Mercy

Basement

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Coordinates : 4 2

The basement area is illuminated in daytime by the big holes in the roof and the walls, up by the ceiling where the walls are slightly above ground.

One of the bigger holes has been enlarged by engineers, and leads to a trench outside, where troops and supplies can be brought in to the building with some vague modicum of protection.

The basement usually has a couple of dozen civilians in it, men and women, young and old, the civilians who lived here before the Germans showed up. The Volga is not far away, and in any case, not one step back, comrades! This applies to the civilians too, so here they are.

It is currently daytime.

Sub-Rooms :

1. Hole in the Ceiling

Contents

Maschenko

Sokolof

Out <O> Up <U>

Sokolof is laying where he was dropped, propped up against the wall, breathing shallow. He's half in and out of consciousness.

It's a while before Maschenko can return. Spattered with blood but it doesn't appear to be his blood. Slightly pale, shivering with what might be cold or might be adrenaline, or both. The mass of civilians nearly overwhelms him as he looks around, his mind not really having registered them before as they'd gone barreling into the place. Now he sees them, smells them, hears them. But they'll have to wait. He picks his way around the wall, stepping over who he has to until he reaches Sokolof, kneeling down. "Efim…"

«Medic Code» Maschenko successfully performs first aid on Sokolof!

"Luka…" Sokolof chokes the doctor's name out, barely above a whisper. "It hurts…it hurts to breathe…" He lets out a groan that turns into a curse.

Maschenko's eyes sting and he quickly looks down, swallowing the cold lump in his throat. When he speaks you'd never know it was there, his voice kept low and steady. "I know, Efim. You've been shot in the chest, it's not good but you're alive. I'm going to keep you like that. You stay with me, do you understand?" He yanks bandages from his satchel, bracing his knees in the dirt and pulling on Sokolof's jacket front, so he can get at the soaked gauze stuffed on the injury.

Sokolof lets out a gasp of pain when Maschenko tears the bandages from his chest. The bleeding has, mercifully, slowed. "Where is…what happened…? The others…I could hear the shooting but I couldn't move…"

"Everyone's on the top floor." Maschenko throws the dripping gauze aside, wiping his hands off on his trouser leg. "Zoya was hit, but she's going to be okay. Malakhov…" His brows drawn, expression tightening as he works. "…he's dead." The bleeding's slowly slowing down under his hands, one hand atop the other as he puts careful pressure atop the new blanketing of dressing.

Sokolof winces as the pressure's applied to his chest. He tries not to scream, but he can't hold back a pained choke. "Comrade Mikhail…Seemed so strong…Luka, please don't tell my children how I died. Say it was quick. Don't tell them about all this…please…"

"Stop it, stop." The taut crack in Maschenko's voice has no anger in it. "If it happens I'll do as you want me to, but you're still here. Just be here, stay here. Just…breathe." That pressure's unrelenting, no matter how he knows it must hurt. He's got to stop the bleeding, and slowly it does start to stop. Blood's welled up between his fingers, making thick rivulets that run down Sokolof's sides and soak into fabric.

Sokolof coughs out agonized gasps, but he's still breathing. And the bleeding does stop. His face is pale, a combination of pain and blood loss. His eyes blink rapidly up at Maschenko. "Feels like it slams into your whole chest…like it's a hammer and not something so small as a bullet…Felt like I was hit by a wall, wall with a knife-point…"

"I know," Maschenko answers as softly as he can in all this horrible noise. "It's awful and it's going to be awful through the night, Efim. I'll stay with you. I promise, you'll get through this." As the bleeding stops, he gingerly takes his hands off the soaked bandage. They peel rather than lift, wet and warm, and he grabs for more bandages to pile atop the soaked-through ones. "Just breathe. Slowly. Think about Isak, about Raisa…she's got a beautiful smile now, doesn't she?" Tape's ripped for the bandages.

"She has blue eyes…she looks like her mother…" Sokolof chokes, breathing still coming in choked gasps. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth as hard as he can. Still managing not to scream.

