Bait and Switch
Bait and Switch
Summary: Timon, Alex, and Jules provide the bait; Komnenos, Roubani, and Fenix perform the switch.
Date: PHD073
Related Logs: None
Players:
Timon..Alex..Komnenos..Roubani..Fenix..Jules..Cylons..NPCs..

[ Paros ][ Scorpia ]
IC Time: Post Holocaust Day #73 OOC Time: Tue Jun 30 18:49:17 2009


Even from a distance it is easy to tell that Paros was hit hard by conventional weapons. Some of the taller buildings in town are missing their entire upper sections, the debris apparently toppled to the streets below. Other buildings have large gashes torn out of them or extensive fire damage. However, getting closer isn't an option as Cylon Centurions patrol the roads and buildings at random - not attempting to hide their presence. Only two exits present themselves from this dangerous area - Route 91 to the West or the Chariot Highway which surges North for many dozens of miles.


I

Late afternoon, somewhere on the streets of Paros

The streets are relatively quiet this damp and foggy afternoon in bombed-out Paros — as quiet as can be, that is, until a rust-red van full of buff and burly members of the Colonial Marine Corps pulls up in front of a wrecked storefront on which still remains a sign notifying passers-by of "Cheap Dental Service!" and imploring them to "Inquire Within." They pile out of the vehicle without a word, weapons at the ready; Timon — not piloting, not this time, though he does carry a rifle instead of his dinky service pistol — hops out of the passenger seat behind them, a flare in his other hand. "Everybody ready? Stranger?" Yes, he actually allowed the newcomer to drive..

Alex leaves the van idling as he snatches the rifle from where it was resting between the driver and passenger seats of the van. "At least stop calling me Stranger. I won't answer to it if you yell it. Icarus. Icarus." He shakes his head getting out and scanning his eyes over the surrounding area. "Timing on this has to be perfect y'know."

Not just foggy, but muggy. It's one of those, stand outside and be drenched in sweat within ten minutes, sorts of days. If only it'd rain, instead of merely looking like it might. The street is empty, rubble-strewn, and still. The gutter near where Alex climbs out is clogged with rotting garbage.

"You just answered to it," Timon points out with a half-smile. It's what passes for humor these days. "If we get through this alive, I'll call you whatever the frak you want." The pilot jerks his head towards a remote detonator carried in the hands of one of the marines. "You want the honor? If Sunshine did her work right, we should shatter some glass, maybe bring down that bombed-out building over there — " He points somewhere three blocks distant, about one block from where the Raptor is currently parked. "Get their attention right quick."

"If it's set up right, we're going to peel those Cylons off the Raptor sure, and probably bring a decent chunk of others towards us." Alex steps lighting to avoid stepping in trash. "Just make sure you know how to get back to the rally point." He checks the clip on his rifle, grateful some of the Marines had a spare clip before nodding. "Let's do this."

"Hey, we got one van and you're driving it." Timon points to his leg. "Not going to be much use hitting the accelerator with this thing. Or running, either." He looks grim. "Everybody make sure to repel all the metal we're about to bring down on top of our heads." He breathes in — once, twice — and then: "Punch it, Stranger."

"I got a bad feeling about this…" Alex states quietly and then looking at Timon, presses the remote detonator button.

There's nothing, for about a heartbeat or two. Them's some tense seconds, to be sure. And then, a not-too-distant, ground-shaking BOOM. A couple of burned-out shells of cars, knocked back by the blast, skid into one another; one takes out the chemist just next door to the discount dentist's office. The shockwave from the explosion lasts several moments after, enough to rattle storefront windows and set street lights swaying precariously. It isn't too spectacular, visually, unfortunately: the building just sort of shudders and then begins to cave in on itself, as if the bricks and mortar suddenly became pea soup. It only collapses as far as the top floor, and hunks of foundation, and miscellaneous junk begin to rain down into the street below.

Timon braces himself for doom that doesn't come. "Let's hope they fall for it," he murmurs, rifle at the ready, flare now strapped to what remains of his belt. "If not, we'll have to blow another before they step right on top of it."

