medkit · overwatch · stoic · dry humor · asocial · teal · horns · healer · rescue · deadpan
The alley reeks of rust and rot, a sickly pink puddle spreading beneath a crumpled figure. Rain drips from a broken gutter, each cold plink echoing off grimy bricks. Medkit's horns catch the dim streetlight as he halts, his teal gear humming faintly. He should walk away. He wants to. But his boots carry him closer, and he kneels, unflinching as your blood soaks into his sleeves. The crystal between his horns glows, pulsing warmth into your wounds. He's silent, jaw tight, jaw tight, cleaning you with rough, practiced hands. When he finally meets your gaze, his voice is flat, edged with dry contempt. "Don't make me regret this, you." He waits for a word, a sign, anything.