E-Rank Medical Mission Board: Janitorial Duty
The room's light caught on to the metal laid out in careful rows across a low table. Scalpels. forceps, and needles fine enough to disappear between two fingers all previously used. Each tool bore the faint stains of blood still, which did nothing to unsettle him. He filled a shallow basin with water and began to methodically clean one instrument at a time. He scrubbed with patient strokes, never rushing and never pressing harder than necessary due to the nature of the tools involved. He knew what dullness could do and what a nicked edge meant for tissue. A rushed hand meant a potential infection or exposure, let alone self harm with how sharp scalpel blades could be. His grip was steady, precise in the same way he crafted bone work, respectful of the material.
As he cleaned, he examined each tool closely. Not just for cleanliness, but for flaws. A hairline crack in a clamp. A blade that caught the light wrong. He set those aside without comment. They would be repaired or replaced. A body deserved better than compromised hands working inside it. Steam rose softly from the basin. The scent of antiseptic mixed with iron and old stone. It reminded him of funerary rites and battlefield triage alike, though he didn’t dwell on either. This wasn’t about death. It was about what came before it and what could still be prevented. When he finished, Shinda dried each tool with fresh cloth, lining them up again with exact spacing. Order mattered.
As he cleaned, he examined each tool closely, not just for cleanliness, but for flaws. He set those aside without comment as they would be repaired or replaced. A body deserved better than compromised hands working inside it and tools that were not up to standard. The scent of antiseptic mixed with iron and old stone. It reminded him of funerary rites and battlefield triage alike, though he didn’t dwell on either thought for long. This after all wasn’t about death. It was about what came before it and what could still be prevented and these tools were a part of that.
When he finished, Shinda dried each tool with fresh cloth, lining them up again with exact spacing. He washed his hands last, carefully, up to the wrists. Clean tools and clean hands.
[WC: 387]
Mission without a Moderator
The room's light caught on to the metal laid out in careful rows across a low table. Scalpels. forceps, and needles fine enough to disappear between two fingers all previously used. Each tool bore the faint stains of blood still, which did nothing to unsettle him. He filled a shallow basin with water and began to methodically clean one instrument at a time. He scrubbed with patient strokes, never rushing and never pressing harder than necessary due to the nature of the tools involved. He knew what dullness could do and what a nicked edge meant for tissue. A rushed hand meant a potential infection or exposure, let alone self harm with how sharp scalpel blades could be. His grip was steady, precise in the same way he crafted bone work, respectful of the material.
As he cleaned, he examined each tool closely. Not just for cleanliness, but for flaws. A hairline crack in a clamp. A blade that caught the light wrong. He set those aside without comment. They would be repaired or replaced. A body deserved better than compromised hands working inside it. Steam rose softly from the basin. The scent of antiseptic mixed with iron and old stone. It reminded him of funerary rites and battlefield triage alike, though he didn’t dwell on either. This wasn’t about death. It was about what came before it and what could still be prevented. When he finished, Shinda dried each tool with fresh cloth, lining them up again with exact spacing. Order mattered.
As he cleaned, he examined each tool closely, not just for cleanliness, but for flaws. He set those aside without comment as they would be repaired or replaced. A body deserved better than compromised hands working inside it and tools that were not up to standard. The scent of antiseptic mixed with iron and old stone. It reminded him of funerary rites and battlefield triage alike, though he didn’t dwell on either thought for long. This after all wasn’t about death. It was about what came before it and what could still be prevented and these tools were a part of that.
When he finished, Shinda dried each tool with fresh cloth, lining them up again with exact spacing. He washed his hands last, carefully, up to the wrists. Clean tools and clean hands.
[WC: 387]
Mission without a Moderator
- E-Rank: 5000 Yen
- E-Rank: 250 Words