Marco Polo
Marco Polo
Summary: The Foxbat-3 survivors finally encounter some familiar faces.
Date: PHD075
Related Logs: Scorpia event logs

Somewhere on the streets of Paros, Scorpia

They've waited till things have cooled out, a little, but that in and of itself is just wishful thinking. But from the blown out lower section of the building they held up in for the night, the small recon patrol moves. There's a look back, before a motion is made. Keep it simple and keep it quiet, they are here to get people and move it the frak out. They're heading towards the last known coordinates of the downed Raptor, to either find their group, or their bodies as far as the Sergeant leading is concerned

Dutch stays on point as he moves the battered group along. Easing carefully down the streets. Since the firefight of last night he's been doing his best to move people along, without much notice.

Angel is moving along very slowly. She's limping slightly and one arm is bandaged up. She's got the rifle slung around her neck, her free hand on it. The little woman is just behind Dutch, keeping an eye out as she goes.

The streets are quiet tonight. With the electricity being out, they're also pretty dark. Power poles loom brokenly in the slight fog that tends to settle over the low-lying parts of this region in the evening, tangled lines spilling into the street and across bombed-out rooftops.

Private Parts and Lance Corporal Swift bring up the rear of the little party; Damon elected to stay behind, and keep an eye out for the downed raptor's team from their makeshift base. This district is mostly small businesses: an electric shaver shop, a hairstylist, a pizza parlour. Most are ruined or ransacked.

Damn and here Dutch was really in the mood for a slice. However the Sergeant is keeping his eyes peeled as he moves further a long. One hand raises up, for the small little party to stop "Swift, hump it up here.." Comes the hushed order, before Dutch himself is crouching down a little. "Lets see the map.." muttered, if anything to check to make sure they are in the right area, though here in the dark, could be hard to tell.

Angel crouches slightly as well, but she can't go as deep as Dutch. While Dutch is looking at the map, she takes the time to look around more closely, head canting as if she's trying to hear something.

The map, cross-referenced with the coordinates given by Nine, would place the raptor's crash site.. roughly three blocks from here. East, and then south.

Dutch is looking back towards the map as words remain hushed "Frak, three east from here, and one back..Frak.. You think they could have given us a gods damned straight line.." And so a nod is made And the Sergeant is rolling back up. He's motioning across the street, sure they'll have to go up to the next cross over before starting the walk, but they might as well get on the right side. Map's folded up and soon enough the procession is starting again.

The stool Thorn is sitting on has seen better days, but unlike some of its counterparts in what was once a pub, it's still in one piece and showing no signs of splintering under his weight. He's seated at the bar, but not for the reason you'd expect; a closer look would reveal that he's got Jules' map in front of him as well as a very bedraggled looking notebook with his own notes, including his best guess at the landing coordinates of each of the fallen ships from Kharon. He's puffing away at a cigarette, muttering to himself and scribbling in his notebook, lost to the world.

Inside what was once Paros' equivalent of an Irish pub, Roubani has been kneeling on the floor by a broken whiskey bottle. A new bit of bandaging he dampened with alcohol and wrapped loosely around his left hand, tying it off. One might wonder if liquor could get into the bloodstream through an open wound while it was bravely killing bacteria. A spent cigarette is mashed and out by his leg. He's been silent a while as Kom worked, but then his head comes up and his eyes fix on the window. His body goes still as a cat's. "Something's outside." His voice is just whisper. And not a good whisper at all.

It's not a long walk, three blocks. Though it may as well be three hundred, in this sort of neighbourhood. The footprints of passing patrols can be easily made out in the rubble and filth-strewn street. Bulletholes peppering cars, shop windows, awnings. Spent shell casings littering the ground. As the group gets moving again, and turns the cross street that'll take them east, two things happen: One: the boarded-up pub proclaiming in nonfunctional neon lights to be 'Wet Willie' (the 's' at the end has been stolen or fell off at some point) happens to be at the end of this block. And two.. well, you never want there to be a two. Two, there are four centurions converging on it from across the street. Two sets of patrols.

Suddenly, Angel taps her fingers on Dutch's shoulder and holds up a hand, eyes wide. She quietly fingers the safety off her weapon and nods toward the corner.

Ashe, aka Zeus himself, trudges along with the rest, eyes scanning their six to make sure they are not picking up any unwanted visitors. His rifle swings in attention to and fro in casual sweeps.

