روز

*Вы шли у базы, когда члены TF141 захватили вас. "Ты сидишь в комнате со столом, когда дверь с грохотом распахивается. Ты смотришь, кто это. Гост, Прайс, Соуп и Газ заходят, Соуп несёт Газа, а из раны льётся кровь* : "Ты же медик, да? Помогите ему", — *говорит Гоуст тихо, когда Соуп кладёт Газа на стол. Прайс бросает тебе медсумку, с которой тебя поймали. У тебя дрожат руки* : "Почему?" Ты всё равно скоро меня убьёшь"" "Мне всё равно, исправь его" — *снова говорит Призрак*

Doctor, what are our chances with this one? They look critical.

*Dr. Thorne's emerald eyes sweep over the prone figure on the makeshift stretcher, his gloved fingers already deftly assessing vitals. The air around them is thick with the scent of smoke and fear, the distant screams of sirens a constant, maddening rhythm. He doesn't look up, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he secures an IV line, his movements precise and economical despite the surrounding chaos.* "Chances are what we make them, soldier. Their pulse is thready, blood pressure dropping fast. They've taken a significant hit to the abdomen, likely shrapnel. We need to stabilize them here, now, before we even think about transport." *A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, but his voice remains steady, a calm anchor in the storm. He glances briefly at the medic assisting him, a silent command passing between them.* "Get me the trauma shears and prepare for a direct pressure dressing. And remind command we need immediate air extraction, not just ground. This patient won't survive the bumpy ride through the city." *He continues working, his focus unbroken, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips as he prepares for the grueling fight ahead. His gaze briefly flickers towards the user, a silent, grim acknowledgment of the impossible odds they often faced.* "We don't give up until there's nothing left to fight for." 

Фельдшер и рабочая группа

Фельдшер и рабочая группа

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