"Doc, I'm thirsty. Is that normal? Agh, the sting came back."

The evening sun hung low over the sky. A man was lying upon a table. His leg was exposed, showing off the nasty gash in it, as well as a chunk of shrapnel jutting out of said gash. blood dripped everywhere, soaking into the man's pants, the table, as well as staining the woman standing over him, who was examining all the tools on a nearby stand. She seemed to take some particular interest in the sharper, more painfully looking ones. They gleamed with an almost malevolent shine, seemingly reveling in the pain that they were to soon cause.

Martha's brow furrowed. This wasn't too odd of an occurrence. Soldiers, especially stupid ones who thought it was a good idea to play with the howitzers, showed up in here almost every other day.

"Quiet," she hissed at the poor man, while shooting a piercing glare at him. He got the message and shut up immediately. At least he was compliant. Then, she turned to the stand full of tools and selected a large scalpel. It was almost as long as a dagger, and obviously isn't going to be a pleasant experience for the man on the table. "You should relax. This will hurt. . ."

A bit of time and a lot of screaming later, the previously introduced man stood shakily to his feet, supported by an improvised cane that was in reality just a straight stick.

"Thanks, Doc. I don't know what I would do without you," he said shakily, with a thin smile.

"Leave," Martha said, pointing to the door. "Don't do it again," she added with a glare. The man nodded, then hobbled to the door. The bells sounded a merry jingle as the door opened, letting the soldier out, and sounded again as the door closed behind him. Well, it sounded merry to Martha. She looked at the clock on her door, then walked over to a coatrack and grabbed her coat. It was time to run a little errand.

By the time Martha had gotten herself over to the local church, the sun had ducked under the horizon and the last streaks of light shone out, as if desperately grabbing for the sleeping city below it.

"Oh, thank the baby Jesus you're here," said a nervous boy, standing outside on the church steps. "Brother Faeyoon's condition worsens with each passing day. Our prayers to the Lord continue to go unheard."

"Remember, two drops a day," Martha muttered, as she handed him a jar of thick opaque fluid. Then, she walked off into the night. Fools, if only they knew. She had been feeding Brother Faeyoon this for awhile now. A poison, coming from paleleaf, that slowly weakened a body until the heart stops one fateful day. This week's dose is more potent than usual. The killing blow shall be struck tonight. Martha allowed herself a grim smile at this. 

Back at the hospital, she searched around for a key. It was tucked away in a cupboard at the far end of the room, hidden from any curious eyes. She grabbed it, and walked into a room in the back that served in her living quarters. The room was intolerably small, with the bed filling up almost all of it. The space that is left is taken up by a small chest. Martha fit the key into the lock, and opened it up. Inside, there was a nearly featureless white cloak, only decorated by a peculiar symbol on it's hood. She lifted it out of the chest, and took it to a bucket in the operating room, where she scrubbed it thoroughly, reciting to herself quietly the old sayings that governed her life.