CHAPTER 13
It Never Ends. Kill Me.
Usually when these things had given him problems in the past, he had either been forced to run- (those were usually the instances when he had first gotten out of the Vault) -or they had been numbering little more than two or three.
Ironically, when Sanford had acquired the company of Hancock- the bane of Earth, known otherwise -Mirelurks had surprisingly gone thin on him. It was stupid, how it just so happened he found what he needed to slap them, and then, they were gone.
Figured.
NOW, it turns out, they were just getting the family together.
Because, with the surrounding mounds of offal and filth, it was hard to tell how many they'd killed.
The smell was appalling, the place looked like Lucifer's toilet after someone came in and mixed it all up with a giant brush made of dirt. Dead Mirelurks were gridded all over the place, though in a somewhat straight path that could be traced.
Most of the bodies had bullet holes and scorch marks rending through their hides- a few were blown to pieces, and a few were TORN to pieces.
Sanford stood before a killing field- and despite the dryness of ammunition he held, the lost breath and the fact that he stunk horribly of perspiration beneath the Power Armor suit, he could say he was proud of the work done here.
Sighing heavily, he coughed when his intake of breath met some resistance in expanding his gut around the Deathclaw's fingers, still wedged in an impaling stick through the belly section of the suit.
The reptile had become stained with blood from some of the Mirelurks, she was heaving, and Sanford looked over at her free palm, and could clearly see those strange retractable nails sliding in and out of their sheathes.
The two of them stood at the highest point of a raised incline in the coastal land- to their backs was the remnants of a small wooden building, and at their feet in a white, sickening drag down the side of the hill were three or four corpses of mutated crustaceans.
It was like every Mirelurk in the area had ganged up on them, and that was unusual as it was unbelievable that it had even happened in the first place. More unbelievable, was that they had survived it.
In the silence only broken by his and the Deathclaw's breathing- Sanford fiddled with his armor, searching for another drum, or a clip to feed his emptied SMG. Even though he knew he was dry, he examined himself anyway, and of course, came up with little.
Casting his helmet about to look at both corners of the wooden structure they leaned against, and then all around the hill and the surrounding land they faced- Sanford opened his mouth to speak, and found his words banished under a slight cough.
That had been exhausting. It had taken nearly an hour. The whole world must have been going to shit for the Mirelurks to start forming swarms.
"What's next... Huh? Mirelurks that can walk on two legs...? Ha." Sanford wheezed.
The Deathclaw's elongated head turned over her shoulder to glare at him angrily.
"I believe you humans have a saying for that, monsieur'."
"Walking crabs...?"
"No. 'Don't jinx it.' -Yes?"
"Oh... Yeah, you're right..."
"Don't jinx it. There, I said it."
"SIR! Sir! Look!" Hancock appeared just as fast as he had disappeared somewhere nearby on the other side of the building.
The robot zoomed in from the right, robotic claw jabbing wildly at the top of his chassis' cranium.
"I found another CHEF HAT!"
"Oh my god..." Sanford grumbled.
"How long has that THING, been with you?" The Deathclaw asked lowly.
"Give or take half the time I've been in the Wasteland."
"I still don't understand this... 'Cryo' idea you were speaking about earlier."
"'Cryo Idea'?"
"The explanation for how you're 200 years old."
"You still don't believe me, do you, Ms. Deathclaw?"
"Stop calling me that."
"Then gimme' a god-damned name already."
"I don't want one."
"-Ugh- Look, I'm not even going to try- the 200 years thing. They put me and my parents into pods, they froze us basically. I woke up when the pod systems failed 200 years later. Everyone else in the Vault was dead, or they had left. My parents' bodies weren't there, and the pods were empty..."
She noticed the trailing and commented on it.
"Cared for them?"
"A lot."
"Do you think they're alive?"
"They might as well not be in my life... I don't know."
"Mm."
"-Say, Ms-Uhm... SAY, you never told me about any people you cared about?"