"She does, doesn't she." Maschenko talks as he finishes working, swift but unfortunately not painlessly. "She's even got that little dimple on the right, just like Nadya. She's really lovely, Efim…she'll be a beautiful woman." His voice stays gentle, the softness covering up any further unsteadiness that might be choking him up. "Now…I'm going to get you upstairs and you're going to get some water, and some rest. I'll be right there."

Sokolof reaches up an arm, though he can't do more than that to try and get himself upright. "This is not the world I wanted for them, Luka. Our children were supposed to have a better age than we…" He trails off weakly. The blood loss has been a mercy in its way, as it's left him with a tenuous grip on consciousness.

"Maybe they will. Maybe they'll never have to fight like this. That's all we can hope for." Maschenko slips his arm under Sokolof's, and one hand under the man's knees. This is going to be supremely awkward, Sokolof being taller than the Ukrainian is — but thankfully a little lighter. He jogs his arm under Efim's knees, dragging his feet under his own center of gravity, and his teeth grit as he starts to stand up. "Hold on, alright?"

Sokolof isn't dead. That's about all he's got going for him at the moment. He'll deal with the awkward. He does groan as he's propped upright, leaning heavily on Maschenko. He's not quite dead weight but he's close to it.

Maschenko makes sure Sokolof's arm is around his neck, taking a hint of the weight off. Still, carrying a full grown, bloody man isn't easy. Three flights of stairs, here we go.

Buildings

The Grid-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <


Coordinates : 3 3

The interior rooms of Pavlov's House have largely been cleared out. Most of the interior walls have been smashed down, making it quite a large and airy space inside the building. Rubble and corpses lie scattered around.

It is currently daytime.

Sub-Rooms :

1. Rubble pile

Maschenko arrives from the South.

Novikova nods. "Da, good fortune indeed." She takes a deep breath. "Alright. I'll keep your spot warm." She winks. Novikova misses the mattresses already, but such is war. One moment a cushion, the next rubble. Alas. "Be safe, and hopefully watch will be slow."

Sokolof arrives from the South.

Down the hallway comes one set of footsteps, but two men — Maschenko's carrying the tall and very bloody Sokolof in his arms. Breathing raggedly from the trip up all those flights of ruined stairs, the sound of that precedes him into the room before his staggering boot thuds do.

«Game» It is now dusk.

Sokolof leans heavily on Maschenko as they make their way into the room. Again, he's not quite dead weight but he's very close to it. He's pale as a sheet, chest bandaged as well as one can do that sort of job under the circumstances. The bleeding seems to have stopped but he's in a bad shape, breath coming out in pained gasps.

Novikova is sitting quietly, resting with her curtain blanket. She has propped her head up against the wall with a ragged blanket. She has her pilotka in her lap. Her eyes are half closed, though she seems quiet and a bit sad. There's relief in her expression as she sits up hearing boots - "Comrades," She greets them softly, but warmly. Hard to keep the kid down. "Is he okay?" She looks worried. "Please sit if you like. There's um, a little water and a tin or two but that's all I remembered," She admits. One eye closes in annoyance. Wait. Sokolof is breathing. Her eyes widen. "Comrade Sokolof," Sadness crosses her face. She doesn't feel quite proper using Sokolof's first name even still but -

Don't drop him, don't drop him…this is all Maschenko's mind is screaming at him, as his strained muscles scream right back. "Just clear the way, Zoya." His voice is intense, stumbling forward and down onto his knees right before his arms are about to let go of Sokolof's body. They end up in kind of a pile, Maschenko on his knees and Sokolof's legs on the floor, his arms still doing his best to cradle the injured man's upper half. "Efim…" Breathe. "…are you okay?"

"Aaaagh…" is Sokolof's only contribution to any sort of conversation. That didn't sound good. His breathing gets, somewhat, easier once he can lay down again. Somewhat. "Zoyenka…" he simply gasps in some sort of response to Novikova.

Novikova frowns and nods. She will help clear the worst of the rubble, largely with her right hand. Zoya is slow, but she's somehow - Stalin only knows - somehow still on her feet. She nods. "Do you want to use my blanket?" SHe offers quietly, hazel eyes reflecting her worry. " I'm so glad to see you both." She smiles at Sokolof at her name. She gently sets her right hand on his shoulder. Relief. Gratitude at seeing them both.