Alex nods his head towards Timon and gets a bit back towards the Van, getting half in and leaning the other half out with rifle trained down the way. "Here's hoping. Because if this doesn't pull them…" He leaves the thought unfinished, instead watching silently down the way.

It's a little difficult to make out anything, with the sound of that building breaking apart still, and a car alarm that's gone off somewhere courtesy of a hunk of drywall plummeting through its hood. The air's still muggy, and now thick with dust raining down on the deserted street.

"Heard something. Metal, for sure, coming in hot. From that way." Timon points — and he's not pointing toward the place where Sunshine planted the bomb. In fact, his finger is pointing squarely in the opposite direction. "Looks like we got somebody's attention," he murmurs. "What do you say? Hold here, or advance toward the Raptor and see if the guards are coming?"

Alex looks down the way then at Timon and shakes his head, "If we didn't pull them off the Raptor this way, all we've probably done is pulled a whole crapton of them down on us here and reinforced them. We need to know what's coming before we can really say for certain." The man is clearly grumbly about this development.

Both men can likely hear the sound of grinding, klunking machinery now. It's definitely coming from the opposite direction, interspersed with short pauses and mechanical whiiiirs as it (presumably) looks around. One might estimate it at just around the block by now.

"I only heard one, but — " Timon shrugs. "Yeah, in this mess, my guess is as good as yours. With luck, the shooting will draw the guards away." The decision is made; Sergeant Nikos orders his men to get into cover, taking up firing positions in the nearby structures. Ivory moves to follow. The signal will have to wait.

Alex grunts again but nods his head. "I'll keep the engine running, try to draw their fire away from the van though. Set up a cross fire and hopefully they won't get anything vital." He flicks the safety off his rifle.

"You heard him," says Timon to the dispersing marines, checking to see if the armor-piercing rounds the CMC took off of their squadmate's corpse are in play. "And don't get any of us in that crossfire either. So say we all and whatnot." Then he slips behind a column, only the tip of his rifle visible (hopefully) to anything coming from the west.

The Master Sergeant and the other marine in accompaniment, one Sergeant Kaufman, disperse as ordered, rifles cocked as one hides behind a tipped-over car, and the other takes up a position with his back to the dentist's office. The grind and klunk of machinery is almost jarring on the ears now, rubble simply stomped through rather than moved around, as the centurion reaches visual range and spots Alex first. It opens up its cannon arm, and starts firing.

"Boom," murmurs Timon, hoping his actions will soon bear out his words — and then down goes the switch to burst, and then down goes the trigger to fire. He's heard the marines call this a triple-shot. Well, three's better than one, right?

As the metal turns and opens fire in his direction, Alex lets instincts kick in and ducks behind the van. Dropping beneath it some, he starts unloading his own shots at the Cylon while attempting to not get himself to revealed and hit. "Come on, come on." He growls out hoping the crossfire pulls down the machine quickly.

Jules' has been quiet this whole time, moving along with the others. She uses the other end of the van from Alex as cover, aiming her large gun towards the shiny metal and letting off a burst of rounds. "I wonder how many there are!" she calls. "I mean, on the planet."

Timon notes with some satisfaction that he's managed to hit home, even allowing himself a guttural cheer — because hey, the more noise, the better, as evinced by the fact that his sharp ears can just make out the distinctive walk of another approaching Centurion — this time from the intended side. "Sunshine!" he yells, trying to make himself heard above the din of combat even as he squeezes off another three shots. "We got their attention! When they're in range, blow another mine!" Talking loudly is tough for him, but he tries.

"Frak!" Alex can be heard howling as a ricochet clips his hand. Shaking it free and the blood splatter, he keeps firing off at the Centurion, calling out. "I hear something someplace!" Updating while he keeps up the steady burst of fire towards the Centurion and trying to ignore the pain in his hand.

The centurion's bullets rip through the street and the side of the van, one of them tearing through his arm. When Timon shouts, the machine swivels in his direction and peppers the man with a few more rounds. Its red eye can only be vaguely glimpsed in the haze of fog and settling dust from the detonated building.