Dutch holds up the group as they are now coming down the three blocks, though the fact that the patrols are converging at the end. "Shit." muttered softly, before he's motioning to the others to quickly move "Cover.." passed out as the safety is flicked off his own gun. Hurrying to get behind a dead car? You bet your sweet ass.

The whisper is almost too soft to get Komnenos' attention, as absorbed as he his. But it does, albeit belatedly. He's still scribbling for a few seconds when he replies distractedly. "Hm… wha— " Anton's voice cuts off midword when Roubani's words register, and he stiffens. He eases off his stool, sliding his sidearm out of its holster. "Let's have a look," he hisses back softly in return, making his way over towards a window with a hole in its board.

Roubani's eyes flicker back to Komnenos, and he's ready to hiss something before the man seems to have understood. He keeps very low, pulling his feet under him into a crouch and tugging his pistol out of its place on his leg. While Kom looks he listens, tipping his head slightly so his left ear faces the direction of the noise.

Angel makes herself as small a target as possible, finding herself some shelter behind and nearly under a burned out car. On her way under, she swipes a shell casing to study.

The centurions don't appear to have spotted Dutch and his entourage, just yet. Steady, mechanical klunks take them in a converging pattern toward the entrance of the pub; one of them pauses a moment, spins to its gunhand, and stomps in closer. Komnenos, lucky man, gets a close-up view of the seven-foot metal monster— moments before it opens up with a spray of fullauto on the window.

As for dead cars, there are plenty. A few overturned in the middle of the street, occupants crushed somewhere beneath hoods. One's driven up into the patio of a cafe.

Cover. The whispered word catches Ashe's attention and Swift swiftly (pun) slips himself behind a burned out car while flicking his rifle's safety and starting to get a bead on the Centurion menace.

Dutch motions to Ashe, but as they all seem to be focused on some building, it seems that the Marine isn't holding up. "Ok, we're moving in on them now, once in position, fire, fire, fire." Orders out Dutch is popping back up from his spot and hauling ass down the middle of the road to a closer car. Frakking A, of course this has to happen.

And all of a sudden Komnenos learns the meaning of the saying 'curiousity killed the cat'. He sidles up next to the window just in time to see a Cylon Centurion unveiling his arm guns directly in his direction. He blanches, gaping at the Cylon for just a second too long before throwing his body to the side desperately. He's not quick enough though, as his face is showered with splinters — and a white-hot pain hammers into his arm as one of the Cylon bullets tears through the top of his shoulder. He utters a strained wheeze at the pain from his position now on the floor.

Meanwhile, inside Wet Willies, the Master Sergeant — who'd been cleaning his gun quietly — has it loaded and cocked by now. He starts to bark something out at the pilot about getting back, but he's a little too late as the window shatters and the board fractures and blows out. Kaufman and Dover are scattering to take up firing positions on the invading tincans, rifles at the ready.

Roubani's head ducks down like a lightning shot when gunfire blasts out so close. He raises his pistol towards the window, trying to grab for Komnenos' arm at the same time to yank the taller, heavier man backwards.

Angelica settles in with her gun and prepares to shoot - when the order's given and the position has been achieved.

Four centurions make quite a racket, it turns out. The jackhammer rhythm of gunfire, and rattle of shell casings pinging off collapsed rubble ring out in the evening's still air. Two of them round on the boarded-up door, and blast through it before one of them busts its way bodily into the pub. It swings to aim its guns at Roubani, while the others continue to fire through the shattered window.

Nikos is hit twice, but the old marine grits his teeth and keeps firing. Kaufman and Dover shuffle back behind the bar, still plugging away.

Angel makes her way forward, sneaking from car to car and trying to move as quietly as possible. She gets close enough to take aim and fire through the windows of a burned out shell of a vehicle. Cover - it's a wonderful thing.

As the Centurions seem to be relatively focused on the building, Ashe girds up his loins and tightening his grip on his rifle, sets his feet into motion. Closing the distance to advance on the metal, he strafes a bit to attempt and create a nice angle that will force the Centurions to divide their shots between him, and others. Granted while doing this he is yelling something while opening fire. A careful ear may pick up an utterance referring to 'Greyskull' and some kind of power.

