Meanwhile, in an open section of land adjacent to both Runoff and The Pit, an enormous mass of armor, firepower, and tenacity known as Gibraltar was fighting for his life. He expertly worked the trigger of his V1 Flatline, slamming round after round into some joker in a tuxedo who was standing up on a rock to try and get a better angle. One bullet punched him just below the chin. Ooh, that's gotta hurt, Gibraltar thought as his target toppled backwards and out of sight.
Quick movement out of Gibraltar's peripheral vision caught his attention. It was his partner, Bloodhound, who'd been patching up after the damage he took during the beast mode rampage he went on in response to them being pressed by two different squads. He was now engaged in close quarters combat behind Gibraltar, who was trying to cover and protect. Gibraltar hadn't even heard the assailant approaching, but of course nothing was getting past their black-feathered eyes in the sky.
Bloodhound took two rounds to the chest and shook with each impact. As he went down, Gibraltar thumbed the selector switch to full auto and hosed the camo-clad stranger with every remaining round in the V1 Flatline's extended magazine. His target fell to the ground and started crawling away from their scarce cover and back into the hectic war zone. All this ruckus was only attracting more teams; their added presence evident by the new staccatos in the continuous song of gunfire and explosions coming from literally every direction.
Gibraltar didn't bother with finishing off the surprise shooter. He had something that would finish this battle once and for all. The shielded fortress of a man pulled a cylindrical flare from his belt, twisted it to a bright, blazing life, and tossed it on the ground next to Bloodhound. Then he threw a dome shield down and knelt to revive his fallen friend.
"Don't worry, brudda. I got you," he assured as the mortar strikes came raining down.