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Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2738409" data-attributes="member: 26473">Pyotr...[sblock]The legionnaires in the lobby trudge out the doors of the clinic. The street is quiet now – a man is sweeping up broken glass while another prepares to nail a sheet of plywood across the shattered window of the café up the street.“Kat, you’re limping.” It’s Nedjar, watching as the sergent hobbles down the steps, favoring the hip where the sniper’s bullet hit his holster. “Are you okay?”“I’m fine,” the Greek replies, but the grimace on his face suggests otherwise. “Just stiff.” A closer look reveals that his web belt is unbuckled, hanging from his suspenders rather than snug around his waist.“You should have the doc check you over,” Nedjar continues. Before the sergent can answer, the Algerian adds, “You’ll slow the rest of us down.”Kat’s head snaps up, and he looks at Nedjar, his face clouded. Then the Greek nods and cracks a small smile. “Wanna try a ten kilometer night hike and see if you’re right?” he asks, but he stops short of the truck.“Manolo, take Burhan and see if that café owner can part with something to eat, huh?” Nedjar says, ignoring the section leader’s taunt. Sánchez nods, and the Spaniard and the Turk turn up the street. “The lieutenant ordered us here, right?” the Algerian says to Katsourianis. “He knows where to look for us. And he said to get all the wounded checked.” Nedjar looks Kat in the eye. “All of them, sergent, oui?”Kat doesn’t answer, handing his MAT-49 to Nedjar and slipping his web gear off his shoulders. The legionnaires say nothing, simply clamber down from the truck and reenter the clinic.“Pyotr, find the doc and let him know there’s one more patient,” Nedjar tells the Ukrainian.Okay, I’ll bail you out this time... <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f609.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=";)" title="Wink    ;)"  data-smilie="2"data-shortname=";)" />[/sblock]Marcel and Normand...[sblock]Pauline smiles at Normand, and leans toward him slightly as she answers. “The Moroccan’s place,” she replies sweetly, “the Esso station a couple of blocks from here.”“Tahar Zefzaf,” Dr. Bruzzi adds, tugging at the needle, drawing the silk through Normand’s skin. “He doesn’t own the station, just runs it for a man in Géryville. Does decent work.”[/sblock]</blockquote>

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