Masterpiece
The sterilized walls of the infirmary are purer than white, his scalpel polished more dearly than a loving wife's wedding band. Light blares overhead, its brightness overwhelming all other senses. Only he can see clearly, for he has adapted this place to display his art, his creations. No one else can, or is willing to, understand his methods. And he's fine with that, for he knows that the only person that must be satisfied with his work is himself.
He pities the common people for their inability to comprehend his talent, his ingenuity.
Perhaps they are jealous of his skill, his adroitness; of his ability to lovingly paint red alonga soft surface, and of his tessellations intricately crafted over time, rivers and streams of that thick liquid lackadaisically shifting down towards a pooling lake or ocean. Whatever it may be, the doctor truly has little care for it.
His soon-to-be opus is stretched out below him, still a virgin, waiting to be graced by his artistic endeavors.
Time passes in his workshop as he works diligently, brushing here and there, nobody daring to enter and perturb him when he is in a creative mood. He advances along in his work, moving the tool in one direction, then in another. After some length, he stops, unsure of how to conclude his exhilarating venture. Suddenly, he realizes, and he strokes the piece de resistance again.
Twenty seconds pass, and another stroke is made. Forty seconds more pass, and that amount increases tenfold.
And all in the course of a minute, the doctor affectionately finishes his next masterpiece. He lifts it and brings it downward, into his gallery. To most, the scene he enters seems strange, for it is no gallery, but a freezing, unmoving room, far too cold and lonely for most to even dare entering, even his comrades.
His artwork is not made for the eyes. No, it is better that it is preserved, out of a human's vision, away from judgment.
Indeed, he is the only one that can gaze upon this particular skill. His work can only be graced by his presence, for only he can appreciate it. To allow it into the presence of another, inferior being is unthinkable. He cradles the treasure carefully in his arms before stowing it away into the deep, dark depths of the drawer, sealing it away from the rest of the world.
The blackness envelops it, suffocating, never to be seen or heard of again.
(A/N: First foray into the TF2 fandom, and I don't think it went too badly. I'm still not sure of what the rating for this should be - while it's not overly graphic, it's still relatively creepy and falls somewhere between T and M. Advice on that? If you think the rating should be bumped up, let me know. Also not sure on the genre for this, as it doesn't really fall into anything nicely.)