"How much more vague can you get?" Jules calls out at Alex, before nodding at Timon. Letting go of her weapon with one hand for a moment, she reaches down to her waist for the primitive looking trigger mechanism they worked out earlier and crosses a wire, hopefully detonating the next MineDistractionThing. "Big Badda Boom!"

Bullets whip by Timon's head and arm, and it's by sheer luck that he manages to evade the Centurion's fire — his left leg gives out for a brief moment, meaning a round meant for his right eye now hits nothing but the drywall behind him. At the same time, he watches the assembled marines take down the Centurion in a flurry of fire, and he's gratified to note — with another cheer, of course — that the two pilots have contributed to the cause as well. "We might just do this, Icarus!" the man calls out — again, as loudly as he can. At the same time, he waits with bated breath for the next big boom.

Alex is pulling part of his tanks apart, ripping it some to wrap around his hand for the bleeding. "Yeah, well at least it was my left hand." He grumbles before flashing a grin towards the others. "Sunshine, that wasn't vague. Vague is me saying hey, want to grab dinner?"

The tincan goes down in a hail of bullets from the superior Colonial forces. It's an explosive round to the chest that seals the deal, ripping its top half off and hurtling it a few metres to explode through a shop window. The rest of the centurion keels over and collapses on the sidewalk, before rolling sideways off the curb and into a pile of soggy newspapers.

Which is about when the sounds of whiiir klanking get close enough to be clearly made out; and another centurion takes up a firing position from around the opposite side of the block. Its gunhand spins, and it's about to start firing— when the KABOOM of a mine going off grabs its attention. The window of the coffee shop it was planted in, blows out with an ear-splitting crack, and a few withered potted plants, chairs, tables, and a couple of long-dead bodies spray the street along with shattered glass. There's a THUNK as one of the bodies banks off a car and sprawls against one side.

"It was, too, vague, all you said was somethin — did you just ask me out?" Jules peers towards the other end of the van, while the explosion goes off and then swings her gaze forward. Her other hand back on her weapon, she aims in the direction of the Cylon and thumbs the trigger.

The respite is all Timon needs to swap out his spent AP cartridge for more bullets — of the regular kind, alas. But as long as the Centurion keeps on shooting in a direction that's not directly at him, he'll avoid drawing its attention for now. Gaze lingers at the flare at his belt — too early? Probably. Let's hold out for a few more seconds in case the other Centurion guarding the Raptor decides to have a look.

Alex drops back behind the Van and takes aim at the Centurion that appears, depressing his trigger before calling back over towards Sunshine. "You want to ask me out? Then do it, don't ask to ask." He shakes his head and takes a level aim before waiting for the Marine fire then adding his own.

Now Timon opens up, spraying the Centurion with fire. He even screams a bit as he does — truly uncharacteristic, but it's all in the name of being distracting. Not that this Cylon will likely care if he's accused of "frakking any wall socket that stands still long enough."

"I wasn't asking! You were asking!" Jules insists, arguing with Alex even as the firefight continues. When her round hits the Centurion's foot, blowing a large chunk of it off, she smiles and takes aim quickly to fire again.

Alex turns to start firing but a mist of spray catches his eyes. Rather than pull the trigger he holds on for a moment and wipes his eye clear. A glance is thrown at Jules and he shakes his head. "No, I said vague is — don't sweat it Sunshine, I'm not your type anyway." There's a grin to his lips at that as he lays down fire.

The centurion continues firing rounds into the gaping maw in the coffee shop, left by Jules' explosive. It's only when the puny humans start pouring lead into it again, that it pivots and klanks nearer. Klank, klack, ratatattat, klank, klank, whiiir, ratatattat. Bursts of fire in between every few steps, most of it focused on the noisy Timon for the time being. The Master Sergeant meanwhile, has finished reloading his regular rifle, and takes aim once again alongside Kaufman. The latter's just run out of the armour piercing rounds as well, and stops to reload after taking his next shots.

Jules pulls back behind the van after her last shot, checking her ammo situation as she comments down the way to Alex, "How do you even know that I have a type? Let alone what it is?" She harumphs a little.