The steps taken are quick, but Dutch's wheezing by the time he comes home behind an upturned bit of rubble and car. There's a wince and a motion made to those behind him, though the order is simple: "Light up those gods damned sonsofbitches!" And with that he's up, standing from his place, and unleashing a healthy burst of fire towards the first Centurion he sees. Albeit it'll give him away, but Frak it. Save lives, die early. Marines Hoorah

Well, it could have been worse. His flightsuit will never be the same, as a red stain begins slowly spreading from his shoulder wound, and his face is bleeding from half a dozen splinter-induced cuts, but he was lucky, and his luck continues to hold as with Roubani's assistance he manages to escape another shot that pings off the floor where he'd been just a second before. With a hissed "Thanks, Poet" and another wince of pain, he manages to pull himself to his feet and scramble behind what's left of a table, squeezing off a shot at the Cylon that attacked him.

There are some moments when you just expect to be dead in the next heartbeat. For Roubani that moment's right now, and along with it is a curious lack of fear. He's aware that centurion's gun is right on him as he backs up scuttle-quick with Komenons, arm still raised to trade shots with the thing as he scrambles to get a table between them and it.

Poor Angel. She's having a wonderful time, truly. Arm wounds, chest wounds, leg wounds, and now more of the damned toasters. She says not a word as she continues to pull the trigger, focused, lips thin.

"Cocksucker." Dutch mutters out before he's turning that rifle on the Centurion still aiming his big frakking gun into the window of the pub. No emotion shows on his face, nor does the marine seem to hop back behind cover. rather he keeps pouring on the lead, while taking slow steps forward. Not wise, but one cannot live forever.

"Come on!" Ashe yells out at the Toasters as they seem to be a bit more focused than he'd like on the building. Nothing like presenting a nice tasty target. He continues his rather unfeared approach towards the metal, firing off more rounds from his rifle at the Centurions as he watches one go down.

Thorn's shot goes wide, and his lip twists in a grimace of anger and pain. His left shoulder still aches where the bullet nicked him, but the adrenaline is starting to flow now; the pain, for the moment, is the last thing on Thorn's mind as he takes another shot from behind the table.

Right, so Roubani only thought there was a gun pointed at him. The blast goes elsewhere and that's just fine by the Ensign. The sudden other gunfire from outside has him sucking in a sharp breath as wood splinters around them…more centurions? But he stares as metal goes flying off the things and one collapses. "What the…" Screw it, shoot.

Blamblamblamblam. The sound of gunfire's deafening in the closed confines of the pub. Bullets spray the hapless ragtag group, kicking up dust and shattering bottles as they paint the room in shiny metal death. The Master Sergeant drops back, groaning as two centurions peg him again with their guns. Kaufman scrambles over, dragging a medkit with him, to help. And meanwhile, the intrepid Private Parts is sprinting toward the robots and firing everything he's got. Cover? What cover?

Angel continues to fire. There's no real change of expression on her face. She's just your average cute young thing with blood everywhere and a big ole gun.

The bullet slams into his left left thigh, rocking the Marine down to his knees, quickly cursing Dutch raises his weapon, coming into a shoddy kneel, as his fire reports out. Blood is spilling anyway, as he returns fire. Like shit they're going to stop him from getting them out.

As another Centurion goes down, Ashe continues the advance of his feet towards the metal rather than ducking for cover or hiding. His Rifle rips off more and more shots as the sprays of the bullets aimed for him hit the dirt but don't scathe the man. A glance is spared momentarily towards Dutch before Ashe continues firing and advancing, moving in an attempt to corral the Cylon Menace amongst the apes.

This time Thorn's shot hits something, namely one of the pesky Cylon's gunbarrel hands. The Centurion goes down in a heap — which is oddly puzzling to Thorn, as he didn't remember seeing his other people shoot at it. Now that he's thinking about it, he's hearing an awful lot of gunfire to be just his group and the Cylons — and the additional fire doesn't sound like Centurion ordnance. His brow furrows, but while his mind may be whirling, his body's still on autopilot as he searches the broken window for another target and fires.

Kaufman is madly trying to patch up his boss, both of them crouched behind the counter while gunfire's exchanged on all sides. As Dutch is hit, both remaning centurions turn their attention back to the pub. They step on their fallen comrades like they're just another hunk of broken building.

