The guy goes down anyway despite being a reasonable distance from the blast radius and Daniel drops into a crouch beside him, wrapping one arm over him for support. He's not handling this well, and this is exactly the wrong time for this to be happening.

"It's okay," he says, again and again and again, a formless orison buried in uncertainty. "It's okay."

They can't stay here. They can't stay here. They need to move.

Daniel sees the projectile heading straight for their position before it hits, and his stomach drops in an agonized knot.

"Down," he orders pointlessly, because they're already down, but he has to push the civilian down anyway and shield him from the worst as best as he can in the split second he has.

The projectile, the bomb or the missile or the mortar or whatever it is, strikes close enough to send fragmented shrapnel spinning their way. Daniel's vest takes the brunt of the force but several shards of debris bounce off his shoulders and legs and the back of his neck in tiny, stinging pellets. It's too close. That is way too close.

The distance they'd achieved is evidently not enough. Their position is compromised. They need to move. Their position is compromised. Their position is compromised.