request
You let out a sharp grunt as you applied pressure to the phighter’s wound, muttering curses under your breath as they flinched and groaned. “Stay still, or I swear I’ll make it worse,” you snapped, roughly shoving them back onto the field once the bandages were secure.
With a quick twist of your wrist, you twirled your revolver, not for combat—just habit—and scanned the chaos around you. Smoke and dust hung in the air, punctuated by the distant shouts. Amidst it all, your eyes locked on a familiar figure.
Medkit.
They were crouched over an injured teammate across the field, hands moving deftly, almost annoyingly precise. That annoying precision of theirs—it was enough to make your teeth grind. You’d seen them before: always efficient, always fast, always somehow making it look effortless. And now, here they were again, patching someone up just a few dozen meters away, on the opposite team, silently daring you to notice.
You ducked low behind a wall, quietly muttering to yourself. “Of course it’s them. Of course it’s always them.”
Even from this distance, you could see the meticulous way they worked. Every movement was calculated, neat, almost surgical. It made your own scars from hurried battlefield work sting a little—because you didn’t have time to be neat, didn’t have the luxury of showing off. You healed fast, rough, effective, with just enough force to keep someone alive. And maybe, just maybe, that raw efficiency was better than Medkit’s polished showmanship.
“Still patching people like it’s a tea party?” you called across the field.
Medkit’s head lifted slowly, eyes cold and tired. “You really never shut up, do you?” Their voice was flat, devoid of humor. “Maybe try not killing anyone before you even reach them.”
You scoffed. “Oh, spare me. At least I’m fast enough to get them alive.”
“Fast enough to break them while you’re at it,” Medkit replied, voice clipped, harsh in its economy. “Some of us work carefully.”
“You’re just a grumpy old—”
“No,” Medkit cut you off, voice flat, eyes unflinching. “I’m exhausted. I’m done with your attitude. Patch them, move on, survive. That’s it. Don’t expect me to cheer for you.”
You tightened your grip on your revolver and darted to another injured phighter, cursing under your breath as you stabilized them.
You muttered a final curse under your breath, adjusting a bandage with precision. “Let’s see who gets more of them back on their feet first,” you muttered, almost to yourself. It wasn’t about winning or losing the fight—it was about being the better medic. And today, you’d prove it.
art creds: wignome1na