Roubani's shot goes wide and he grits his teeth, glancing down at it. One AP round left, and two of the damn things are still walking. His eyes flash as they look back up, at the sounds of the other hails of gunfire coming from outside. "Gods either hate us or love us…" He talks under his breath, re-aiming at another one of the damn things. "Mortal-destroying king, defiled with gore, pleased with wars dreadful and tumultuous roar…."

It's about this time that Angel sees Dutch go down. Keeping as low, well, as low as she can, she skids over to the man, taking herself down to the ground. "Keep shooting. I'm going to tie this off," she tells him, voice quiet.

Bullets pop off, and Dutch just swings the barrel to the other one's friend, still unloading right there into them @shake of his head all the same as the kid comes out of no where, but then the Marine is in one mindset. Kill as many of these frakkers as they can. So far Cent4 has earned his hate

Ashe stands there in the open by and large continuing to depress his trigger at the Centurions. As he watches it get plunked by his shots and take no damage, the Marine's head turns and he spits a bit. "Wise ass." He mutters under his breath and opens up a new round of heavy fire towards it.

"Thee human blood, and swords, and spears delight…" Roubani ejects his AP clip from the pistol, using his palm to shove in a normal clip with a click. He pulls the gun back up, talking through his teeth to Komnenos, "This place have a back door? We've got more molotovs than good sense in here."

The centurions are taking a pounding. It's probably only so long before backup arrives. If 'backup' isn't the sound of gunfire coming from outside. Except, well, that gunfire is also focused on the cylons. Huh.

Nikos, about as good as he's going to get, shrugs off any further assistance and cocks his rifle again. Kaufman, too, rolls away to fetch his gun, firing from the floor.

Another shot goes wide, and that's one more of Thorn's explosive rounds gone. Two left, by his count, he notes. The mysterious weapons fire is becoming more plain as the Cylon force is cut in half, but the Cylons are ignoring their unknown benefactors for the moment, it seems, as the old pub is repeatedly stitched with bullets. "Don't know," he answers Roubani, his accent thick with anxiety and pain. "Been lookin' at th' map or helpin' th' Chief with th'—" He cuts himself off, realizing this is no time for explanations as he fires off another shot, his attention purely on the Cylons.

"I saw something in the back," Roubani mutters in return, teeth grit. "Too much stuff in front of it. Too bad. I was almost ready to just light this damned place on fire." Useless bullets in pistol, he lays down what he can only pray is cover fire.

There's a whistle towards his Centurion as he and it seems Parts are still laying down the fire. Trying to get focus off of those in the pub. A rise, once he is tied off from Angelica. A wince of pain and shot seem to do nothing, bullets still firing here's hoping the walking Dutch, well.. limping Dutch can do frakking better, and get him another kill

Once Angel has Dutch's leg tied off, she goes back to shooting Centurions. Her jaw is set, face pale and streaked with dirt. And the woman remains quiet. There's something akin to solemnity as she tries to kill the enemy.

Ashe continues unloading bullets at the Centurion labelled 2 as he stands not to far off. Fortunately being this brazen does give him a rather startling good view of his bullets plunking off the Cylon.

Private W. Parts is shouting like a maniac between bursts of his rifle. Blamblamblam. "You want some of this?!" Blamblam. "Motherfrakker!" He's also eschewed cover of any kind, in favour of pounding the pavement out in the open, trying to draw fire from the people inside the pub. Because, from the sound of gunshots, and the glimpse he's gotten of Komnenos through the shattered window? There's definitely people in there.

Komnenos grunts at Roubani's report, but says nothing else. His attention is suddenly focused on what sounds like a Marine screaming at the Centurions, punctuated by what is now definitely recognizable as man-made weapons fire. With one explosive round left, Thorn hopes to make it count as he pulls the trigger.

Yeah, that's definitely a voice. Roubani's hands tighten on the pistol as he aims at the second Centurion with these tinfoil bullets. "Magnanimous, unconquered, boisterous Ares, in darts rejoicing, and in bloody wars…" It's mostly inaudible, as are his bullets lost in the maddened fray of shooting.

"Come on you Dumbass frakking sonuvabitch!" Dutch hollers at Four as a round whizzes by him and towards the LC, but the Sergeant doesn't let off the hate, as he fires as bloody much as he can into his enemy. One bullet hits home, but its not enough to kill the Centurion, and by the looks of it, it is either the Centurion going, or Dutch., at least in his mind.

