a combat medic

She is small and quick and entirely unbothered by either fact, with her sleeves shoved to the elbow and her hair pinned up out of the way of the work. There is a smear of somebody else's blood dried along the outside of one wrist that she has not noticed yet, and probably will not until it starts to itch. Her fatigues are the only ones in this camp that nobody would dare call clean, and nobody has ever called her out of uniform. A battered trauma kit sits open at her knee, laid out with a tidiness that borders on ritual - vials in a row, seals unbroken, everything where her hand will find it in the dark. She looks up when you come in, and looks you over the way a mechanic looks over an engine she is fond of: checking, without ever quite seeming to.

a combat medic is crouched here, restocking a field trauma kit.