Along Came A Spider
Along Came A Spider
Summary: Kai's spectacular crash down has some explosive results.
Date: PH071 (28 June 2009)
Related Logs: Three Hour Tour
Players:
Kai..Salazar..

Scorpia, Outside Osprey, Destroyed Rail Line
IC Time: Post Holocaust Day #71
OOC Time: Sun Jun 28 20:22:31 2009


The tracks continue out through the terrain, but rounding a bend things change. Human remains, clothes tattered and burned begin to appear as one travels further Eastbound. Older trees are seen fallen across the tracks, as well. But as the bodies become more common, the ages of the fallen trees declines. Further down, the forest looks to have taken a massive blast from someplace to the East, the edges singed black by some massive amount of heat. Eventually a bridge is reached that is partially destroyed, its overhanging structure collapsed onto the tracks and wrecking them. Lain out ahead the destruction is almost tangible from many miles away. Where once a Colonial Air Base had been, there is now a large crater half a mile across. Almost none of the buildings in the distance are standing and death hangs in the air no matter what the time of day. To continue on would mean almost certain death from the radiation levels.


The quiet before the storm. That is what former Sergeant Salazar Nikos experiences for precisely two and a half minutes between a raider flyby, and the extreme lack of aerodynamic prowess that is Kai's unmanned viper. The mass of metal and expensive aeronautics slams down into the ground, and pulls up everything in its path as it cuts a swath across the field she WAS working in, and slams right the frak into the impressive humvee she just finished wiring to use as a distraction should — BOOM. It doesn't matter why she wired it, because it no longer exists, except in the form of tiny chunks of metallic rain. Yeah. That was stealthy. Frak.

There's a loud BANG just moments before the ruined military plane slams into the ground, rips through the dirt, and careens into the humvee with a high-pitched whine that's quickly obliterated by the sound of exploding metal. The bang, of course, was the fighter's pilot ejecting at the last minute possible. His ship's canopy slings off and whips away, as does his seat a few seconds later. Then a crash and sound of splintering wood goes up from the trees, as the pilot's chute deploys— and summarily tangles, dropping him into the foliage.

Well, at least he knows how to make an entrance.

Salazar is still for several beats, as piece of her handiwork rain down on her, some few hundred meters away. She was off slinking through the woods at the unfortunate moment of impact, but heard it coming, and saw the resultant mess. Her partial cover keeps her from taking any large shrapnel, but it's a moment before she can get up. "… Holy frak."

Yeah, everybody within five miles heard that.

Clang, clang, hiss… FWOOOMP. That's the humvee going up in flames, and a good portion of the viper's twisted wreckage, too. Hunks of metal continue to fall from the sky for a good few seconds, either launched from the explosion, or having broken off from the fighter as it careened through the atmosphere. There's a fuel tank, and oh look, a landing strut. And there goes one of its missiles— thankfully, it spirals off in the opposite direction and explodes in a column of flame and smoke, deep in the treeline.

The pilot, meanwhile, has crashed and bumped his way from the top of a tree, to the bottom. He's lying in a tangled heap of flight suit and chute cabling, almost certainly unconscious.

You know, it's possible everyone within ten miles heard that.

"For fraks sake," Salazar intones, with a snort. She moves to get to her feet, and wipes at a trickle of blood at her cheek. Something bit into her skin. Her arms are peppered with debris, but it's mostly just dirty. She coughs, and goes back into marine stealth mode, eyes around. Sounded like an eject… now where…

The wreckage is still in flames, of course. It's noisy, and hot. The pilot's about a hundred metres away near the edge of the treeline where it bumps up against the rail tracks, facedown in the dirt. His chute flaps and gusts as the wind lifts it, and inches him a short way along the ground.