"I still don't plan to."
"That means SOMEBODY existed at one point or another then."
"No."
"We're both outcasts with no allies in a place that requires alliances to be powerful. Listen, a little chatting won't hurt you."
"I don't understand you, human. Are you blind? Do you not see what you're sitting next to? Look at me." She leant down and bore all her fangs a few inches before his helmet's lenses.
"Lovely." Sanford admitted. "Your point?"
"You're a freak aren't you?" The Deathclaw snapped. "You're a freak, and this is why you aren't around other apes, right? Monsieur'?"
"Not a freak. I work better alone. The way this world works... People find my morality to be a problem."
"So, what? Because you won't murder and steal other humans shun you?"
"Not necessarily those extremes..."
"And this is why you tolerate a monster by your side?"
"If you were a monster, you would be trying to kill and eat me right now." Sanford responded. "If you were a monster, you would not have volunteered to take a hard route in freeing yourself from this damn suit, to prevent injury on BOTH sides!
If you were a monster, you wouldn't have even considered sticking with me and Han' for the last day, before trying to claw us to pieces so you could just leave! Here's what I don't understand about YOU-
You're alive! You have the ability to stay alive! Shouldn't that be good? At least to some freaking degree?"
"Monsieur', I'm going to attempt to control my temper, and tell you that you haven't summed up my situation accurately from the get-go."
"Why not? This is what I'm talking about! We're stuck together. You hear? STUCK. We can't just part ways until we figure this out! Physical force won't work, it'll kill one of us! We need to work together here."
"That's what I'm trying to do-"
"Then make it easier, and give me and Han' some more information, so we can HELP each other! That's what allies- even temporary ones -are supposed to do!"
"You want a story, monsieur'? INFORMATION?!"
The Deathclaw stood up, jerking his suit forwards a bit from her wrist, and jabbed a nailed finger in his helmet's vision.
"-You tell me I should be GRATEFUL, for living my life? You tell me that I should understand you two slobs better, and likewise?
I have two things to say to you- the first is, that I have NEVER been grateful for my life! Why? Because all I do every day, of every week, of every month, of every year- Is RUN. I run, I hide in the dark places of the wastes like a rat. I get HURT, I become malnourished, I get dehydrated, and I get the life scared out of me by creatures ten-times more horrible than me, and by genocidal death squads of HUMANS!
THAT, is no life I want to live! I'm miserable! I have nothing, and I HAD no one, until I blundered into the world's only case of physical entanglement to blight the surface of this dead, polluted rock- with YOU two!
-The second thing I have to say, is that I have all the desire in the world to have some form of communication with SOMEBODY! Anybody by this point! I'll have voices in my head in another year!
But do you think I want some random people to trap me in this kind of situation, and then EXPECT me to just know them? To become allies with them?! No! No, YOU, monsieur', can fall in a ravine!
You wanted me to talk?! You pushed a button, monsieur'! Je suis' fait' avec cette' merde! Bon sang'!"
BLUK
-The Deathclaw put a hole in the wooden wall he leant to with her balled fist for good measure.
Silent, and statue still- the Deathclaw tore back her wrist with a fracturing of wood, snorted, and sat back down beside him with a thudding against the dirt. Whilst she buried her face in her free palm.
In a flush of air- Hancock floated over from the foot of the hill, ringing around a few precariously positioned Mirelurk bodies- and hovered a few feet away from where the shell-shocked Sanford sat.
Shaking his head to clear away the ringing from the Deathclaw's rant- Sanford looked at her, then down at his gut with her hand still jutting out of it, the scaly palm turned upwards to face him.
"Huh." He muttered. "Ouch."
"You just got served, sir." Hancock said informatively.
"Don't you think it's weird, though?"
"According to the manual, I don't THINK, I have core processing to simulate thinking!"
"-For Christ's sake, the point though!"
