13-37 watched the blip that represented 8-1-12 fade from existence, the destroyer briefly dipping its head before ordering an alpha to dispose of what it could only assume was a mangled carcass. While the brash centurion had strode into battle believing itself a god 13-37 had watched the armored fleshlings with a strategic eye. Now that same eye pondered at the small group of fleshlings exiting the machine storage complex that had proved 8-1-12's grave. How unfortunate that such a prime machine was to fall to mere fleshlings. No matter really as 13-37 had gathered valuable data as well as tapped into the tracker imbedded in the fleshling designated Trost that its late centurion had implanted during their fatal duel. Soon these fleshlings would lead the destroyer to the other fleshlings. Then 13-37 would do what it did best…obliterate them all.

Ivan set the woman down as Caitlyn rummaged through the medical bag the big man had been carrying. "Look lady, just forget me ok? Tell the big guy to give me some scotch and a sidearm and get moving." Ivan looked up from Caitlyn's radio.

"Shut up Emily. Find anything useful?" the sheriff produced a needle and thread, Ivan grimacing before placing the radio beside his massive frame and scooting over to Trost, the man unscrewing a canteen that Caitlyn assumed was filled with alcohol. "Look at me you crazy, suicidal bitch. None of us are going to leave anyone here. I don't care if I have to drag your broken ass out of this fucking death trap with nothing but my bare hands to fight the battlecasts none of us are dying in this shithole today." The blonde smiled her white teeth at odds with the grime that had accumulated on the rest of her face and neck.

"That's no way to talk to your C.O. asshole. Now give me that canteen and I'll forget you ever said that shit." Ivan looked at the sheriff the woman nodding as she threaded the needle. In all honesty Caitlyn was going to need a few drinks as well. Ever since she was a little kid, blood, especially human blood had freaked her out to the point at which she had been forced to look away from each and every death on the rift. Ivan placed a strong hand on her shoulder, the gruff Zuanite gesturing to begin as Trost placed the thick, leather coated canteen lid in her mouth. The man wrenched the power armor from Trost's chest, the woman grunting as impounded metal was torn from the gaping wound in her side. Caitlyn gulped down some bile before inching towards the laceration. Seeing how long this would take Trost spat out the canteen lid and grasped Caitlyn's arm.

"Oh for fucks sake, give me that!" Gritting her teeth the blonde began the task of closing the wound inflicted by the centurion, the sheriff turning away to wretch in the corner of the run down candy store. "And…done. How's the radio coming?"

"If you hadn't challenged a fucking centurion to a dual we'd have your helmet to find Jayce with instead of trying to fix this…got it!" The static of the police radio suddenly bust into commands and gunfire, Ivan hoisting his machine gun as Trost pulled herself up on shaky feet and rammed her chestplate back on. "Jayce you there?" The radio spat static back at the Zaunite before responding with '82nd street…pinned down…Go,go,go!' "Shit. Caitlyn help Trost out. Sounds like they could use a few more guns."

The mangled head of 8-1-12 snapped back into its proper spot, the enchanted iron stitching itself back together as the centurion stood up. Its tracking signal appeared to still be off line. Not that it mattered much. It could still track that fleshling. In an odd way 8-1-12 almost admired the fleshling for her bravery and strength. 13-37 would have labeled it as a foolish fleshling, attempting to fight its way to survival. 8-1-12 however would not have minded the survival of that particular fleshling. Perhaps, it thought, a fleshling of such merit could find a place in the Glorious Evolution. Its cognators were briefly reminded of Faust and his disgusting pet centurion, 8-1-12 dismissing the idea of any fleshling ever interacting with a machine in a healthy manner. No, it seemed that fleshlings and machines had been made for the specific purpose of eradicating each other. Such philosophy made its newly regenerated cognators hurt, 8-1-12 instead focusing on dusting off its armored frame and catching up to its prey.