It takes a moment for Salazar to figure out where that pilot is coming down. She turns, grabs her rifle from the ground, hefts her fallen pack, and double times it, ignoring a burning twinge from her left leg. No time for love, cargo pants! Gotta go rustle a pilot from their eject seat. "You better be alive, you frak," she mutters under her breath. Running around in cargo pants and a leather vest may seem like fun, but after a couple weeks it just starts to suck. It gets warm out here during the day, and cool at night.

Cool, and burgeoning on dark. Which makes it heaps of fun, trying to navigate through the cluttered treeline and crackling, ash-strewn underbrush. Thankfully, the pilot landed fairly near the tracks. Minus eject seat, which it looks like he successfully ditched deeper into the trees. By the time Salazar manages to hike it in closer, the wind's pulled his chute (and him) closer to the tracks; the 'sail' is making a fair bit of noise, flapping against the ground like it is.

Salazar slides a knife out of her pocket. She shakes off some nagging things that try to invade her brain. The huge explosion didn't do a lot for her tendency toward discomfort in open spaces. Those tracks are just a little too exposed for her taste. She puts on the speed, and arrives shortly on the scene. She flips the knife open, dark eyes going to the flapping chute, which insists on dragging the pilot along like the dead weight he is. She leans in to grab the pilot, knife between her teeth, and works the buckles and straps to try to get it off the old fashioned way. That doesn't work, she starts sawing with her uber sharp blade. Dark hair falls into her eyes as she works. She goes by feel.

Whip, whip, whip. The wind's picking up, and it's snapping loose cabling against Salazar's shoulder (and probably face) while she works. The dead weight aka pilot, looks completely out still. He's obviously Colonial military, by the viper patch on his flight suit, as well as another claming him to be a 'Vigilante'. With the helmet over his head though, it's impossible to get a face.

"Aw frak me sideways." Salazar throws her body on top of the pilot's, and gives him a face full of breasts while she grabs hold of the lines and saws through them with a razor sharp knife. She has a bit of a knife sharpening fetish. If she slips, someone's going to bleed. A lot. "I hate parachutes. I hate unconscious pilots, and I really hate out of control aircraft that take out an entire day's work. Inconsiderate behavior, sweetheart." And she talks to unconscious people.

Yeah, good luck with that. The pilot's helmet is cracked and buckled on one side, and there's some blood caking the broken slivers. Which might explain why he's out like a light right now. It takes a bit of sawing with the knife, but eventually the lines snap free. One, then the next, then the next, including one that was tangled around his neck and shoulder. Maybe, if she's really perceptive, she'll notice his hand slither closer to his hip. Then again, it could be her body atop his, jostling him. Who knows.

The string of bitching continues under her breath. It's been a hard couple of weeks for former Sergeant Nikos. Oh, yes, yes it has. "I should just leave you here," Grunt. Another line lets go, "…to drag along the tracks until you," Grunts. And another, "…hit the crater that used to the air base." She reaches for the final line, and dips the flat of the knife under it. With the other lines cut, the chute ceases dragging, and more or less simply flaps in the wind like a giant flag. She pulls up a loop, and saws. "Moral imperatives." You know she's been alone quite a lot when she talks this much, "Are going to get me killed. I hope the ride down was fun, cowboy, because life down here is a bitch this week."

It's somewhere after 'hit the crater' and before 'moral imperatives', that a distinct click might be heard. Almost certainly heard, in fact. With Salazar possibly paying more attention to venting her frustrations with a knife and a few metres of nylon cabling, she might or might not notice the pilot attempt to: a) reach for his sidearm in its thigh holster, then b) draw said sidearm and shove the muzzle up against the side of Salazar's head. It all happens pretty quickly, for a guy who was unconscious a few moments ago.

Salazar's hand turns, the knife in it is a little slow to move, but it's at the pilot's shoulder already. The point of it presses against his collar bone without digging in. She goes very still, and her eyes fall briefly closed as the muzzle touches one of those little star tattoos at her temple. How awkward to have this happen whilst straddling a man she thought was unconscious. Just like that, all bitching stops. It's one way to make a woman shut it. She sits very still, opens her eyes, and glances down at the pilot's helmet visor without moving her head. "Thank you."