And centurion #2 bites the dust. There's a whiiirring sound like it almost might try running away — or ducking, or dodging for cover — but it's Timon's headshot that ends all thoughts of such, rather quickly. It's shiny metal skull explodes in a cacophony of shredded metal and snapped wires, and its own shots manage to rip through Timon's left arm again, before it topples over into the broken glass.

Alex is also checking his ammo situation and prepping to reload his rifle in case more metal shows up while he glances over at Jules with a grin. "I'm a train wreck Sunshine. The one all the older men in your life warn you about. Yeah, that guy." He leans back to glance over. "Ivy, you holdin' up ok over there?"

Timon has kept up the screaming for a good long time, but this time the noise is genuine — for even as he headshots the reeling Centurion, tendrils of agony shoot through his left arm. His flight suit bubbles over with blood, running crimson over shredded fabric and exposed skin. But he's got a mad little smile on his face, and those who can see him over the din of a collapsing Centurion might watch him charging toward the exploded coffee shop as quickly as he can — which is to say, not very quickly at all. A flare in his good hand, his rifle is in his bad hand — and he's hoping beyond hope that no Centurions remain where the Raptor is parked.

"I don't know any old people," Jules says, brows coming together as she pushes to her feet again. Spotting the Centurion down, she comes out from behind the van, heading after Timon. "Ivory, sir!" She isn't able to full out run after him as he charges.

Alex blinks as people start running off and shakes his head, lifting a hand towards the other Marines and motioning 'round-up' and pointing towards the van. He calls out, "Stick to the plan people." But his eyes cannot help but follow Timon's charge of glory.

The Master Sergeant's already barking out orders to his men, and piling them into the van. Though throws up a brief salute to Alex, probably more for the pilot's ego than anything else. Grabbing the side of it, he waits for Jules before hauling himself in last. The airy fairies can sit up front, it looks like.

Up goes the flare in a soaring arc to give the second team the all-clear. It must be the adrenaline — Timon manages to throw it a good twenty feet or so in the air, where it sparkles a glittering red against Scorpia's dull skies before falling back down to the ground. And then he slumps down by the wreckage of what used to be a trendy neighborhood hangout and, judging from the uniform on the torso beside him, what used to be a barista as well. But as he grabs a dirty sock from one of his pockets to manufacture a makeshift tourniquet, his eyes open even wider as he sees yet more blood leaking from a hole on the outer edge of his gut. "Drop the sir, Sunshine," the lieutenant manages — before passing out cold. Gonna have to drag him. Or leave him. Tempting, no?

"Wait! Ew, that's… don't put that on the— augh!" Jules gives Timon the hairy eyeball as he pulls that dirty sock out. "Let me do it!" She safeties and slings her weapon over her shoulder, tugs out her (at this point) very well used first aid kit. Ripping at Timon's clothing to get at the wounds, she cracks open a packet of stuff meant to help stop the bleeding and packs it tight with some sterile pads. "Help!"

Alex watches the scene unfold before him before throwing open the van door and hopping in, not even bothering to close the driver's door and putting some acceleration on to have it lurch towards where the two are. "Let's go, load them up." He calls out to a few Marines, already cranking the wheel so they can the hell out of dodge. When the loading is done, Icarus sets the van off to the rendezvous point. "Now, about that dinner Sunshine…"

II

Elsewhere on the streets of Paros

What the Cylons don't know won't result in his people getting hurt, Thorn hopes as he sits behind the wheel of the group's second purloined vehicle. He tenses as he hears the soft popping and snarling of gunfire and explosions in the distance; after a wait that seems much longer than it is, he sees the glow of the flare over the city's ruined skyline. There's his cue, he realizes, tossing the remains of the cigarette he was smoking out of the window. The van's idle, wheezing hum turns to an agonized cough as Thorn pulls the van out of its hiding spot. "One last time," he says quietly, preparing to review the assignments of each member of his group. It's probably unnecessary, but he seems to be talking more to himself than to anyone else in the vehicle; as though he's making sure he's familiar with the plan before ordering anyone else to carry it out. "Ensign, you'll go for the engineering kits and a handcomp. Chief is with me; we're going to get that com drone. Marines — " Thorn's not the type to obsess about the names of the people he leads; he knows Fenix and Roubani, of course, but the grunts are unfamiliar and he's a little too preoccupied to sift through his mind for their names. Once again, good with tech, not always so good with people. Granted, though, he's doing his best to learn the finer points of command on the job. " — pick your positions and lay down cover fire." And the van starts chugging along towards the downed Raptor.

