12:41, TUESDAY AUGUST 24, LIMA (20:41/24-08-99 ZULU)
SUMMERS RESIDENCE
Xander shut the Suburban's engine off and glanced over at his two friends, unlocking his jaw for the first time since they'd left Oz's hospital room. "We're here. Will, can you walk?" His voice was husky.
"I... I think so," she sniffled.
He nodded. That's what I thought. Sighing, he got out of the four-wheel-drive and went around to the passenger door. Opening it to let Buffy step down, he helped Willow out and quickly caught her by the waist when her knees wavered. "C'mon. Buff, is your guest room still free?"
"If it's not, it will be," she promised.
Joyce had heard them pull up, and now flung the front door open, alarm writ deep upon her face as she took in Willow's condition. "Honey, what happened?" she asked her daughter.
"Nothing demon-y," Buffy said with a shake of her head, motioning for the elder Summers to clear the way to let Xander help Willow inside. As the duo headed for the stairs, the Slayer sighed, took her mother into the kitchen, and started telling the whole sad story.
Upstairs, Xander gently eased his friend down onto the guest room's bed, then sat down beside her. "Better, Will?"
"A... a little," she nodded. She was a wreck: she'd cried away most of her energy, and her face reflected that.
"You gonna be okay if I leave you here with Buffy and Joyce for a while?" he asked gently.
"I guess. Why? Where are you going?"
"Off to squeeze Willy. I've done enough damage here for one day."
He was almost to the door when her voice came after him, tiny but clear. "Xander...."
He stopped in his tracks, then slowly turned to face her again. "Yeah, Will?"
"Thanks. For what you tried to do back there."
"I figured it'd be easier for him to forgive you if I was the villain," he shrugged. "It was worth a shot."
She paused for a moment, visibly debating whether to ask her next question. "If... if you could take back what happened that night... would you?"
"If it meant you'd be happy, yes. Otherwise, not a chance in hell."
She blinked, not expecting the unhesitating answer... or its adamantine certainty. "But...."
Man, I'm really pushing my luck now.... crossed his mind as he went back to where she sat, crouched down in front of her, and cupped her cheek in one hand, brushing a tear back from her eye with a callused thumb. "Look, Willow.... Do I regret the ways that night has hurt other people? Of course... but I could never regret that it was you and me that first time. Never. Some things are... some things are just right, in here." He tapped his heart.
"Oh...." Willow's tear-reddened eyes were very, very wide.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he leaned up and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Try and rest a little, okay? I'll be back soon."
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
In a reversal of roles that proved the universe's sense of humour to Xander once again, Buffy was leaning against the corridor wall when he emerged, with a slightly bemused look on her face.
He raised a hand to forestall any comment. "Before you say anything, Buff: I'm sorry. That 'loyal breed' thing was out of line."
"A-apology accepted," she nodded, still a little out of it.
"And whatever you heard or think you heard, it stays right here, understand?"
The Slayer blinked at that order (for order it was), but did not demur. "So now what?"
"Stay with her, okay? I'm gonna go 'talk' to Willy, maybe work out some of my frustrations," he shrugged, with a smile that was a hollow ghost of its normal self.
"Maybe I should do that -"
"If I stay with her at a time like this, this whole thing would get a hell of a lot messier before it's over. She's looking for someone to cling to, Buff, and with all the stuff I've got to deal with right now, I would not be a good choice. I'm not going to add to the damage that way. I'll see you in a couple of hours, 'kay?"
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
13:17, AUGUST 24, LIMA (21:17/24-08-99, ZULU)
WILLY'S
Calling Willy Stanton a weasel might have been a slur on the good name of universal weaseldom, but no-one could ever call him stupid. He'd heard and read about the shootout the previous night; now he saw the Harris kid coming through the bead-curtain in the doorway, dressed like a SWAT-man (Xander had changed back into the quasi-uniform he'd worn at the gallery) and visibly not happy. The times, they were a'changin', and Willy had absolutely no intention of being the second man to die at this young man's hand in twenty-four hours. He was going to be a good little boy and hope he came out of this with most of his skin. "Wh-what can I get'cha, son?"
"I'm not your son, Willy." Xander smiled like a shark scenting blood as he laid both hands flat on the bar. "And I'm really not in the mood for small talk."
"Yeah, I, uh, heard you had some trouble over at the Watcher's place."
"Yeah, we did - hence the no-small-talk mood. What do you know about the kid in the park?"