The room threatens to gray out around the edges and Maschenko blinks, rapidly shaking his head. "Sorry," he tells Sokolof, with an extremely weak grin that twists the side of his lip. "Zoya…here…sit here." Where he is, his arms serving as Sokolof's temporary pillow to keep the man's head off the cold floor. "Stay with him, I'll get the blankets."

Sokolof is clinging to consciousness but barely. All his concentration poured into trying to breathe evenly. "Felt like being hit with a hammer…so small…you wouldn't think something so small…"

Novikova nods, and will settle right where maschenko is. "Da," She smiles at Maschenko. At least Novikova is a soft pillow with her fur coat and being a Novikova. She adds to Maschenko, "You look pale. You should take a moment too. I don't know if I can pull you up the stairs. One handed anyway. But if I worry enough I think I could." She WAS on her feet after all. She settles right where she's told, keeping Sokolof propped up. "Should he sit or lay down?" She asks quietly. And a nod at Sokolof. "I know, right?" She offers quietly, sympathetic. Her head is reminding her.

"Keep him down. Just like that, he's fine." Maschenko scoots back as Novi takes over his spot, dragging feet back until he can grab for two blankets. Exactly whose, he doesn't care. The first two red velvet things he sees, one of them from his own satchel. One's wadded up thickly, and he comes around to use that to prop up Sokolof's legs. "Here we go…and another. Nice and warm." Unfurling the second.

Sokolof lays propped against Novikova. That slightly aid in keeping his shoulders upright does seem to help his breathing. Though he's still far from what can be called comfortable. "Thank you, Zoya…" he mutters, looking up at her. "You are…you are very kind…"

Novikova smiles and nods. Novi, for her part, is - still! It's different but it works out. She's a soft, unmoving prop at least. "Alright," She replies and watches Sokolof. Odds are, Novi's blanket is nice and close too. She was resting nearby. "Elise promised to bring a few blankets once she was done with watch. She kind of seemed unhappy that I performed my 'grab a bullet from the air' trick again," Novikova's eyes cross. "I think I am supposed to grab it, not absorb it." She smiles at Sokolof, not moving too much. "Think nothing of it… you helped me lots and you're my friend." Odds are, living in the same complex or close by, he probably got to help or witness some of the hazards of Novi's youth - like her tendency to smack into newly opened doors or catch every germ early on. It's a wonder she lived to see 19 sometimes.

Maschenko smiles a little bit. It barely moves his mouth, and comes nowhere near his eyes. He drapes the second blanket over Sokolof's body, and Novikova's legs. "Rest your back against the wall, Zoya. Rest, now." He talks under his breath so as not to distract Efim from talking to the girl. "I'll get some water."

Sokolof isn't very close to losing consciousness completely right now, and he's nowhere approaching coherent. He just stares up at the ceiling, eyes opening and closing heavily, still groaning softly.

Novikova seems relieved for the little smile too. She takes what she can get and nods. "Alright… you rest soon too, okay? It's been a long day," What with fighting a TANK and that dread Buzzsaw. She leans back meekly and stays still to keep Sokolof steady. At least thanks to not being too skinny, she's a decent heat source? She yawns a little.

Maschenko hunts his water flask out of his satchel, sitting down on the floor on the other side of Sokolof's head. "It has been, Zoya. But we're still here." Mostly. His eyes flicker to the spot where MIkhail's blood still paints the walls and he exhales slowly through his nose, unscrewing the cap off the flask and holding it up to Sokolof's mouth. "Efim. Here's some water, my friend. Take a sip, just a little now."

Sokolof cranes his neck up to drink. He swallows with a cough, but he does get it down. "We're still here…" he mutters, eyes fluttering. He falls silent after that, slipping further out of proper coherency.

Novikova smiles sadly at Maschenko. "That we are. We did really well." At least, given what they were up against. She goes quiet as Sokolof gets some watering. She looks a bit tired too. Even Novikova isn't made of metal, she is made of meat. "I don't.. think I'll be on watch a bit so I can keep an eye on him if you like." For a long bit at any rate. She offers with a faint smile.

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