[Medic carefully shifts Kaz against him, grimacing a little under the other man's sorta-kinda-not-really dead weight as he juggles supporting him and patting down the aforementioned areas. What he finds — nothing — isn't the least bit surprising. As he said, whoever's behind this was smart enough to think ahead, be it out of pragmatism or maybe some sick desire to make the proceeding spectacle more fun to watch.]

—Empty. [His answer comes with the hint of a scoff, scornful and irate, and he curses quietly to himself under his breath: gottverdammt.] I should be flattered they are this frightened of us. I should be.

[But nope, it just frustrates him. He already knows he's frightening. Even without his weapons or tools, he's still a force to be feared. All this does is postpone the inevitable because now it forces him to find replacements. What a chore.

He peels a fold of Kaz's coat back to get a better look at his holsters, just to double check, offering him a fuller view of the man's uniform. It's very fancy, very professional. The style isn't unrecognizable either; this is a commander's uniform, no doubt. Color Medic intrigued.]

You're a soldier. High-ranking, I presume. [And he swings his eyes back to Kaz's face, peering at him carefully.] American? Who are you with?