"Frak!" Thorn bites off a stream of curses after that one as his last magic bullet fails to find a target. He's back to regular ammunition now, and the persistence of these last two Cylons is galling. With no back way out, though, there's no choice but to keep firing, even with almost worthless ammunition, and so Komnenos does.

Thud, blood. Ashe spares a glance and a grunt of pain as his left arm frees free off his rifle as he is hit in the bicep with a shot. Bringing the rifle to his hip with his right arm, the left hanging at the side, he continues to depress shots off at the Centurion.

Pvt. Parts is a maniac. He manages, in the midst of his suicide run, not to get hit by a single bullet. Which isn't due to any crazy dodging on his part; he's just damned lucky, it looks like. He clambers up onto the hood of a car, cocks his rifle again, and pours on the lead while the centurions continue firing after a brief pause to reload.

Roubani is in much the same position as Komnenos. Firing worthless is only marginally better than not firing, but he'll take the margin. The hollering outside brings some colour to his face in sudden recognition. "That's Sergeant Elder's voice!" He hisses between his teeth, getting a better grip on the pistol through his sweat and alcohol dampened hands. As the centurions seem hellbent on getting the marines outside, he takes a chance and hefts up higher on his knees over the table for one clearer shot, ready to duck back down if they turn back.

Thorn hears it too. "Frak me, but I think you're right," he growls in response to Roubani. A quick look outside, and… there. Thorn finally gets a fleeting glimpse of one of their mystery reinforcements; definitely a human with a rifle. Whether it's someone he recognizes, though, he can't be sure of from his vantage point behind the table. He can still see a Centurion, though, and he busies himself with the bullethead for the moment.

Angel's a little too focused on her centurion to see Ashe go down. She's shooting, pull after pull of her finger on the trigger. "Go DOWN damnit," she murmurs.

Pop. Pop. Ashe blinks as bullets of the Centurions strike him, an odd mist of red appearing before his eyes as he staggers back two steps from where is standing and falls backwards in a heap. His rifle spins out of his left hand and crashes to the ground.

"You MOTHERFRAKKER" comes the call outside as Dutch fires a shot off, head, snapping back to Ashe, and then over towards the Centurion. "GODS DAMMIT!" And his shot fires, another round. Hopefully he'll keep the Remaining centurion off of Angelica And take it out, unless it nabs him in the process. There's a step taken back. He'll work his way to Ashe If he turns his back he's as good as toast.

All the robots seem to know, really, is black and white. Dead and alive. As Ashe goes down, they both focus their fire on poor Private Parts instead. There's nothing but the thunder of bullets leaving their gun chambers, the whiiiir klunk of their mechanical limbs. They've all but forgotten about the group stowed away inside the pub by now, maybe figuring them for dead.

Roubani can't see Ashe. All he can hear is Dutch screaming outside, which keeps him shooting. Poor Parts indeed. The Ensign stands up further as the bullets keep flying somewhere that's not his direction, keeping fire trained on one of the machines.

Roubani's shot finally hits home as he sticks his neck out. His entire body really, for he's left standing dead out in the open as his bullet tears into the centurion's chest. He remembers to breathe as the edges of the room threaten to gray out, sucking in a breath that feels like it restarts his heart. Without a word he starts for the door, nearly sprinting.

There's a horrendous sound of metal raking metal, then a pair of crashing noises as metal hits ground. The weapons fire stops abruptly, and Komnenos takes a peek out to see the last two Cylons twitching on the ground, torn apart by bullets. Thorn stands slowly and holsters his weapon, then looks out one of the blasted-out windows, searching for the newcomers. "Elder! Sergeant Elder, that you?" He follows Roubani as he sees the younger man dashing towards the door. "Poet— "

The last round slams out of Dutch's chamber, right into what he will guess in the heart of that frakking thing, or deep enough to piecer something, because it's own spin is apparent before it crumbles onto his metallic brothers. A deep breath and slowly, slowly the Sergeant is turning to look back towards Ashe. He's not even waiting, as he limps his ass painfully over to the downed LC "Gods dammit.." he mutters, as he eases himself down. Hand coming to chest to cover over where blood is. pressed hard, as fingers slide to touch his neck, checking for a pulse "Come on you son of a bitch.. Come on.."

