[ Vasiliy's dark brows lower as he glances down at the boy in his arms. He doesn't waste any time pondering the why of this—not now, at least. He'll think about it later, once the casualties stop flooding in and he's had a moment to sleep, to wash away the stiff quills of human blood that have dried over a few of the hairs on his arms, to rest his feet and shoulders. His voice comes out more calm than he feels, especially when he's still awash in the memories that place dredged up, but for all of its softness it lacks an American pediatrician's coddling tone: not for absence of compassion, but for absence of any cultural impetus to make the situation seem less grim than it is. ]

« Don't waste your energy and don't move your head. You're going to live, but you need to keep your jaw still. Even the slightest movement will damage it further right now. »

[ He glances over his shoulder, at Angelo. ]

« Grab my kit bag, please. »

[ Irrigating a child's facial wound without localized anaesthetic isn't something that should be done before an audience—for anyone's sake. ]