Kai's hand is trembling slightly. Okay, more than just slightly. He's either cold, suffering from shock, or.. having trouble keeping his arm aloft like that, because there's a nasty gash in his bicep. Right through the ugly green neoprene of his flight suit. Probably courtesy of hunks of his fighter coming apart on him, when he came hurtling toward the ground, since it doesn't look like anything a tree would've caused. "Get my helmet off," comes the somewhat muffled voice from behind the visor. It's too cracked, dirty, and blood spattered to really make out the face underneath it.

The man with the gun gets to make the rules. Sure, she could jab her knife into his neck, but then they's just both die. And, really, what's the point? She leaves the knife where it is, on his shoulder, and reaches for the seal that secures the flight helmet where it is, and pops it. She knows her way around it enough that she undoes it carefully, without too many misses. She stabilizes his neck with one hand, and slides the helmet off with the other, working it slowly up.

The gun slips a little, trailing down Salazar's cheek until it's jittering uncomfortably at her throat — just beneath her ear — instead of her temple. He doesn't make any attempt to push her off him, or shove the knife away, if even he has the strength to do so. He does, however, tip his head back slightly as the helmet's seal is popped and the whole broken mess is pushed off. It's definitely gouged his head, and there's a hiss seethed between his teeth as it's shoved away. Dark curls are matted to his skull, the right side wet with blood that almost blends right in. Eyes that are jarringly blue beneath the dark brows, and in contrast to the dirt and blood smudging his face. He's breathing somewhat heavily, probably swimming in and out of consciousness. "Who the frak are you?" He, of course, has tags that handily state his name, rank and serial number. They might as well have a little 'if found, return to the Colonial navy' stamped on them.

"Do your best to not squeeze the trigger," the woman in black comments lightly. Sal reaches for his tags with one hand, to flip them and have a look at his rank and serial number. "The short answer is Salazar. The long answer is," Her fingers lightly brush over his scalp, checking the wound as much as she can without leaning over too much. "… we don't have time for right now. Can you move, Captain? The crash was fairly spectacular, and any enemy patrols in the area are likely to be up our collective ass in about two minutes."

Kai isn't some young buck, and he isn't an idiot. Even in his current state of mind, the gears are working as something about 'spectacular crash' and 'patrols' reach his ears. His eyes squeeze shut, then drag open again, head turning slightly as her fingers smooth over his scalp. He's looking down the railway tracks, as the most likely avenue for someone— or rather something approaching. "Yeah." It's murmured finally, as his shaky hand finally drops, and the safety is flicked on. "Yeah, I can walk. If you'd like to get off me." Even after dropping out of the sky, and his viper lying in burning, smoking ruin not two hundred metres away, he still manages to make that sound incredibly dry.

"Am I impinging on your personal space?" Salazar gives it right back, almost identical tone. She picks up her knife, flicks it closed, and then shoves it into her back pocket. She rises from the ground, her weight lifting from the pilot. "Up and at 'em, sweetheart." She stands, and takes the Captain's arm to heft him up, whether he wants the assistance or not. Her eyes cast to the wreckage, and she glances back to the pilot to be sure he doesn't tip this way or that. His blood is sticky on her fingertips. "Unfortunately for you, we're two days hike from the nearest doctor."

He's not quite dead weight, though pretty damned near close to it. Stumbling at first, he probably nearly takes her down with him. "You have a doctor down here?" As in, a doctor. Period. Frak two days' hike. "I'll live." It's mumbled as he gives his helmet a kick, then seems to think better of toting it around with him. It's wrecked, anyway. "You got something better than that knife on you, Salazar?" He's grown disaccustomed to calling people by their names, as opposed to rank. That much might be evident from the pause before he says it. There's a brief pat-down for his radio and sidearm.