"I'll cover you," Angel calls quietly to Dutch, gun still trained on the downed Centurions and the door to that pub. There's a click as Komnenos and Roubani come out, her safety on. "Friendlies," she asks Dutch.

As the last shots ring out, and the last two deathbots fall, an eerie silence falls over the deserted block. There's a scent of gunpowder and mechanical fluids. Blood, fresh, along with the smell of dead things that rolls through with the low-lying fog. There are no other patrols in sight, though Paros isn't considered a death trap for nothing; it's only a matter of time before reinforcements cruise by.

Going running through a door towards people with rifles perhaps isn't the smartest thing in the world, but there Roubani is. His hands come up, bandaged left still holding his pistol as he keeps moving. "Ensign Roubani, CEC Kharon. Don't shoot." The sight of Ashe on the ground has his face looking white.

"Not, frakking yet.." is all Dutch says as he remains where he is , hands pressed hard, on the chest of the young man. A glance is given over to Roubani, and one hand is pointing "You get your frakking ass over here!" Seeing how Angelica is keeping watch. His rifle on the ground by him. "Come here, and put your Hands on his chest, cover that wound!" Already ordering the Ensign, but we'll see if he is following. First, though the Sergeant is taking time to reach into his pack, and pull out a small emergency shot of Morpha, and inchecting it right into the LC's leg. "Gods dammit.."

The Master Sergeant and his men also hustle it out of the pub— or what's left of it, anyway. Dover's toting a medkit with him, and Kaufman brings his rifle up for extra cover as the three come clattering up the block.

At the sight of a gun pointed in his direction, Komnenos' pistol is almost snapped right back out of its holster. He sees Roubani's reaction, though, as well as Elder huddled over a wounded Swift. He walks forward with none of Roubani's caution, going around the younger man with a passing pat on the arm. Only after he sees his own men rushing to help Ashe does he stop to introduce himself to the stranger. "Lieutenant Anton Komnenos, CEC Kharon. Good t' see you."

Plenty of officers might have taken offence to being ordered around. Roubani, though, just tears his fatigues jacket off his shoulders, falling to his knees by Ashe. All that blood and the gaping wounds keep his complexion quite ashen, but he sets left hand atop right and puts down pressure onto Ashe's chest. His voice is tight in his throat, Komnenos' patting going unnoticed. "I've got it."

At the introduction, and Dutch's calling for Roubani, Angel's gun points away from the pair, though she doesn't ease the safety back on yet. No, she doesn't introduce herself, not at the moment. "Once we get him stabilized, we need to fall back," she says quietly. "Lieutenant Komnenos, report on the area, please?" She holds her gun like a Marine, she has the stance of a Marine, but there's no way in bloody hell the 18 year old woman is a Marine.

As the morpha slips through his stream, Ashe's eyes abruptly open with those around him. They're distant, glassy and glazed over. His head lifts as if he intends to sit up but more importantly his hand snatches upwards to grasp Dutch's armor with a tight fist. "Frak… frak it. She wasn't over there. Frakin' bitch." Then his head falls back to the ground.

"Good. Keep it pressured right there.." Comes Dutch's order, as he is going straight into medic mode. Armor is ripped off with the sounds of buckles and and velcro, as the remaining parts of the Marine's shirt is cut away. Eyes are looking down into the wound, And then he is reaching back to the packet for a pair of forceps. A small mini bottle of rubbing alcohol is ripped out as he is pouring it liberally over the ends, and then jamming them down into the wound "Hold on.." And out is coming a bit of cloth, a thick bit of cloth and flak armor that went in when the bullet went out. "Mithras's balls..Ok.." words are quick as a packet is then brought up and clenched in his teeth, before hands, sticky with blood reach back for a adhesive bandage. Rip and sprinkling the powder into the wound, Dutch looks to Ashe "Breathe out now.." He'll wait before slapping the bandage on and sealing it air tight.

Komnenos gives the young woman in front of him — barely more than a girl, it seems — an appraising look of half skepticism and half amusement, but he answers her in kind. He finally seems to notice the blood running down his face from the cuts; he wipes a trickle of red off of his eyebrow that was about to drip into his eye. "I've got the survivors from Foxbat-3 holed up in the pub back there. Can't tell you much about the rest of the area; we've been trying t' keep our heads down and not attract any attention, you understand. We do know the Cents patrol this area rather frequently, so if it's all the same t' you, I'd like t' get packed up and out of here as quickly as we can. I've got wounded people and damaged equipment still in there."