"FINE! Commie, yes, I do THINK it's weird. But then again, should we be surprised by anything anymore? We came across a talkin' iguana! I regret nothing!"
"Hey, use, uhm… Use this thing," Sanford reached up and tapped a finger on the temple of his helmet, giving off two little rings of steel. "-The uplink."
Talking behind the Deathclaw's back was a pretty daring move, seeing as the thing was literally leant up a centimeter away from him with her face concealed.
Sanford was willing to risk it though- he didn't exactly want to continue making his point in third person, and have her hear him, and like… You know, disembowel him or something. Besides, by this point, Hancock would've been more likely to pull out a snack bag of batteries and watch, laughing, than help.
-Kind of a stupid comparison though- Hancock was out of his processing drive, but he wouldn't let that digitalized insanity work out into a death sentence for either of them, especially if it meant one were in REAL danger.
However, as per normal for when Sanford thought positively about his Mr. Gutsy- Hancock had some form of disaster that turned that good opinion, completely around.
This time, Han' got closer with one of his eye-stalks, blinked the ocu-lenses, and pulled back immediately.
"Huh… Come again, sir? What about your head?"
DAMN. IT. C'mon Han'… Sanford mentally cried out.
He tapped his finger on the helmet again, and even went so far as to make a- 'Cssshhhh!' noise with his mouth to simulate com static.
The robot reached up with its claw, and patted its side on the flank of his chassis.
"You're confusing me! What?! You want a banana?! A wrench? A wax application?"
"Oh my god, are you, like… Serious?"
"Nah! I'm yukking with ya'! I know! Hold on."
"Thank you, just click the little button on the side of your-"
WHAM
Sanford's head had never angled in such an odd, mis-directed jerk before.
But when his helmet got belted with a ridiculously heavy force, poor Mr. Tobs' head went flying sharply to the right. In fact, Sanford's head got tossed so far to that direction, that the cheek bone of his helmet grazed the inner rim of his shoulder pauldron.
Hancock pulled back, and flapped his claw in the air as if to simulate pain.
"Woo! That suit IS hard as nails!"
Sanford- still frozen from the relent of hit –slowly craned his helmed head back to stare at the robot without comment, or noise.
Hancock waved like an idiot with his buzzsaw, the wrist squeaking.
Sanford cricked his neck, and belted out-
"WHAT IN THE LIVING FUCK, IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"
"Don't worry, sir, I got-ya'!" Hancock jabbed the saw forwards. "I'd wink, but the ocu-lenses don't work all that good for it, monkey-man."
"I DIDN'T- I-…. AGH…. I didn't tell you to HIT me, you dumb DOS system!"
"Hey! Now that's offensive!"
"Oh! EXCUSE me, I didn't know it wasn't appropriate to become flustered when someone bitch-slaps you out of nowhere!'
"It was done with affection, sir!"
"I'll show you affection…"
"You don't have any AMMO! Ha! Stick that in your bong!"
"-You have a freaking gun in that black-hole on your back? Huh?"
"Ten or twenty. Why?"
"…..Open the trunk, now."
"NAGULESE."
Hancock levitated lower, turned around, and popped open the storage unit with a hissing ignition, and metallic flap.
Sanford dug into the rear compartment with one gauntlet, and cringed in horror.
"Oh… I'm gonna' be sick…" He muttered, taking one look inside. "-Ah-AH! Shit! Hancock! There's something cold, and wet in here, Hancock!"
"Don't judge my fetishes, ape!"
"-Holy Christ…"
Sanford kept braving the sludge that practically slathered the interior of the age-old robot- he thought to himself as he did so.
Maybe he was being a little... Pushy. Maybe he really was just latching onto the most unusual, exciting proposition of conversation, of interaction with another living thing.
The thought of his own degradation, his finding of something that NO ONE, had ever found before, and basically leaping right on with- 'Take me somewhere!' -did put him off. Sanford was a lonely guy, people were never a strong suit for him and the Wasteland amplified it.
