Lazar squats dutiful next to the cooling body, spares a glance for the final twitch of eyes: Come on mate, hurry it up –

— Abruptly rocks from heels to ass, off-balance and thumping stone floor. Impact stutters along the bleeder's hand, pinned fingers waving one last wormy tremble. Lazar huffs, wobbles to find his breath.

"Ain't you a healer?"

Near enough. Always mucking about the Infirmary, and if someone makes off for Strange he's gonna,

Shit. Where's Strange. Where's half the bloody crew?