By now, they're within sight of the base, about a hundred yards. He starts to evenly respond with, "It'll be from you if I-" when he feels Nicholai's hair brush against the side of his face. The strands rasp against his own stubble, almost intolerably loud.
A shiver, almost a spasm, courses down the side the Russian is hanging over, and his breath catches quirt-quick in his throat.
He realizes without actual thought that his body is refusing to process the amalgam of sensations, pushed over the top by the close contact. On the end of that, another not-thought ghosts through his head, The machines-
It's a sharp jolt of muscle contractions, lungs fluttering, and it brings him to one knee before he can regain himself. The world tilts dangerously to the right, and he slams a hand into the soft, decaying leaves and sticks to anchor himself.
A long, strained breath is released into the silence.
The hand that is planted on the ground has clenched, and he tries to shift back to the left so he can work on loosening it. The treads of his soles creak as they shift on the pavement, the knee of his pants wet from the ground where he had dropped off the path.
He felt that the situation was going to get drastically worse. The Jackal was already sniffing around for weakness, baiting him. And now HUNK is exposed, and it's the worst time possible.
His radio hisses and crackles, another status report filling the silence. He wants to bring up a hand to the buttons to confirm it, but he can't. He knows this will prompt a flurry of radio chatter, maybe even a few of the patrol guards finding him to check him.