There were a few attempts at conversation, while the Partisans walked toward the meeting place. They might've been in enemy territory, but they were keeping it quiet. Everytime they started to speak, however, Felix would cut them off with a phrase that Thomas knew well. "[i]Ferme ta gueule![/i]" He'd hiss. "Shut the fuck up." So, they did. The harsh silence broken only by the occasional gust of wind, and the sounds of their travel. The shifting of gravel, the just-a-bit-too-loud breathing, the shifting of their gear. They walked down side-road, and stopped everytime they came close to a patrol. "Lot of Krauts out today." Edouard noted. "Aye. This isn't normal. I don't think we've ever dealt with this many patrols." Thomas agreed. This was most disturbing. Perhaps whatever information the Nazis got from the Polish Partisans had them riled up. Perhaps some high-ranking Kraut was coming to meet with the Vichy, and the extra patrols. It didn't matter to Thomas and the others. All it meant was an increase in difficulty. "Just means more heads to put bullets in." Anna said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hideout. The Russian sharpshooter spoke with such confidence that even Thomas, the least warlike of the group, found himself almost hoping for contact. Almost. They carried on, dodging often to the side of the road to hide from the passing [i]Wehrmacht[/i]. It was not a pleasant journey, but it passed mostly without incident. [i]Mostly.[/i] [hr] They were nearly to the meeting place when they saw him, lying on the side of the road. Blonde hair plastered to his head by blood and sweat, his grey uniform stained red, his blue eyes full of fear. He weakly raised an arm. The Partisans looked to each other for confirmation, then stepped toward him, guns at the ready. The fallen Nazi was in even worse shape upon closer inspection. His wounds were savage and deep, as though he'd been mauled. They expected him to ask for help. Help that they would have to deny. To their surprise, the [i]Wehrmacht[/i] wanted no such thing. "[i]Tue-moi.[/i]" He rapsed. It was French. [i]Kill me.[/i] The soldier couldn't have been older than twenty, yet he was begging for death. Though his eyes were clouded by pain, Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that the soldier wasn't chasing death as an escape from it. Thomas frowned. Death, wounds, suffering. It was a part of war, and he was a soldier. If only that made seeing dying people any easier. Pointless suffering, borne of pointless violence. [i]What am I doing here?[/i] He asked himself, not for the first time. Before he could ponder further, the boy spoke again. "[i]Tue-moi![/i]" Likely the only French he knew, spoken in desperation. "We're not going to get anything out of him." Thomas said, sighing. "What's the harm in taking him out?" "I agree." Edouard said, hesitantly. "Of all the gifts we might give to a Nazi, a merciful death is the easiest." "He doesn't deserve mercy." Anna spat. "Would he do the same for you?" "Maybe not." Edouard said. "I'm not wasting one of my bullets on a fucking Nazi." Felix grumbled. "You can knock yourselves out, but hurry up about it." Neither Anna nor Edouard moved. Gerard, the ever-silent giant of a Frenchman followed Felix as they walked up the road a few steps. Bernard remained silent. "I don't think I can't shoot an unarmed man." Edouard said, with his head down. "What, you want me to?" Anna scoffed. "No." Edouaro was looking at Thomas. "Ed, I-" He stopped, unsure of what to say. [i]I don't want to kill him either.[/i] The Partisan produced his sidearm, one that had recently belonged to one of the unlucky Poles. He held it, handle-first to Thomas. The Irishman hesitated for a moment, before sighing and grabbing it. A revolver, a Nagant, if he was correct. Loaded and cocked already. He looked at the Nazi. Fear in the boy's eyes, but determination behind it. "[i]Bitte.[/i]" He whispered. German for please. Thomas sighed. He aimed the revolver down at his head. The soldier began talking again, but clearly not to Thomas. "[i]Gott vergib mir.[/i]" Tears welled in his eyes. Thomas closed his own, then pulled the trigger. When he opened them, the German was dead, a bullet hole square in his face that looked paltry compared to the gashes across his body. He turned to Edouard, the pistol held out. The Partisan shook his head. "Keep it." So, he did. [hr] They arrived late. Thomas hoped this wasn't to become a patern. The meeting place was quiet, and the Partisans readied their weapons. It was quiet. Felix broke the silence, calling out in English. "Is anyone here?" They couldn't see inside the farmhouse. Thomas only hoped that the answer wasn't spoken by a German.