Lightning arced across a shocktrooper as another fell to a blue plasma blast, the two men who had dispatched of the machines stowed their respective weapons. Behind Jayce and Thorin Walt and the two surviving soldiers ended a destroyer with a hail of bullets the three men reloading as if born to the motion. The elder mage's breathing was getting a bit ragged, after unleashing a lighting blast that cleared 82nd street of all mechanical warriors the mage had fought ferociously with twin lightning charged axes against a tide of shocktroopers that seemed to follow every engagement with their iron foes. Their captive, Elle as it called itself, was soon lifted by the remaining soldiers as an alpha rounded the corner, Jayce signaling for the others to retreat up the skyscraper that was their extraction point. He braced himself, knowing full well that a single mistake would end with the leader of the strike force ripped apart by the tank rending blades on the alpha's arms. The machine seemed to know it as well, the alpha rushing forward at top speed as Jayce crouched slightly, his weapon reconfiguring into hammer form. Jayce inhaled, his helmet amplifying the slight intake before the vents hissed with the man's exhalation. His grip tightened slightly, the titanic machine carving through ash laden air as it ploughed forward. The machine's red eyes gleamed as ash and rubble launched into the air, its bladed arm carving a trench through what had once been a proud defender of Piltover. As the blades stopped whirring the machine cocked its head. Instead of blood and flesh staining its iron blades they were sparkling in the slight rays of sunlight that had managed to penetrate the now perpetual ash cloud over the ruined city. Its confusion didn't last long though, the mercury hammer caving in the tank slayer's head before the iron scorpion could register the thing on its back. Jayce let out a quick sigh before joining Walt and Thorin in the hotel plaza. He could only imagine the shit eating grin on Walt's face as the smuggler propped open the door, Thorin sweeping the street with an assault rifle before following Jayce. "You're a damned fool. That thing could have torn you to shreds." Jayce nodded, his helmet concealing the curtain of sweat that had descended upon his forehead just before he leapt over the alpha's strike.

"You guys would have saved me." Walt swept the landing of the eighth floor before answering.

"Nah I'd have just taken that fancy hammer of yours from your mangled corpse. Probably get a good bit of gold for that, eh?" The smuggler received a punch in the shoulder from Thorin in response, the older man wearing a broad grin under his cowl as the three continued their assent.

"Either of you get anything from Ivan or Trost?"

"Nope. Comms are open though so they know where we are." Jayce swore under his breath, a mass of red blips advancing towards the center of the holographic map on his HUD, the defender deftly switching from hammer to cannon.

"Lock and load. We have company."

Caitlyn watched the blonde woman fiddle with her armor for a moment before turning her attention back to the swarm of shocktroopers. Behind the sniper Ivan stood up, his monstrous weapon held at the ready. "How many are there?"

"A lot more than we can kill…" The big man looked away, eyebrows knitting as if trying to decide what to do. A pained shuffling broke the silence.

"My med unit finally kicked in. Let's get the hell out of here." Ivan shook his head but didn't bother trying to argue, instead offering Trost his arm which she took with evident relief.

8-1-12 watched the fleshlings scurry towards the hotel that marked the largest standing structure in the western quadrant of Piltover. Two females with one male. If not for the power armor adorning two of them the machine might have mistaken the fleshlings for a 'family'. It had always marveled at fleshling loyalties to such frivolous things. A last glance gave the machine a new reason to slay this particular group of fleshlings. Although its data banks were a bit foggy but there was no mistaking that rifle. Soon 8-1-12 would pay that bitch back for putting it out of commission for so long. Drawing its collapsible blades the machine slid from its hiding spot, blazing red eyes fixated on the towering structure the fleshlings had recently scampered into.

