quite pushed the button before it crackled to life, causing him to start just a little.  He was not surprised, however, to hear Isaac's voice come through.

	"Doctor Fleischer," it started, cordial, as always.  "It's good to see you're finally awake.  Would you step back away from the door, please?"

	As much as Fleischer would have liked to stay close to the door – to make a break for it when it opened – he knew that wasn't a viable option.  Escape wasn't likely when he didn't know where he was, never mind having nowhere to run [i]to[/i].  He stepped back several feet, then – far enough to make a quick run or leap to the door difficult, at best.

	"Thank you," Isaac said, before the intercom crackled, and went out.  It wasn't long before the door opened with a hiss to reveal the man, himself – accompanied by a pair of armed guards.  The muscle remained just outside of the room, with another door – closed – behind them.  The fact that there was, at the very least, an airlock between the 'apartment' and freedom was not very comforting.

	Doctor Davis seemed, naturally, unbothered by any of this.  He looked rather casual given the circumstances, leaning slightly against his cane and offering a little smile.  His expression, however, quickly melted into something considerably more serious, and even apologetic.  "I'm sorry we didn't inform you before moving you here," he started.  "You were sleeping like the dead, though, and I thought it might be a nice change of pace for you to wake up somewhere [i]nicer[/i]."

	Under more ordinary circumstances, it would have been a nice place to stay.  The room was plenty big, and well-furnished, and even had a window to let a little extra light in.  The window had no way of being opened, though, and the light filtering through the frosted glass wasn't quite right, somehow – and, the only exit from the room lay beyond an airlock.  It was nothing more than an exceptionally nice prison cell.

	"You were out for almost thirty-six hours," Isaac said, once it was clear that no input from the Medic was forthcoming.  "I'm sure you are very hungry.  Is there anything you'd like to eat?  The cook staff here are quite talented."

	Fl