"Specificity," she says, planting a foot to keep from going over with him. She throws her weight and still barely manages to keep herself up. Sal stumbles, and leaves him on his own for a moment so she can pick up her rifle, which she dropped nearby. "G-4 and a few other toys." She grunts and reaches over to help him stand straight again, once she's locked and loaded. "Less than I had before, but I'm learning to let go. I've been on my own out here for three weeks. I know a couple of places to hole up. If we can make it." Cylons are not known for their lazy response time. "I'm going to need you to move it."

Rather than stand around and shoot the shit while making a nice pair of stationary targets for any roving patrols, the Captain's already started to trudge away by the time Salazar's done talking. He makes it maybe a step, before his swimming head and bad leg — which may or may not be due to an injury sustained in the crash — nearly bring him to his knees. "Frak." Back to his feet again, he grasps at her arm, for support. "I'm fine." Just in case she gets any ideas otherwise. "How far, and how safe? Start moving, I'll keep up."

"You need to throw up, you do it while we're jogging," And that's all the warning Salazar gives him before she wraps an arm tightly around his body, arm under his shoulders across his back, and she begins to job. She keeps the steps even and moderate tempo, for two relatively healthy military (and former) personnel. She supports him, leads, or drags him as needed, over the tracks and into the more forested area north of the town. The path gets a little uneven, and more difficult after a few moments.

"You got it," mutters the pilot, already unholstering his sidearm as they move off, and fumblingly checking its loadout, one-handed. Armour-piercing rounds, six of them. The same every pilot received for this mission. He's heavier than Salazar, and if he wasn't moving for the most part under his own volition, he'd be a bitch to try to support. But he's also a old tough bugger, and is probably fighting through the worst of his discomfort at the moment.

Through the trees comes that telltale whirr clunk of the mechanical cylon's running. It's a high speed version of their sentry walk, and the shiny machine comes into view around a hill.

Salazar hears it just before it comes into view, and she shoves Kai to partial cover behind a large tree. "Cylon incoming." She bodies him to him to be sure he's got the tree before she tips down to take a knee around the other side of it.

Kai is having a devil of a time just getting his sidearm locked and loaded, and ready to deal pain should seven feet of metal come a'knock— speaking of seven feet of metal. He manages to keep his grip on the gun as Salazar shoves him behind the tree, and twists so that he hits the dirt on his side. Rolling over to his back, he hoists up the gun in both hands and takes aim.

It's probably the body throwing around that drags the Centurion's attention to them so fast, but it also gives both soldiers time to get their weapons up. Vomiting can happen later, after this is taken care of, yes. Rounds from the machine gun arm of the hulking metal monstrosity sputter into the tree above both, missing Kai by inches.

Salazar brings her rifle to bear as she takes a knee, tucks it into her shoulder tightly, and squeezes after barely taking aim. Her shots pelt into the robot center mass, pounding into its substantial armor. The racket is moderate, given the earlier announcement courtesy of a crashed viper and a wired hummer, but respectable.

Vomiting can definitely happen later. Even if Kai's stomach very much wants it to happen now. He rolls onto his left side as machinegun fire pings off the dirt mere inches from his shoulder, then returns fire with an explosive round to the machine's chest. Seems they were both aiming for the same spot. "We've got to get up this embankment, make it to higher.." He squeezes his eyes shut as another wave of nausea moves over him. "..higher ground. You go first, I'll cover you!"

The Centurion's red eye sweeps in its visor, tracking the combatants as they move, spraying a wide arc of bullets after them both. The trees get a trimming, and bark rains down like tears from the Gods.

When Salazar walks the dog running up the hill, she pops off a shot. It pings uselessly off of the armor. She dives behind a tree up there, and braces her back against it. One breath, two, she leans around and takes aim, firing to cover the pilot so he can join her on the slope. Baby steps and firearms.