But... A Deathclaw? One that could speak? In FRENCH of all things?
It was an interesting combination... But, really?
Eventually, with a final gag of disgust- he yanked out a weapon, a two-handed, drum-fed thing from the depths of Hancock's portable hell-hole.
Holding the gun by its butt, he flicked it through the air to knock off any unsightly residue, and brought it in for inspection.
"How long did you have this in here?" He asked.
"I don't know! That's kind of like asking how long the Bermuda Triangle's been eating ships! We'll NEVER know!"
"Ah... This is... Combat shotgun. Drum or mag fed, reasonable condition. Have any slugs?"
"DIVE!"
The Deathclaw stirred while Hancock rummaged with a probing claw- she nudged Sanford's flank with her wrist.
"I'm sorry I became... Loud."
"I understand, no biggie'."
"How many years have you lived, monsieur'? Out of that... POD..."
"Uhm... I've never had a reason to keep track anymore..."
"Roughly."
"Twenty-five, twenty-six? Maybe... You?"
"I don't know."
"Roughly, hm?"
"Very funny. I really have no idea... Twenty, or maybe twenty-um... Nineteen? I don't know, really, monsieur'."
"How were you born?"
"I still don't want to discuss that."
"Alright, I won't press it anymore."
"Mm."
"I seriously hope you reconsider your decision for when we reach that mill."
"I can't reason why you want me to travel with you... You find nothing odd with this, human?"
"I find everything odd about it. Me and Han' are the misfits of this dump, and we'll only be able to help others if we find OTHER misfits. We've come across one or two, but... You know, they turned out to be criminals and they.. Uhm... Died."
"That hemp-sucker never saw what hit 'em!" Hancock clarified. "BOOM!"
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This was the part about what they were doing, and why they were doing it, that made him absolutely begin to chafe underneath his armor whenever they told him of his role in it all.
This- specifically, the inability to convert the situation to what HE thought was the best course of action -THIS, was why the Superintendent did not have any form of patience for Eden's ragtag decision making.
Things were becoming oriented around the auras of influence his people- the Enclave -were not supposed to be oriented around. Bluntly, that was because of Eden's sense of self preservation and esteem- the lack of his understanding that it was not his place to play God within his own ranks.
The mutual understanding was, and still stood as an evident part of the Enclave's history- that it was not formed on the same ideals as it was currently structured around. Whether in debate outside of the officer ranks or not- there was indeed little effort to hide what the formation was all about.
The Enclave was created by the power-hungry personal pursuits of a collection of egotistical maniacs- the Superintendent was one of a hundred 'Big Players' in the Enclave that did nothing to dispute it, but also did not preach history for what it was- HISTORY. A thing of the past.
Morality, or perhaps the vast amounts of people they had wronged- probably both -eventually caught up with all the original founders of the newly reformed United States Government- all of them, every last ONE.
-EXCEPT, President Eden.
Eden was by no means a 'Man' or even human anymore- but tirelessly his brain, kept in stasis within the great supercomputer hub of the Enclave's capital headquarters- the 'Mobile Crawler' or, in old US Army terms- the experimental M100 'Land Crusher' HQ.
Superintendent Laslar Sendunn hadn't been inside- much less sighted -the M100 in over a year as operations continuously carried him from one part of the East Coast, to the next, and even over in Nevada and California.
For months he had been backtracking and bouncing between three or four, sometimes six at a time- major operations that the Enclave Army was undertaking. For awhile, there was an effort to get a hold on a cache of pre-War military assets in central North America- it turned out it was a group of USAF tanks -his greatest find in years, and the scientists back on the Capital Rig in the Atlantic were still repairing them.
Laslar had become short of patience- despite the successes. Enclave units in California were on the verge of starting another conflict with the main opposition his men always faced on the West Coast- and that was the New California Republic, the NCR.