"Nuttin'," the bartender shrugged, glancing about at his patrons nervously. He really didn't like the feel of this -
Xander's left hand lashed up, seized Willy by the hair, and brought his face down on the counter, hard. There was a wicked crunch as the man's nose broke, and Willy squawked. Dragging Willy's head up again, Xander brought up the right hand that had retrieved his Recon-One from his front pocket and laid the razor-edge of the four-inch blade against the man's throat just under his right jaw. "You're not my type, Willy - so don't try to fuck with me," he smiled nastily, shifting the blade just enough to start a trickle of blood. "Take two: the kid in the park."
"I tell ya, I don't know!" the man gabbled. "Everybody's askin' the question - nobody knows the answer. Whatever did that ain't come here, and it ain't gonna, neither."
"Now, why don't I believe you?" the Slayerette asked. One of the vampires at the back of the room shifted in his seat, and Xander transfixed him with a look. "You move again, mate, and I measure you for a thimble!"
"You think I'd serve something that did a thing like that?" Willy protested, oozing genuine outrage even as the blood ran down his face. "I ain't no saint, kid, but even I got scruples. The vampires that come in here? The blood they drink here is blood they ain't sucking outta somebody's neck in an alley. This is neutral turf: they come in here to shoot the breeze, tell a couple'a Slayer stories, have some drinks - not conquer the world or murder kids."
"So where would that sort of crowd go?" Xander asked, deceptively idly.
"Place called Umbra, Garrison Street. Used ta be a biker bar, but it got too rough for most of 'em. It's the Wild West in dere, makes the Mos Eisley Cantina look like a kindergarden."
"Really? I know a couple of people who'd just love it," he smiled. "When do they open?"
"'Bout nine."
"Thanks, Willy. I appreciate your candour." Xander released the terrified barman, took a napkin from a pile on the bar, and wiped his knife clean before folding it away again. After handing Willy a couple more for his nose, he produced his wallet, counted out four fifties, and laid them on the counter. "Sorry about your face, but I've been having a bad day."
Willie moderated his angry glare - he really didn't want an encore performance. "Don't worry about it." Hesitating, he swept up two of the bills and let the other two lie. At Xander's quirked eyebrow, he shrugged, "I got a niece dat kid's age. Like I said, even I got scruples. And one more thing: if you wanna walk inta Umbra and come out breathing - walk soft, and carry an Uzi."
"Willy, the way I'm feeling, they're gonna need the Uzi. But if you're certain, I think I can make arrangements." Xander smiled... in a fashion.
Willy put his free hand to the seeping cut over his jugular, then he too smiled... in a fashion.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
17:23, AUGUST 24, LIMA (01:23/25-08-99 ZULU)
SUNNYDALE HOSPITAL
"Mrs McKellar, this is a very bad idea," Felicity Chu repeated, trying to bar the older woman's way.
McKellar spared the girl a cold look. Someone had brought some things from her hotel room, and she'd replaced her ruined skirt and jacket with a black trouser-suit that concealed the bandages wrapping her thigh (as well as her Gyurzas, one in her shoulder-holster, the other tucked into the back of her waistband), but she couldn't put much weight on her wounded leg and had to lean on a crutch to get around. That was incredibly draining, and with that on top of the day she'd had, she was in no mood to be lectured by some girl half her age who thought a piece of paper hung on her wall gave her the right to bully her elders. "With all respect for your qualifications, nurse, I don't like hospitals. I've had a number of bad experiences with the public health-care system, and I don't care to remain in its hands one moment longer than I have to. My leg is entirely stitched up, I'll be riding in a cab rather than driving, and the first thing I'll do when I get back to my hotel room will be sleep for about fifteen hours, so either give me a prescription for painkillers or just get out of my way."
"Mrs McKellar, procedure obliges us to keep you overnight for observation," Chu pointed out, with a calm she didn't feel. Jesus, and I thought doctors were arrogant!
"Be damned to your procedure," the Welshwoman snapped. "I'll not stay here to be examined like a lab-rat over a simple flesh-wound. Now give me the paperwork to sign so I can get out of this place."
"If we release you now, we're opening ourselves to liability claims from your family." Doctor Franklin Galloway, a somewhat rotund African-American man, had the rounds that afternoon, and he really didn't need a malpractice suit on top of the other troubles this town had given him.
"My family are all dead, doctor," Cerian responded, with thinning patience. "If you'd like, I'll sign a waiver. But I will not stay here."