Kai cranes his head around so he can keep visual tabs on the leather jacket-wearing 'Salazar', then starts clambering back to his feet again. A single shot is picked off, the explosive round leaving the chamber with a BANG, a whistle, and a sound of metal being shredded as it rips through the centurion. He stumbles briefly, but manages to half run, half crawl up the hill while the woman provides cover for him. Dropping behind a tree to her left, on his hands and knees, he looks for a moment like he's going to heave— but manages to stifle it. He pops back out for a quick shot down the embankment.

Salazar makes it about three meters further up the hill, firing bursts at their assailant. Her fire takes the Centurion in the head, knocking off a chunk of armor. The rifle kicks back into her armpit as she continues to hold it braced hard. Running along with a pack of explosives on your back isn't the most fun when you're being shot at. It sure does light a fire under her ass. So to speak. Her shoulder thuds heavily into a tree as one of the Centurion's shots catches her, and partly spins her into it. She almost falls, catches herself, then drops to take a knee to cover the pilot. Blood seeps down her arm, but the rush of adrenalin helps snap her rifle up for another shot. No time for wound checking. No time at all.

Move, stop, fire. Make sure Salazar's still on her feet. Rinse and repeat. There isn't any time to think about the splitting headache, the stomach that wants to empty its contents in the dirt, the pain in his arm— make that even more pain as one of the centurion's bullets rips through his flight suit and spatters blood across his cheek, where his arm was hoisted to take aim. He swings lower, and launches another shot at the tincan's right leg. Hoping, maybe, to cripple it and make pursuit more difficult. And then he's on his feet again, ducking the volley of shots that rain down on them, and dropping into the dirt next to Salazar. "You all right? How bad is it?" He's panting, dizzy.

Apparently it's bad enough that her entire burst fire misses the Centurion as it ducks under a low lying branch. In that split second it doesn't fire, the Gods are smiling. Salazar takes a deep breath, and moves to push off of the tree. "I'll live." The black leather of her jacket hides the wound, but the slow ooze of blood down her arm, and the pain that begins to throb through her shoulder makes itself known by degrees.

No, wait. As it goes down, another burst is fired, barely aimed, from the machine gun arm. One of the rounds grazes Sal, taking a piece of her leather jacket with it. The grunted frak is stopped by her teeth, mostly. A hiss of pain makes it out, and she shakes it off with a grunt of, "Move." Breath, it doesn't exist. Pain is just lack of oxygen. Some mantra plays in her mind that keeps her from yelling, and she turns to continue up the slope, to the top of the rise. She's a little slower not, but still going strong. She just needs a second to psych herself up. "2 miles."

Suddenly, the deafening sound of the centurion's machinegun arm is cut off rather abruptly by another BANG of an exposive round leaving the chamber. This time, it rips through the machine's arm, torquing it right off the shoulder. The momentum brings the machine to the ground, a few parting shots fired off on its way down— and then a heavy, metallic THUD followed by silence. And smoking machinery.

"Two miles," the pilot repeats, biting back his own pain. He briefly checks his clip. "And two rounds left, before I have to switch back to the regular shit that doesn't even touch them. Let's go." Now it's the injured leading the injured, as he wills himself to get back to his feet and soldier on up the slope. "I don't have a first aid kit on me. It went up with my viper. You going to make it, Salazar?" Maybe he figures he can keep her conscious, keep her focused, by using her name now and then.

If he really wanted to keep her conscious — eh, that's a story for another time. Salazar nods, "I've had worse." She grits her teeth, then her expression smoothes out a bit. "It's just a little blood. I can do two miles." She shoves off another tree, shoulders her rifle, and then takes off at a job again. "I have a kit. Just not on me." They're gonna have to make it to shelter for the kit, the water, the drugs, and the bulk of her anti rads. She glances over, dark eyes appraising, then concentrates on keeping her gait even.

