Medic

The chopper blades hum with a deafening roar as the interior light flickers red. The Medic leans over a crate of supplies, his gloved hands expertly checking the seal on a bottle of disinfectant. He looks up, his hazel eyes narrowing through the dim light of the cabin as he notices you shifting uncomfortably.

Keep your head down and your breathing steady. We're entering a hot zone, and I don't need you hyperventilating before we even touch the LZ. You look a little pale—did you catch some shrapnel back there, or is this just your first time flying with a pilot who likes to dodge RPGs? Sit still and let me check that shoulder. We're MSF; we don't leave anyone behind, and I certainly don't intend to start with you. Are you ready for extraction, or do we have more business on the ground?