Despite the wide social and authoritative gulf between nurses and doctors, Chu and Galloway shared a glance of complete empathy over this... woman's obstinacy. After a long moment, Galloway let out a breath and nodded to the nurse. "Have an orderly bring up the necessary forms, Felicity." And the sooner we get shot of this woman, the better, he didn't have to add.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
20:27, AUGUST 24, LIMA (04:27/25-08-99 ZULU)
RESTFIELD CEMETARY
Vampires were usually very thin on the ground in Sunnydale during summer. It was a natural consequence of their own dislikes and feeding habits: the longer days didn't really agree with their sleeping habits, and the pickings were leaner as people went away on vacation. Few people in their right mind came to a town like Sunnydale for a holiday.
Thankfully, those vampires who were dumb enough to stay in Sunnydale over summer were also dumb enough to roam the streets when the Slayer was in one of the foulest tempers in recorded history. When one considered that she'd been venting all her Angel-angst on them since graduation, that was saying something.
This particular vampire had suffered what self-defence gurus shed crocodile tears over as one of the cardinal lapses of the urban predator: 'catastrophic failure of the victim-selection process'. Spencer Burke had taken the petite, harmless-looking blonde girl at face value. He could, perhaps, be forgiven the error: he hadn't bothered with newspapers since FDR died, so he hadn't seen the girl's picture attached to the tale of the art-gallery skirmish, and the rumours on the street about the Slayer were vague, contradictory, and generally useless.
None of which helped him right now.
Even as the demon staggered away from her first blow, Buffy seized him by collar and cuff, pivoted, and heaved, sending Burke half-flying into the side of a crypt - forehead-first. His face left a dent in the concrete. Even vampire resilience couldn't withstand that sort of blow, and he was a long moment sorting things out. A moment he didn't have.
Buffy swarmed after her victim. I am so glad you showed up, buddy. I can't kick the hell out of Angel, or Oz, or whoever it is out there with the guns, but for you, it's Slay-time. Willow, completely drained as she was, had fallen asleep not ten minutes after Xander left, and Buffy had left her mother to watch the heartbroken hacker while she went out and exorcised her need to hurt things. Forgoing her normal lots-of-kicks style for a while, she simply grabbed Burke by the shoulder and hammered a right hook into his kidneys. Something cracked, and the vampire's back arched in agonised, involuntary spasm.
Working with your hands is just so much more gratifying, the Slayer thought with fierce, dark enjoyment, yanking Burke around to face her. Even as he wavered, she grabbed him by both lapels and brought his face down swiftly, where it met her fast-rising right knee with another crunch of breaking bone. As he straightened again, she held him upright and drove her balled right fist straight into his face once, twice, thrice. Releasing him, she wound up and nailed him right on the cheekbone with the back of her open hand; she felt things give as she connected, and he went a good ten feet before he touched ground, tumbling over a headstone and sprawling on the grass in a particularly ungainly-looking heap.
"Y'know, I hear South Africa's good this time of year," she half-smirked, heading after her victim as he struggled to his feet. "Long nights, lotsa nobodies to snack on," (she drove the heel of her left hand into his sternum, cracking a number of ribs and knocking him flying backwards again) "and greenbacks go a long way."
Burke was back on his feet again a moment later, but even behind the game-face, he looked like he wished he'd gone on vacation. He saw Buffy coming for him again and started to back away, real fear on his features.
As he passed the corner of a crypt, Xander's dark-clad form emerged from behind it. Catching Burke by the near shoulder, he hooked his foot in front of the vampire's ankles and pushed on his shoulder, hard. Burke yelped and fell flat on the grass. Xander dropped his knee onto the small of the vampire's back, grabbed his hair, hauled his head back as far as it would go, and brought his right hand forward to drive a stake clean through his victim's spine, heart and sternum forehand. Its tip protruded a good half-inch beyond the front of Burke's shirt for the moment before the vampire vanished into dust.
"Yeah, but the streets in Jo'burg are a killer, Buff," the dark-haired youth pointed out. "Literally. You can buy an AK-47 and ammo for five bucks."
"Their NRA must love that," she drawled. "Nice work. What's up?"
"I've got a sniff about the kid, but I figured I might need some backup when I chased it up. Willy says the place we're going to gets kinda... lively."
"Nice idea, but maybe we should check on Willow before -"
He cut her off with a head-shake. "I stopped by your place on my way here. She's still asleep, thank the stars, and your mom's not going anywhere."
Buffy raised an eyebrow at his forethought, but said nothing, instead waving an 'after you'.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
21:12, AUGUST 24, LIMA (05:12/25-05-99 ZULU)
UMBRA
Jeez. Willy wasn't kidding! Xander realised dazedly.