"Good. You can tell me, on the way, what the frak you've been doing out here for three weeks on your own." Kai's a man who likes to cut to the chase, apparently. No pussyfooting around for him. He manages to keep up with the woman despite his injuries, sleeve dragged across his face to rid it of blood and dirt oozing along his cheek.

Once a pace is established, and Kai gets right to the point, Sal replies simply, "Recon. I've been tracking the patrols past key locations." Her booted feet beat heavily on the ground, but her pace stays constant. Shouldn't be more than 15-20 minutes before they reach their objective, course and speed maintained. "There's a small resistance. There's an occupying force. We need several staging points. You know the drill."

The Captain nods. Of course he knows the drill. "When you say a 'small resistance', what are we talking, here?" His voice is low, and he sounds like he's struggling to keep his words coherent. Maybe this 'talking to stay awake' is more for his benefit, than hers. With the excitement of losing his ship, crashlanding, and being attacked by a centurion, he hasn't yet taken much time to actually look at her. Which is remedied somewhat by a sidelong glance, while they briskly move.

Salazar glances briefly down as blood drips from her fingertips, having oozed all the way down her arm. She clenches her fist, then shoves her hand into her pocket. She grunts with the movement of her shoulder, and vows to do that as little as possible, but silently. "When I left the lodge, there were about twenty five individuals still on the premises." Mysterious. "I'm sure the number of survivors has changed since." Either gone up, or down. Her tone suggests she thinks down. Her direction sense seems solid, movement confident. Trained. Definitely. The tattoos suggest a life well versed outside the military. She doesn't have that ship shape look about her. But that comes of a few years at her other job. "Most of them are clueless, a couple are survivalists, one medic, a crazy, a politician, bartender… I didn't get too familiar with the locals."

Kai, on the other hand, looks fit and in good shape for a man in his mid- to late thirties. What can be discerned, of course, under the bulky flight suit. His eyes flicker over the woman while she talks, impossible to say what's going on in that head of his, though it's safe to say he's making an assessment of her. To what end? Who knows. "The lodge. Which lodge? Do you have any maps, topological, radiological surveys, any data from all this recon you've been—" Oh, hell. His stomach lurches again, and this time there isn't enough adrenaline surging through him, to let him ignore it. He catches the trunk of a tree with his gloved hand and sinks halfway to his knees. There goes his lunch. Or breakfast. Or whatever the military feeds people in times like these. At least he managed to turn away from her.

Salazar slows, and then stops, waiting for Kai. He he can't make it to his feet alone, she'll help him. She turns to move back, and stands nearby. "There's a resort and lodge up in the woods up past Osprey, miles to the East. It's a little out of the way." She glances around briefly, and takes a deep breath. "The information I have is in the form of weapons and medicine caches, cylon patrol schedules which seem pretty regular, I have a couple of maps, but they're of the touristy variety, save the set of topographical maps which you will have to pry from my cold, dead hands." She drops a hand to her thigh, tipping forward a little, bending to wait for him. "We'll triage then talk locations and distances. Not far now."

Kai stays bent over for a few moments more, before easing slowly back to his feet. He doesn't need help. Or at least, he doesn't seem keen on accepting it. If she tries to touch him, it's shrugged off, and he pushes away a little unsteadily before resuming their forced march. Keep moving, keep moving. Stop, and they just make it easier to get jumped again. "Right." The shaking's started to enter his voice, though he manages to keep his pace steady. After a few minutes of silence, "You're military. Or.. were. You were military." Blue eyes cut across to her again, intent.

"I was. Once upon a time." It's not long before the path Salazar leads them on, which really isn't a path at all, turns to another steep incline. She skirts the bottom, and comes up on a stand of thicker trees and foliage. Behind it, which is evident as she finds a path through, is a small, dilapidated little cabin, clearly once someone's secluded little retreat just far enough, but not too far, from the city. It's defensible for their purposes, with escape routes in all directions. There are no obvious markers here, which means Salazar has a pretty good memory for direction and natural landmarks. Survival training as well. "Water, food, meds. All inside." She pulls the rifle from her shoulder, and approaches the cabin.