To the smuggler standing on top of a building as swarms of iron crab-man-things rushed their position was anathema in the extreme. His whole life, from his first memories as an urchin in Bilgwater to smuggling various less than scrupulous items across Valoran, he had been running. To dig in like this just seemed so…pointless. They would gain nothing from expending their last few rounds and as he had overhead another soldier say it was highly likely that there simply was no extraction team. The appearance of a destroyer only made things worse. Its first shot vaporized the elevator's steam vent along with one of the six men remaining on the rooftop. Soon only four remained as the destroyer unleashed a second blast followed by a third which barely missed Thorin, the mage cursing wildly before plunging his axes into the ground, lightning arcing along the steel before erupting under the first shocktrooper in the advancing wall of iron. Metal rained down on Walt's helmet as the mage's attack devastated their enemies. Of course as soon as he peaked over his cover to look at the damage more machines had filled the places of the fallen, their previous inexorable march becoming a frenzied skitter as each machine attempted to avenge their fallen brethren. A nameless man, Walt had never really bothered to learn much about his compatriots, erupted in a magnificent crimson shower as a rocket hit his battered armor in the chestplate, the blast soon echoed by a projectile of far more significant power soaring down from the perpetual ash cloud that hung over Piltover's carcass like a distraught mourner. The missile was soon followed by the gleaming bulk of a gunship, the valiant machine spitting autocannon fire into the now retreating ranks of the battlecast, its engines rotating to hold the silver machine in a hover above the roof as cables attached to the yordles of the Megling Commandos descended. At first it seemed as if the battle cast would rally and crush the intruders, the destroyer raising its crimson palm to the gunship. The soldiers behind the destroyer had other plans, the crack of a high-caliber sniper rifle signifying the end of its existence, the veteran destroyer collapsing in on itself before erupting in a shower of sparks and metal shards. Suddenly leaderless the shocktroopers momentarily froze, the highly trained yordle soldiers taking the brief pause to rip them apart in a rapid burst of shells from their odd weapons. For the first time since getting in the transport outside Bandle City Jayce grinned, Corki's familiar voice crackling over the squad's comms. "Thought you guys could use a bit of help. Climb aboard, ya'll are getting something a bit cushier to do." Jayce magclipped his hammer to his back, grin becoming a broad smile as he saw Caitlyn standing between Trost and Ivan.

"Don't have to tell me twice." He removed his helmet, Caitlyn returning his smile as their gazes met. "Need a lift?"

"Nice to see you too, Jayce." The sound of heavy metal steps and screaming suddenly averted their attention, a mangled yordle flying over the vent units that obscured a good quarter of the roof from the gunship's cannons. Jayce suddenly grabbed Caitlyn, the winches aboard the dropship rapidly hauling them to safety. The yordle crew attempting to move the captured centurion close enough for the cables to pull it up wasn't so lucky. The first one fell back, his fur stained red as a railgun receded from the centurion's back, the machine flourishing its blades before launching itself at the remaining Megling Commandos, those yordles that remained on the gunship rotating its heavy machineguns wildly in an attempt to get a clear shot at the machine. Corki's voice crackled over the comms again; panic furthering its normal distortion.

"We can't stay any longer! Get those cables up were pulling out!" The gunship turned, winches hauling the remaining members of the strike team along with a few Commandos into the shining hull before the afterburners fired, the silver machine disappearing in the ash as the last yordle's blood stained the centurion's blade.

8-1-12 watched the gunship fly into the ash with a vague sense of disappointment. It flicked its blade free of blood and sheathed them, taking note of the fragments of 13-37 as well as the few hundred destroyed shoocktroopers as it fired a few rail gun rounds into the prone form of centurion 51-21-25 out of sheer dislike for the fleshling-esq machine. A slight pleasure at watching its systems fail played about in 8-1-12's mind. More prominent however, was how to explain this situation to the Creator without being disassembled for failure. The simple fact that such a thing could happen, even if the enemy suffered such high casualties was almost unthinkable. Thus its walk back to its base in the center of Piltover was fraught with defensive planning and analysis of the power armor worn by the invaders. By the time it kneeled before the hologram of the creator a hundred ways to kill a fleshling in such armor cycled in its head. "Creator, the invaders have escaped." Viktor nodded thoughtfully.

"What did you say they looked like again?" If the centurion found this an odd question it never displayed such thoughts.

"Fleshlings in silver, blue and gold hextech armor. The leader wielded a hammer."

"And they had yordle allies?"

"Affirmative. Megling Commandos dispatched from Bandle City."

"Report to Zaun at once…next time Jayce will not escape us."

"Affirmative."