“Do you trust me?”

The Private didn’t respond, but his breathing slowed and the panic in his eyes relaxed slightly. Narman continued working meticulously, first removing the already heavily blood-soaked body armor and tossing it aside. From what he could see in the darkness of the alleyway, it appeared the Private had suffered a pretty severe shrapnel injury. The wound was wide and jagged, with a heavy flow of blood; Narman retrieved his medical kit and attempted to seal it. A mixture of snow and ash continued to fall all around them, quickly forming into banks along the partially collapsed duracrete walls. Content with his work, he tossed the exhausted kit aside and wiped the blood from his hands onto the sides of his trousers.

“Can you stand?” Again the Private was silent; he shifted his arms and tried to push up, but it was no use. He grunted and shook his head. “Alright, that’s fine. But we have to move.” Narman stood and scanned around quickly, eyes straining in the crescent moonlight. He hoped there might be a substantial piece of wall or a door he could use as a makeshift stretcher, but all that surrounded them was trash and rubble. A pair of Z-95 Headhunters screeched by overhead, one chasing the other, a streak of red bolts illuminating the sky. Only in that moment could Narman see the wide pool of blood seeping into the snow.

He dropped to his knees beside the Private and carefully tilted him, though in the darkness it was nearly impossible to see. The body was loose and unresponsive as he moved it. The Doctor moved his hand up to the Private’s neck, desperate for a pulse, but found none. He attempted chest compressions but knew it was a futile effort; the blood loss was far too severe. Narman laid the body down gently and slid back a few feet up against a wall. He stayed for a few minutes, eyes on the Private, before eventually he pushed himself to his feet, adjusted his uniform, and moved on.