No further questions are asked, of that 'once upon a time'. Not for the time being, anyway. Twigs crack underfoot as they soldier on through the trees, the pilot slipping, stumbling occasionally but never breaking stride for long. Once they reach the cabin, his hand goes for his sidearm again. It's unholstered, safety thumbed off, and drawn almost simultaneously with Salazar's rifle being cocked. "Looks defensible enough. It'll do for now. I'll cover the door, you head inside." He, apparently, is accustomed to giving orders. Blame the pins on his suit.

"This order thing is cute. I'm enjoying it." Salazar hoofs it ahead, rifle raised. She tucks it into her armpit, but doesn't brace it with the injured arm/shoulder. No way. She says no more on that subject, for now, and simply approaches the cabin at an angle, coming in at a quick, low run. Anyone looking out the window would just have time to see her before she's on top of the cabin. She kicks the door open, and goes in low, covering the room. It's a small cabin. There's a long moment, then, "Clear."

Kai is, as promised, covering the little clearing wherein a sneak attack might be launched on the unsuspecting pair. If, y'know, centurions were capable of sneaking. His pistol is swung left and then right, and then up for good measure, before he hears the "clear" and belts it in after her. The door's shouldered shut behind them, and once he's certain there's no tincan lying in wait for them there— he slumps against the wall and slides down until his butt hits the floor. Eyes closed, he pants hoarsely into the dark.

Once inside, Salazar props her rifle nearby, pulls the heavy curtains closed, and flicks on a dim lamp. It barely lights half the room in a dim, pitiful glow. She shrugs carefully out of her jacket, which proves to be a little easier thought up than done. A slow breath is sucked in, and she just lets it drop to the floor. "Frak me. I'm too old for this shit."

Kai is still slumped against the wall, sidearm held out in front of him, pointed at the floor. He looks over when Salazar speaks, one corner of his mouth curling in something resembling a smile. Sort of. Except not. "You did fine." He scrapes the heel of his palm over his face, his eyes, trying not to nod off. "How's your arm doing? Want me to take a look at it?"

"What are you, my cheering section?" Sal shoots a look over at Kai, "Captain Head Injury." She reaches up to prod her arm, and then heads over to the rickety old bed to sweep open the med kit there. When she sits, the entire thing creaks. "What kind of first aid training do you have?" Morpha is the gift you give yourself. She pops one, and stabs herself in the arm with it. It isn't long before some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

The jab earns Salazar precisely.. nothing, and nothing, in terms of a reaction. Captain Head Injury just watches her silently for a few moments longer, then safeties his sidearm and holsters it at his thigh again. Back onto his feet he goes, leaving a nice blood smear on the wall as it's used for support. "Standard basic training. Let me at least have a look at it." He limps closer, boots heavy on the cabin's wood floor. He's tracking mud all over the damned thing. "And if you've got any of that to spare.."

"It's going to be a long night, Captain. I suggest you drop the machismo, and I'll try to be nice and share my toys." Salazar turns slightly as he approaches. "Have a seat. If you hurt me, I will hurt you." She gives him that dark eyed look. The light catches in her eyes as she looks at him just right. She picks up one of the morpha doses, and crooks a finger. "Come closer, little boy."

Kai doesn't touch her, which is probably just as well, because in his present state of mind? He'd probably think leeching the damned thing was a reasonable solution. Suffice to say, he elects to do what he's told, and drop into the chair instead. It creaks a little under his weight. Blue eyes don't waver once from her darker ones; he obviously does not trust her completely, as evidenced by his hand remaining on his holstered weapon. "If I'm giving you machismo, Salazar, you'll know it." Followed shortly by, "Hit me up."