-In addition to that, the Brotherhood of Steel had been slogging it out against Laslar's squads for years it seemed in the ruins of D.C., and frighteningly, both sides were running out of ammunition more often than men.
The part that frustrated Laslar was his inability to simply KILL the opposition- both he and his soldiers, and the Knights and Paladins they dueled against were wearing Power Armor -and while the Brotherhood's own T-45 commonality was outdated, it was what it was- Power Armor, and no matter the build, that shit was tough to crack.
Laslar currently was in the newest sewage dump that Eden's priorities were stirring up- the President had a thing for sending more reinforcements to the D.C. capital base of Raven Rock, than say Area 51, or the refueling stations in central North America.
Fighting never ceased in D.C.- whether it was against the Brotherhood, the Super Mutants, or the continuous mobs of 'Raiders' as the native fauna called them, or slavers.
Laslar hurt, not just in any specific limb or set there of- he just HURT. He had been running, ducking, standing and travelling for two days now, and that was because air travel was becoming ludicrously dangerous in some parts of the city.
The Brotherhood controlled the Citadel- the remains of the Pentagon -and all sorts of Laser-based weaponry was installed there, and in the last month or two that it took the Enclave Military to realize the Brotherhood's newest upgrades- at least five VB-02's had been shot down.
The results of this non-stop fighting were showing- Laslar's team had been airlifted by an outdated transport- a pre-War VB-01 Vertibird, the fat whale of the designation's history.
'Upgraded to VB-02 standard' the engineers told him. '-All it's missing are the missile packs. Better bomb load though."
-Which was why Laslar had a screaming match with that guy a few seconds after he smugly finished dragging his theoretical crap-stained palm down the Superintendent's helmet.
The VB-01's had poor armor- they were transport craft, they'd be better off using them as bombers, or material carriers off the front line.
"-We should be holding back the outdated equipment," He said over a holographic command center hub in the M100 two years ago to Eden. "Use it to get the men close, they hustle the short distance with support from VB-02's, and the VB-130's. Eden, you're drying our material up like this."
The mechanical speaker vox, jutting from a static-laced computer monitor unit- considered what he said, and responded curtly.
"And, this is assuming-" Eden's computerized voice came to light. "-That we HAVE the type 2 and 130 Vertibirds, to spare for those counter maneuvers?"
"If we stopped using them for 'High Priority' targets, Eden, we would have nearly a hundred free pieces of equipment."
"I will not waste those assets on these miniscule conflicts in D.C. or the Mojave, OR Nevada. It's not worth it, Superintendent."
"So you'd rather have these perfectly working aircraft ROT in the interior of the Capital Rig? Or in here? The M100? Eden!"
"It's my decision to make, Superintendent."
"And it's MY right to veto it! Eden, MEN win wars- not the tools they use. If we do not stop these wars in the city of D.C., and the bullshit spreading across Nevada, we will not have any men LEFT to operate these machines!"
"Our foes will break with time, Laslar. Break with time they will."
"You're insane. President Richardson knew what he was doing. I can't see that brilliance in you, Eden- not while you have our true hammer gather dust like this."
"Richardson, was a conniving capitalist who got into that office, on that rig, because his pop-pop PUT him there! He was never qualified for a THING he spoke of!" Eden said angrily. "Because of him, we nearly lost ALL of Nevada, we lost a war with the New California Republic! ANIMALS! Tribals throwing their feces at each other!"
"It was Nevada- the giant hill of dirt that it is -or the refueling stations in central USA, and Area 51." Laslar countered. "You can't expect me to hold Area 51 in lesser regard than NEVADA for Christ's sake, Eden..."
"Nevada, is the key!" Eden persisted. "The Divide! The warheads!"
"-That no one can reach, even with air-drops."
"We'll find a way."
"We will. We'll just have lost everything they were meant to improve by the time we do." Laslar shrugged finally. "But you'll have your way, PRESIDENT."