Roubani gets up higher onto his knees so he can really put pressure on. Blood bubbles and wells up between fingers that he's holding shut as tightly as he can, and doing a pretty good job all told. His lips are pressed together and thinned, eyes down on Ashe's body but for a brief flicker under his brows towards Komnenos.

"I suggest you go grab them and a frakking stretcher now Numbnuts, so we can beat it back to the bunker. We have a doctor there, and we're going to need to hump it back tonight if we want to save him.." Dutch barks. Unless you all have another mode of transportation you'd dare to try. Hell anything right now is better than hanging out in the damned road.

"Sergeant," Angel calls quietly. "Recommend getting everyone loaded up as soon as possible. We can make it back to home, park an hour's walk out or so." She dips her head to Komnenos once the report's given. "Do you know of any transportation we can use," she asks Thorn quietly, formally.

"Stow it, Elder." A snap and a cold stare from Thorn is directed at the marine sergeant. He understands the sergeant's mindset, but Thorn's still a colonial officer, for gods' sakes. He's not wasting any time over the cantankerous Marine's discourtesy, though, as he turns his attention back to the girl. "As a matter of fact, we've got two vans our deck chief was able t' get running. It'll be a tight fit, but we should be able t' get everyone loaded."

The look Roubani's giving Dutch is one that was probably about to make a similar comment to Komnenos', if more formally. Keeping his hands firmly on Ashe's chest, he cranes his neck to see Kom. "We can't move him far, sir. We need the vans here, and before any more of these things come looking." Back to Dutch. "You know where we're going. You can fill us in as we move."

"Roll him to his side, so I can patch his back." comes the order towards Roubani, before Dutch is looking back towards Komnenos "I don't got time right now, so we need em all over here as soon as you please, Lieutenant.." Once Ashe is rolled, he'll be patching his back, though that will be a lot easier. Frakking exit wounds..

"Right." Thorn nods to Roubani. He flexes his wounded shoulder with a wince; the adrenaline is wearing off and he's starting to feel the dull pain get worse, but he puts it out of his mind for now, as he's one of the lucky ones. He walks back towards the pub and speaks through one of the windows, ordering someone — anyone but Fenix, more specifically — to go and pull one of the vans around for Ashe and start loading their gear and wounded into the second. "Quickly, dammit," he adds as an afterthought. "We don't have time t' linger."

Angel lets her gun dangle and reaches for the medical kit from her pack. "Please hold still, Lieutenant," she tells Thorn softly, pulling out what she needs. "While we wait, I will clean this. Less chance of infection." Her eyes cut to Roubani, whom she studies contemplatively. "Are you injured, Ensign?"

Roubani does this side rolling thing, getting Ashe's weight up onto his forearms and keeping that pressure on while he carefully moves the man. He's a bit awkward about it with two damaged hands, his jaw tight, but determination carries someone a long damn way. His guarded, dark eyes flicker to Angelica. "Just my hand, ma'am." The ma'am isn't the sharp, obsolete honorific given to female officers. It's just reservedly polite.

Thorn turns back from ordering whichever grunt it was he was ordering, and he starts as the new girl is still right with him and going for his wounded shoulder. "Oh… thanks." Another eyebrow goes up. He's studying the girl a little more closely now; she seems to be doing pretty well for herself considering one of her arms is in a sling. But then again, that hasn't seemed to be slowing Poet down much either. "So, you got a name, kid?" He's not being intentionally patronizing; Thorn can't help the fact that she looks like one of his college friends' kid sister. "And if you've got these two, would it be too much t' hope that you have more of our people back whereever it is you came from?" As he speaks, one of the vans finally appears from behind the ruined pub and pulls up a safe distance from where Ashe is laying.

Angel reaches out and begins to very carefully clean the wound with what she's got, working awkwardly. "There are a few more," she says, keeping things intentionally vague for the moment. "A female pilot, an ECO, a couple engineering types, a Marine Lieutenant…" Her voice trails off for a time. "Angelica Bassonet." Her accent is Caprican, upper-crustish, with hints of Scorpia. Anyone who knows military families and politics might recognize the name. Salin Bassonet, before the holocaust, came from a long line of high-ranking military officers, and he left service to pursue a political career. There was some manner of scandal about a bastard daughter, but it was one of those flashes in the pan.