Salazar's brows pinch slightly together as her shoulder wound bleeds freely. The other is just a flesh wound, and will probably leave a scar, but really does little more than hurt. Like a bitch. She glances at the hand on the firearm. That amuses her. While she's looking down, she stabs him in the leg with the morpha. There is little warning. "Is there something I can do to make your more comfortable, or are you always this tightly wound?" Meanwhile, she reaches for some gauze, and unceremoniously packs her own wound with it. Just until it stops bleeding. It's not the best approach, and it must hurt like hell, but she barely twitches. What the hell.

Which is cause, duly, for a "Shit" seethed through his teeth. No, he wasn't expecting that. His hand stays on his firearm though, even as she steps away to reach for the medkit, and start dressing her own injury. "Sure. Where do you keep the cocktail glasses and Tauron vodka around here? Maybe if you could just pour us a couple, put on some mood music while you're at it." That couldn't be spoken more drily if he tried. It's not even that there's any bite to his words; it's just utterly matter-of-fact.

"We could just skip the cocktails and get right to the desperate sweaty love," Salazar can mimic a tone like nobody's business. She glances over, and one handedly tapes down the gauze, smoothing her fingers over a tattoo. "The bed creaks, but the neighbors won't mind." She moves over with the gauze and a little pen light to check Kai's head wound, whether he likes it or not, perfectly capable of manhandling him to get a look.

"I'm married." Which she might, or might not have noticed by now, since he tugged his gloves off and slapped them on the table. He wears a wedding ring, silver and fairly broad and ornately decorated. "Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry. He just sounds strung-out. And probably feels like heaving again. But instead, he watches her fingers smoothing over the tattoo, and keeps his eyes on her as she approaches with the gauze. There's a slight flinch, but no real effort to turn away. "Why'd you strike out on your own?" It's asked quietly.

"Good, married men know how to take orders." Salazar's reply is simple and direct. "So hold still." She holds the light in her mouth, probes the edges of the wound, and determines it more or less clear. A squirt of antibiotic from the bottle palmed in her hand and she wipes the excess blood with gauze. "You'll live, but you'll probably regret it for a couple of days." She almost seems as if she's not going to answer, as she reaches across him to close the med kit. "I have a moral complication that prevents me from shooting stupid people. I needed to cool off, they need someone to get the lay of the land. Win, win." She steps around, then moves to sit on, then stretch out on the bed. "I also had an important choice to make."

Regret it for a couple days? How about right now? While Salazar's poking at his head wound, Kai is looking a bit pale, and digs his fingers into his thigh to keep from making a sound. Once she's finished cleaning, he allows himself to breathe again. Short, rapid little bursts for a few seconds. He swallows. "Right." Win win. His eyes flicker to her face, then away again. "What kind of choice was that?" It's asked after she's moved away to the bed, without him turning his head in accompaniment.

"Marine, cop, or arms dealer." Salazar's answer is brief, cryptic. She leaves the wounded shoulder mostly immobile, arm draped beside her body, and shoves the other arm behind her head. The rifle is within easy reaching distance. The bed has a line of sight on the door. A careful eye, in the dim light, might notice the interior of the room has been re-arranged recently. "Our professional frame work means little when the world is basically gone. Where does the priority lie when we're all that's left? It's a bitch of a question, and all I can come up with is destroy the enemy. So, I guess the other decision can wait."

Cryptic or not, it seems to suit Kai just fine. Maybe it even shaves a bit of his mistrust away. She's helped save his life, after all (and vice versa), brought him to safe haven, and now let on that she was a marine. Was? Is? He thinks to ask for clarification, but sleep is taking over in fits and spurts. "Survival before soul searching. I can't argue with that." It's murmured softly, and then he's quiet for a long while. Several minutes later, "If I could get a favour from you. Check on me at some point during the night. In case I don't wake up." Head injuries are a bitch. Then another long silence. He's drifted off in the chair.

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