Kasheyev frowned, the tranquillity of his cigarette shattered. His expression changed little at the sight of Aleksandr's wound, the Conscript stepping forward to support the man, lowering him from the bots shoulders to the ice. He wasn't exactly gentle with Kurcov, hauling the applicant's bloodied trouser leg up above the knee, caring little for the blood seeping onto his uniform. Nikolai cursed in Russian, wishing his knife had not been left with the patrol; it would have been preferable to simply cut the pants off below the wounded knee. Nikolai pulled off one of his gloves, removing the second with his teeth, all the while searching the pockets of his coat. No sooner did the bandage emerge, than the Conscript pried Alexsandr's clutching hands from the wound.
Before Aleksandr had time to protest the man had bound his knee, lifting and dropping it back to the floor with each successive circuit of cloth. The bandage was tight, perhaps, but it would act well enough to prevent further bleeding. As long as Kurcov did not pick at it, at any rate. He hauled himself to his feet, leaving the wounded applicant on the ground without a word.
Only then did Kasheyev, hands stained red, acknowledge Ben. "Your friend offended the Premier, Comrade?" He queried, his voice dry and cracking. The wind had much to answer for.