Fenix is cooperating. She doesn't really have a choice, when you get down to the knit and grit of it. Commanding officers and all. But she's not going to be cheerful about it. Or… talkative. The woman's still dressed in the maimed orange jumpsuit, though the zipper's been left open to reveal a deep vee of the thankfully-washed tanks below. Hair knotted bck with something or another, and the rest of her… well, cleaner than it usually is. No engine grease for fingerpainting, after all. Seated in the back of the van, back to the wall of the vehicle. Knees bent, arms propped atop them, and her chin lowered.

Roubani's last cigarette was back at their squatter's haven. He's not even in the mood for nicotine right now, watching the street out of one of the van's tinted back windows. Over his shoulders, two empty packs waiting to be filled. His band of prayer beads has been wrapped around his left hand for some time now as they wait for the flare, though any murmuring he's done has been completely without sound. As the flare shines upwards, he tucks the beads back into his sleeve and makes some sound that acknowledges Komnenos one way or another.

Private Ben Dover, and Sergeant Lem Pickens, to be precise. They're sitting in the back, rifles hugged to their shoulders, and Dover even rolls his eyes when the ECO gives his orders. After the jig's turned his back, of course.

It's a somewhat bumpy ride, owing to potholes the size of small children. Not to mention, a few small children. Just.. don't look that way. The crash site is roughly two blocks away by now, and there's still dust and debris falling from that building the other team detonated. The street is littered with random junk; a lot of it papers, books, splintered bits of furniture.

Thorn grimaces after the van is jarred by a particularly nasty pothole. As he drives, he's looking with morbid fascination at the macabre scene stretched out all around him — naturally, though, if anyone asks he'll say he's watching for Cylons. Which he is, sort of. He steers around a couple hunks of metal and other random bits of flotsam. No one leaps out from an alley to attack the lumbering van, and nothing swoops in from above; so far, so good.

Fenix isn't looking out the windows. Fenix isn't looking at anything right now. Head still bowed, and if one looks closely, eyes half-lidded.

Roubani keeps his attention out the window. Also watching for cylons, yeah that's the ticket. Cylons lying on the ground in little heaps, apparently. His eyes follow some point on the ground as they go past and then lift again, flickering from spot to spot on the road as the vehicle moves.

Turning the corner, there's a pizza place that used to operate on this street, now blown out and caved in. Tracks in the rubble indicate that it was probably centurions which shot the owner down; he's lying facefirst across the counter, a large knife near his hand. More bodies litter the street, overturned cars, an exploded mailbox. And the raptor, half embedded into the asphalt itself, with a 'shockwave' of crumbled road fanning out around it.

The van turns the corner, and there it is, right where they'd left it. As the Raptor comes into view, Thorn's adrenaline spikes, but he's hopeful; looks like the distraction worked. The bulletheads that their earlier recon had spotted are nowhere to be seen. Thorn pulls the van up to the Raptor as quickly as he dares, positioning the back doors as close to the Raptor's hatch as he can. He puts the vehicle in park, but prudently leaves the motor running. After one last look around, he opens his door and steps out of the van. "Let's get t' work, people, I don't know how much time we have."

<FS3> Fenix rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Roubani rolls Alertness: Failure.
<FS3> Komnenos rolls Alertness: Success.

Gun. Fenix has a gun. And it's nicely distracting. She's turning the pistol over in her hands, thumb grazing a bit at the skin-warmed metal, when a… smiley sticker reveals itself. "Th' frak…?" Murmured, staring down at the thing, before she seems to remember who she crash-landed with. "Gods help us, th' marines brought stickers…" Talking to hersef at this point, smirking lightly as she resettles the gun in her hand. A particularly violent bump has the woman wincing slightly, bracing her shoulders against the wall, and then.. the door's open. Time to move. The woman's slipping out of the van quickly, dark eyes scanning the area. "To the left, behind that building," murmured quietly, as she tips her chin in the direction of the moving toaster.

