Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.
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Bloody Sad
He probably wouldn't have even noticed it if he hadn't put all the high wattage work lights on so he could do a thorough and proper cleaning of the cave; something which always made him smile to himself. Who in their right mind cleans a cave?
But, indeed, he did the major clean every year, sweeping up the accumulated dust and batting down the cobwebs, polishing the equipment and making sure all the light bulbs were changed so as to not leave any area in unexpected darkness.
It was just part of the job and one he'd performed for years.
That's why he even saw it, the blood on the floor which, when he followed the path of dried, rust colored drops, led him to the dried finger smears on the handles of the cabinets containing the medical supplies and on the wadded and blood-stiff towels left fallen on the floor. It wasn't new, had clearly been there for a while.
What bothered him was that he had no idea when the problem occurred nor to whom the spilled blood belonged, which of the masters.
No one had said anything to him. No one has asked for his help or suggested that, yet again, they had sustained another injury.
And, just as importantly, he hadn't noticed. He hadn't seen any unexplained bandages, any new scars, any new stitches, anyone limping. He was supposed to know about these things, he was supposed to know.
In all likelihood it hadn't been anything which would pass for serious in the world they chose to live and fight in. There were so many injustices, so many assaults on the master's bodies that one more or less seemed insignificant.
Insignificant; when had they become so jaded that such things didn't even rate a mention?
He should have known. He should have been told. He should have been made aware.
Wordlessly he picked up the ruined towels, placing them in the plastic trash bag. He sprayed the dried blood, scrubbed it away, readying the area for next time.
8/4/10