-Even today, years later- that conversation BOILED Lalsar's blood. Boiled it.
His passionate anger worked out in vocal order, too- he barked over to the nearest collection of drab-bronze armor adjacent to his.
"Did anyone see the shot? Origin? Anything, come on, people!"
His left gauntlet, armored arm and pauldron- were leaned against the frame of a bulky pickup truck's rusty remains- before him, divided by the clear street of stained, scorched pavement -three other soldiers clad in Power Armor clenched Plasma rifles over their chest plates.
In the street was the sprawled body of a man he had known as Lieutenant Jakespry- the helmet he wore was punctured through the right eye lens, and the cranium was split open for a crimson gash of ragged, stagnate gore and red globule.
Lying face-down, the titanic suit of Enclave armor was an obvious disturbance in the road from even a mile away- and just the way in which Jakespry was killed, had Laslar on edge.
No Raider or gang goon around here had the marksmanship or the firepower to inflict a casualty like THAT instantly.
It was a Gauss rifle too- Laslar could tell by the explosive reaction when the shell pierced the Lieutenant's lens.
That all added together for either some unheard of assassin or assassin faction that had somehow laid low for all these years- or, that meant Brotherhood. Laslar was betting on the ladder.
"Can somebody pin-point ANYTHING for me? Let's fucking go!"
"Building straight ahead. Two contacts visible, likely plus chance."
"Thank you!"
Laslar cut off the communication vector to the squad's fifth member- Sergeant Luft -who had taken up position in the ruined building that bordered their left flank, directly behind where Laslar faced against the car cover.
Inching the tip of his Tesla helmet over the rim of the pickup truck's hood, he spotted a big fat office building that faced the street they had been trotting down, directly.
"Can we determine type of contacts? Are they scouts?"
"Negative. One has a Paladin seal on his shoulderplate."
"SHIT."
"Drawing fire?"
"Affirmative, Luft- on my mark- General distress call," He switched the vector's frequency. "-Squad Theta Laslar pinned by Brotherhood snipers east of Goldwin Metro tunnel. Respond immediately."
"Squad Beta-Alpha Ruffous hailing," Came the response from a friendly sergeant. "East of Goldwin Metro, aye-aye."
"Make it quick." Laslar switched back to Luft's frequency, and waved a gauntlet at the soldiers he faced. "-Start shooting, cover us."
"Yes sir."
"Let's go, Theta! MOVE!"
CLK
CLK
CLKCLK
CLK
-Sergeant Luft's Laser Sniper rifle echoed distantly behind him- a few of the red trails could visibly be determined flinging into a window on the middle floor of the office building ahead.
Laslar threw himself away from the pickup, rounded its front- and started sprinting with rumbling footfalls down the street, heart racing.
The three men behind him followed en suit- the rear soldier peppering the office building's direction with a few pot shots from his Plasma rifle.
Laslar knew they probably hadn't done much but keep the apparent Paladin's heads down- but it was enough to provide them a quick sprint to closer cover. On cue- a trail of repeating red flickered from one of the building's windows- an adjacent sill to the one they had shot up -and sprayed sergeant Luft's position in the crumbled ruins he hid in.
"-Going to cover!" He reported tensely. "Gatling laser!"
"Break off-break off! Cover!"
Laslar side-stepped off the road to the left again- behind a wall of collapsed stone and building debris. The three men in his squad found positions hugging a still intact wall that was bracketed from the office building by a turned over passenger bus drawing down the sidewalk.
"Get off the damn road!" Laslar screamed when one of the men started to step out with his gun raised.
"Beta-Alpha, where are you? My counter sniper's been pinned too!"
"Almost at location- ran into a Super Mutant."
"Problem?"
"-Thing's brought in a few friends."
"Fuck!"
"We're fighting towards you. ETA in five."
"I don't HAVE five minutes..." Laslar grumbled, killing the link. "-We still have no air support... Where the fuck's our air-support?!"