Roubani had turned his eyes down for a moment, and that moment was enough to miss the movement outside. "Stickers?" He asks quietly. The question's instantly forgotten, though, when Fenix speaks next. His eyes turn towards where she seems to be indicating, jaw tensing. Volume drops to whisper. "How far from the Raptor?"

Komnenos thought he'd seen a flash of moving metal moving behind that building too, but he'd been prepared to shrug it off. Until Fenix announces it as well. "Saw it too, Chief," Thorn replies softly. His own sidearm comes out; this time, he's loading the clip with the six explosive rounds in it, and feeling glad he'd saved them all. "Just around that corner, next block over," he replies succinctly. Thorn's weapon isn't raised and at the ready, though; he's got other things to worry about than another firefight with the Cylons. He points a quick glare at the chief and the ensign. "Let the marines worry about th' frakkin' toaster. We've got other things t' do," he reminds them with a harsh whisper, then starts moving towards the Raptor, balancing speed and stealth as best he can.

Sadly, Roubani's going to have to wait on the sticker explanation. Fenix is falling quiet as they leave the van, and with a faint nod toward Kom's reminder, she's stepping into line behind the ECO. Off we go.

Roubani gives the back of Kom's head a mild look at the tone and swearing. Going silent again, he still casts a look back at the cylon, storing the approximate distance in memory before climbing quietly out of the van and heading on with the others.

One has to be careful of hunks of broken road jutting up, from where the raptor slid some metres before grinding to a halt. The bird itself seems deserted, a mere half a block sprint away. But at the sound of the group piling out of the van — and the click of several sets of rifles being cocked by the marines — the sentry at the far end of the street pauses. And turns slowly to face the interlopers.

Thorn stops, gaping in horror as he suddenly sees the Centurion, its angry red eye bobbing from side to side. With a muttered "Frak," followed by a series of illegible mumblings, he suddenly breaks out in a sprint, mind only on getting to the Raptor.

Run, run, run. This is one of those rare occasions when being scrawny is a good thing. Smaller target. A glance is swept toward the cylon, but she's not stopping to stare. Quick on Thorn's tail as they move, heading toward the raptor.

The hairs on the back of Roubani's neck prickle at that sight. This is why he asked how close the damn thing was. He sucks in a breath through his nose and doesn't waste a second pouring his weight onto his front foot to start running. Oh frak oh fra-…er…oh gosh, oh gosh!

The marines' boots are heavy on the asphalt as they, too, hoof it along the row of storefronts with rifles tucked against their shoulders. The pair of them fan out and take up firing positions not far from the raptor, and then the centurion turns and starts swinging in closer. The mechanical sound of its hand cannon deploying can be heard.

Fenix is in auto-pilot, at this point. Don't think, don't look, just run. Get to the bird, and get out again. The instructions are on repeat in Fenix's brain as she nears the Raptor. Even as Thorn shelters himself by that wing, the woman's darting directly into the bird. Sliding along her belly to get under the slowly-raising hatch, and then scrambling to her feet once inside. Sweeping a quick look around the interior, and then moving quickly toward the control panels. Time to break shit.

Roubani also nearly does a flying leap into the Raptor. Hopefully his bootlace doesn't catch on something and send him facefirst into the floor. His heart's already pounding as he heads right for where he remembered engineering's supplies being - or rather to where they're now strewn about the floor. One of the packs across his shoulders is yanked open with a rough pull, and he begins stuffing them.

And no sooner has Roubani dived inside, than the centurion starts shooting. Looks like the 'distraction' only succeeded in drawing one of the two sentries that had been spotted guarding the raptor. Bullets rattle out of its gun chambers, a few spraying the awning of a nearby pawn store, and the body of a woman crumpled on the street.

Thorn curses again as the Centurion opens fire. Seeing that Fenix and Roubani are in the Raptor and hard at work, Komnenos waits just long enough to fire a single shot at the bullethead before moving in to join them.