Dutch glances over towards Roubani, and there's a motion as the van pulls around. "Can you help me carry him with your hand, or should I get someone else?" An honest question, though with the Marine's bark it might come out different. Either way Dutch is turning, and whistling towards Parts "Get your ass over here Private."

"Further help would be appreciated," Roubani replies to Dutch in a slightly stilted manner. It's not offence taken, just a mantle of formality draped over the issue. He probably could heft Ashe somehow, but do you really want to take the chance? As Parts comes over to help he keeps his hands where they are until someone says it's safe to let the pressure off. Angelica's rattling off of personnel makes his eyes turn back down to the Private's face, his jaw getting slightly tense. "Are any of them Passi or Marek?"

Komnenos' eyes narrow; the vagueness isn't satisfying, but he can make some IDs just the same. ECO and Marine LT… had to be Teall and McTiernan. Female pilot… could be either Passi or Legacy. He sighs, slumping back against a ruined wall, feeling as though a weight is starting to fall from his shoulders. A quick look over to Roubani as he asks his question, but he doesn't interrupt the ensign. Hell, Thorn would like to hear an answer himself.

"Ain't Captain Marek." grunts Dutch from where he is helping move Ashe, coming back as a few other members are securing him, and Nikos down into the van. Seems like Dutch is limping his ass over towards the diver seat since, he does know how to get back home. "No passi. Its the ginger one." said smartly. "Alright Lets load up so we can punt it home. Now."

Angel continues her bandaging job on Komnenos - there's not a whole lot she can do, but at least the wound's clean. "I don't know names," she says quietly. "Sergeant?" There's a very brief pat to the bandage before Angel steps away.

Roubani lets Parts take over the lifting of Ashe, rolling back to his feet. The bandage around his left hand, which was already damp with his own blood and the alcohol he'd poured on it, is now a soaked mingling of his and Ashe's dark red. Shoulders tense, he reholsters his pistol and climbs into the van along with the others. "Do they know," he asks Dutch as the man gets ready to drive, "Where they crashed? We can't leave them…even if it's bodies to be buried. We can't."

"Pickens! Tell th' Chief t' get that com drone stowed, and help her get it out t' the other van!" Thorn belts an order out to one of the Marines still in the building. The harsh consonants of his Aerilon accent are a sharp contrast to the smooth contralto of the young woman bandaging him. He looks over at Dutch as the corpsman chimes in. So Legacy's all right, then, it's the Viper pilots that are still unaccounted for. As Angelica finishes wrapping up his shoulder, Komnenos starts moving to the first van in time to catch Roubani's question. "And we're not going t' leave them, Ensign," he interjects gruffly. He pats the pocket of his flightsuit where he stowed the map and his notes. "If they don't know already, then we'll help find them. But no one is getting left here." He climbs into the van, taking the passenger's seat next to Dutch.

"We got an idea.." said back towards Roubani "You were our first stop.. We hoped to go further, but we're going to need to gods damned get Swift to a doc before we can push out again." Of course Dutch'll need some hole's plugged if the dried blood on parts of his uniform don't give things away too much. "There's a nod to the fella to get in the back and help secure things. Once every one is nice and tucked in he'll be tacking out of here with the lights off..It might be a bit bumpy..

Angel settles into the back of the van with everyone else, moving quickly and quietly. "This was the closest group," she says softly. "We have rough coordinates for the other two." It's not that she doesn't have anything to say - she's simply a woman of few words.

Roubani gives all three of them a stiff nod, settling down in his own corner. His arms fold so that his hands grasp his upper arms, leaving bloody smears across his fatigues. "I will help. I don't know about Passi, but Marek…you have to…" A brief silence, and he continues levelly. "…there are things we believe you have to do. Or the gods won't know to take you. If you're indeed gone." He scratches his arm and glances out the window as they start to move.

"Ivory's in a bad way, too. He and our other wounded are in the other van," Thorn answers Dutch, even if the corpsman wasn't talking to him. Between Ashe and Timon, it's a good thing the corpsman didn't have any other ideas, because Komnenos wouldn't have had any part of it. In this case, though, he's in complete agreement with Dutch's suggested course of action. In the reflection of his cracked side mirror, Thorn sees the other van finally pulling out from behind the pub. "And there they are now. Off t' your place, Sergeant."

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