"Sir, am I covering?" Luft asked through the vox.
"Relocate." Laslar snapped.
"Aye."
"I always have to do this by myself..." The Superintendent commented, ejecting the Plasma cartridge in his weapon to check the charge before sliding it back into place. "I'll cover- you three, move up to the pile of cars ahead."
He pointed to the soldiers- they nodded, one gave a 'Confirmed' -pointless mutter, and Laslar raised the most peculiar of customized weapons over the rubble he hid behind.
A 'Tri-Fold Plasma Archer'- the nastiest gun Laslar had ever used -it spat out thrice kicks, and nine bolts of green energy dug into and around the two windows of the office building- the ground rumbled while the three soldiers stormed down the pavement.
Standing from cover- Laslar slowly advanced down the street after them- gun raised, pumping more munitions into the space where the Brotherhood dogs supposedly were hiding.
Right as he started to duck back down for cover behind more debris- a hollow thud echoed from the building, and a chunk of concrete behind him flew out from the road with a tearing grind of soil and dust.
"-Damn it!" He cursed, hearing a whimsical breeze by the side of his helmet from how close the Gauss shell had come to hitting him.
"Alright, Luft- shoot!"
"Firing."
CLK
CLK
CLK
"Squad, advance!"
They had cleared another few feet- and then, one of the glass doors that led to the lower, ground floor of the office building -flung aside, and out stepped a man garbed in silvery, gray T-45 Power Armor, his arms sagging from the grip on a two-handed weapon that was almost as big as he was.
Laslar fumbled on his footing, swung his arm at the soldiers next to him, and started yelling.
"GATLING LASER! GET OFF THE ROAD! OFF THE ROAD!"
SHSKSHSKSHSKSHSKSHSKSHSK
The Gatling laser hissed violently- a trail of glowing crimson cut across the small lot in front of the office building- down the street, and narrowly into the Enclave soldiers.
"-I'm hit!" Someone in the three bodied group confirmed, all three soldiers ducking and back peddling behind a stack of smashed, burnt automobile corpses.
When the Brotherhood Paladin saw his lack of opportunity to kill the regular soldiers- he turned the arch of the laser onto Laslar and his customized Tesla suit.
The refraction fields protecting his armor flickered, and a horrible dent sounded from his shoulderplate as his apparel soaked up a glancing hit from the energy munitions chewing the road up. Laslar pressed his back to a flipped over car's underside.
"-Brotherhood scum!" He cried, waiting for the fire to subsist, he swung over the front rim of the car's underside- and lined up the shot as the Paladin started to back up into the door of the building.
His Plasma Archer fired twice, and six bolts of luminescent green surged forth.
The Paladin's grayed armor grew red- his left arm vanished in a cloudy burst of crimson, tossed debris and chunks of metal. Laslar heard the screaming from where he was- glanced back from cover briefly to observe the Paladin fall with streams of blood curling in the air from the stub of his shoulder.
The gray armored body convulsed and writhed like an earthworm a child had dug up and severed in half to watch.
Pulling back again, he waved his arm forward, and two of the three soldiers stood from their cover to pepper the window where the other Brotherhood member still was hidden. The third man held a burnt welt on his suit's gut, breathing heavily.
Ignoring them- Laslar stood in the center of the road and aimed for the window, when it erupted in a bout of blue fire- tendrils of flame licking out from all the sills nearby and scorching the rims, casting out flimsy, black debris all over.
Lowering his gun, he turned back to see six more individuals stalking down the street behind them- three of them were clad in Hellfire armor, and the leader had an Incinerator held in his gauntlets. Obviously, sergeant Ruffous.
"About time, Beta-Alpha..." Laslar grumbled, watching the burning windows. "I've one KIA and one wounded."
"Returning, sir?" Luft asked through the vox.
"Get back here, we're pressing to the objective."
"Aye."
"Beta-Alpha? Good news, you're being reassigned."
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