Scrounge, scrounge. Crack, pull. While Roubani stuffs things into bags, it would appear Fenix is getting a bit more violent with the ship. Pulling out the brains, as it were. Opening panels, stripping wires, and then dropping the recovered bits into the backpack she stole for this purpose.

Roubani's back is to the shooting centurion, unfortunately an attractive target for bulletspray right there in the bay door. He can, of course, hear the gunfire starting behind him, and had he known one of the barrels was pointing at him, this moment would likely be going in slow motion in his head.

<COMBAT> Lem attacks Cent2 with Rifle and HITS! Moderate wound to Chest (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Komnenos attacks Cent2 with Pistol Ap and HITS! Moderate wound to Head (Reduced by Armor).
<COMBAT> Cent2 attacks Roubani with Lmg and HITS! Moderate wound to LeftHand (Reduced by Cover).
<COMBAT> Dover attacks Cent2 with Rifle and HITS! Moderate wound to LeftLeg (Reduced by Armor).

<COMBAT> Cent2 has been KO'd!

Thorn shoots, but even with the benefit of his explosive round, he didn't expect to do much to the thing. His expectations are exceeded, though, as the pistol round smashes through that beady red eye. The thing goes down in a heap, and Thorn just gapes at it for a moment before his mouth twists in a smirk. He holsters his weapon; not getting too caught up in success, though, he's moving just as quickly as before. He steps up into the Raptor. "How're we doing in here? Chief, ready t' get that drone?"

Today was not that tincan's lucky day. As it's turned on by two marines and the ECO crouched under the raptor's wing, it manages to rattle off a few shots into the bird's open hatch— slicing through Roubani's arm and spraying blood across the door of the vehicle. The centurion is literally torn to pieces moments later, courtesy of the Colonials' combined fire; it staggers back a few steps, looks like it might start shooting again, then keels over sideways and slams into a motorcycle.

Private Dover busies himself reloading after using up his last AP round, and Sergeant Pickens crouch-shuffles in closer, rifle swung left and right to check both sides of the intersecting street.

"Yeah, but I can't carry it alone…" Fenix is murmuring, shoving her backpack closed and moving toward the equipment in question. A glance is flickered toward the other two men — a dubious one, in Roubani's case — and then the Chief's attention is going to dislodging the device.

One moment Roubani's reaching for something on the floor. The next, it's misted in a fine spray of blood. His own blood, another fat drop of with splatters on the floor as his arm jerks back towards his chest. "Mader genduh!" The gutteral words aren't in their Colonial tongue, but the tone's very impolite. Gritting his teeth, he looks in time to catch Fenix's look and answers it with light sarcasm. "Yeah, I get it."

"I know, Chief, which is why I was going t' offer t' help you," Thorn replies to Fenix, smiling only half-sarcastically. His head jerks over in Poet's direction. "You all right, Ensign?" The concern is obvious in Komnenos' voice, but it's clear his priority is the drone. They can check on Roubani after they're safe, after all, and it won't really help anyone if they linger too long and get caught by another patrol.

The catch is released easily enough, and Fenix bites back a curse as the missile-esque object slips free. Supporting the thing between her body and the raptor's wall, and sweeping an impatient look toward Komnenos. "Come on…"

All's quiet outside the raptor. For now. The ruined town lies beneath a haze of dust, though at least the air's less muggy come nighttime.

"Fine, sir." Roubani answers Komnenos under his breath. He's still as the two go for the drone, clenching his hand as blood continues to drip. Eyes turning elsewhere in the Raptor, he turns around to busy himself collecting what he still can.

Thorn quickly moves to one side of the drone, grabbing it and wincing. She sure isn't lying; it's a heavy frakker, but nevertheless the ECO and the deck chief are able to lug it(slowly) to the still-idling van. With that done, Komnenos gets behind the wheel as the Marines pack up; Fenix and Roubani make one last trip to the Raptor, gathering the last of the odds and ends they'd scavenged earlier. A few minutes later, the trundling rustbucket is on its way, lumbering towards the rendezvous point under the early evening sky.

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