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Summary
Spy needs care for his ailment. Medic, with trembling hands, helps.
Spy was looking at the deep cut across his arm. His gloves were off. This may have been the most desperate attempt he made to get someone's attention.
The gurney he sat on was about the most sterile object in sight. The infirmary was cramped with boxes of gooey glands, the floor bore tracers of ill-wiped bloodstains. Medic turned off one of the lights that started flickering and approached him in the dim light of the dusky evening.
"What seems to be the problem," Medic hummed with a note of cheer. He seemed to be looking at his reflection in the scalpel he raised in a bare hand, catching the last rays of sun and shining a mirror-sharp speck right into Spy's eye.