BLU medic stood in his office tuning a violin while the voices of eight other BLU mercenaries filtered through the ceiling. He gave a few twists of one of the pegs before plucking at a string.
A?
Not quite.
A pronounced thud sounded from above, not unlike that which regularly accompanied an amused Heavy tackling an overconfident Scout when the latter was brave or mad or stupid enough to challenge the former. Twisting the peg some more, he again tried for A. His suspicions regarding the activity upstairs were confirmed when Scout's protests – and the team's laughter - became audible.
It was hard not to smile.
He nailed the elusive note and sighed.
Combat medics. The moment they walked off the battlefield their duties were only partway complete; later came tending wounds and surgeries and follow-ups and this and that and the third and on and on and on...
No nine to five, Medic. Not for you.
Perhaps if downtime were more plentiful he'd have had the violin tuned weeks ago. Perhaps he now wouldn't be so tired, and would've remembered to lock his office door. And then, perhaps, he wouldn't now have a knife pressed to his throat.
