Three days later...

Medic glared at the snarling Pyro strapped to an infirmary table. He, the arsonist, and Heavy were sitting in home base as the rest of the team fought Blu in a six-on-six duel in "Watchtower". Red and Blu had set up twin bases in a vast comples out somewhere in the northern wilds of Canada, with a series of rotating "maps" for their mercenaries, or "Skilled freelance negotiators," as the paper-pushers called them, to duke it out.

Pyro snarled louder, so Medic smacked him on the side of the head with his clipboard. At that moment, Heavy walked in with a plate of pirozhki for himself, a bowl of Lapsha for Pyro, a dish of Kotlety for Medic, and a glass of Kvoss for each of them. Heavy wasn't the smartest man on the team, but he was excellent at his three main skills: Russian cooking, brutality, and craftmanship. Once a heavyweight champion boxer, Red had gotten their mitts on him by offering the chance to put his passions for building intricate devices and cooking, as well as his capacity for violence, to use.

"Добрый день*, Doktor!" Heavy boomed, setting the food down on the table next to Medic. "How are you? How is leettle angry baby Pyro?"

"Ze Pyro is growing more dangerouz by ze hour. He haz already tried to devour drei of my fingerz through his mazk." Medic sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I feel zat he haz been zomehow change by hiz lazt rezpawn. Hiz temperment iz vorze zan Zoldier'z already, and he zeemz to have forgotten he iz vearing a mazk. It iz az if he zinkz it part of him."

Heavy raised one eyebrow in confusion and shrugged. "Maybe is, what you call it, Mental disorder? Maybe Pyro lose mind?"

Medic sighed and said, "Nien, it is vorze. I haff run a blood tezt, und I fear..."

"Fear what, Doktor?"

"I fear Pyro iz no longer human."

*"Good Day"