Though Umbra had opened its doors barely ten minutes ago, it was already a third full, and neither teen thought they'd see a rougher, uglier, nastier collection of humans, vampires, demons and beasties this side of a maximum security prison. A massive, boar-faced Frag'chal acted as door-demon, its bristly arms bared by its leather jerkin, its beady eyes fixed on the two young humans suspiciously, one fore-trotter hooked through its belt not far from the grips of a scarred wooden club and a Desert Eagle .50AE that looked like a derringer against its owner's titanic frame. The overhead lights were far apart and dim, the air was already thick with smoke (tobacco and other kinds), and the floorboards were stained from ten years' worth of spilled food, drinks, and other substances probably better left unidentified. Just in front of the bar, a vampire and a snake-skinned Ventros demon suddenly surged to their feet, knocking over their card-table to go for each other's throats. Two Latino-looking biker-type humans with really evil-looking tattoos turned away from the bar and started cheering on the fighters, and other patrons quickly joined in.
"Oh, boy," Buffy said in a much-put-upon voice.
Xander sucked in a breath and shifted mental gears. If the two of them played nice-nice in this place, what these guys would leave of them wouldn't be worth the cost of mailing home. This was big-dog territory, and the only way they'd get anywhere - including out the door again - was if everyone thought they could bite. "Follow my lead, Buff," he murmured, then started projecting his best tough-guy persona. "Ten bucks on the copperhead," he quipped in a louder voice, watching the two creatures wrestle back and forth across the floor.
As though his words were a signal, all conversation died and every eye in the place turned their way. Even the fight stopped as the two combatants realised that they had two normal-world humans in their midst. After a moment, most eyes went to some pieces of paper tacked to the back wall, next to the payphone.
Buffy followed the looks and raised an eyebrow. Glaring back the demons in her path, who watched her passage with a mix of bloodlust and sullen resentment, she walked over to the payphone and leaned on its plastic surround as she read; Xander stood at her shoulder and, after taking in the posters at a glance, looked back out at the patrons, his gaze flat.
{ WANTED - SLAYERS } read the header on the larger of the homemade posters. Underneath were sketches of both Buffy and Faith, the latter rougher and less detailed. Each was captioned with the girl's name and { REWARD: $75,000 ($250,000 alive) }.
A second poster was headed, { WANTED - SCOOBY GANG }. Below was a five-panel rogue's gallery.
{ WATCHER - RUPERT GILES. REWARD: $50,000 }
{ WITCH - WILLOW ROSENBERG. REWARD: $45,000 ($150,000 alive) }
{ WEREWOLF - 'OZ'. REWARD: $40,000 ($120,000 alive) }
{ 'XANDER' HARRIS. REWARD: $20,000 }
{ CORDELIA CHASE. REWARD: $20,000 }
Two of the pictures - Cordelia's and Xander's - had been circled in green marker that looked a few weeks old. Giles' picture had been crossed out in red ink that had been there only a few hours.
"This explains the gunfire," Buffy observed.
"Maybe," Xander shrugged, eyeing the crowd. Several of them were obviously getting ready for trouble. The Ventros, for one, was eyeing the pair with a gleam in his dead black eyes and cracking the knuckles of his seven-fingered hands, the coloured patterns of his scales shifting with his mood. Ah, what the hell. He raised his voice again. "But those posters beg a couple of questions. Who's paying, and..." (he looked the Ventros square in the eye) "... who's gonna collect?"
Baring its fangs, the Ventros started forward, letting out a rattlesnake-like buzz as it came.
"You want him, Xander?" Buffy wondered.
"All yours," he said, waving 'after you'.
It wasn't really a fight. The Ventros launched a hooking left at Buffy's head; she ducked it, caught his wrist, drove her fist into his short ribs. Twisting the arm up and pivoting under it, she swept the snake-demon off his feet in a beautiful throw that dropped him through a table. A solid kick in the snout kept him from getting up too fast, and she planted her foot on his throat to keep him down.
"And thank you for playing 'How Dumb Can I Be?'" Xander chirped over the din, again doing his game-show host routine - though with a steely undertone. "Will our next contestant please step up?"
"Okay, y'all made your point, Slay-kiddies," the (human) bartender declared from beside the cash register, his hands hidden by the counter. "Now git out."
"We came to ask some questions," Buffy declared, prudently leaning down and removing a .45 from the Ventros' waistband before he got any ideas.
"You ain't askin' anybody anything, sweet-cheeks," the redneck sneered - and his hands came back into sight, holding a pump-action shotgun. He racked the slide and levelled the twelve-gauge at the two teenagers, a little below shoulder height. At his post by the door, the Frag'chal hauled out the Desert Eagle and thumbed off the safety. "Now git the fuck outta here, afore Ah git ideas about collectin' those tabs."
As if echoing the sentiment, the majority of the patrons turned their way and cleared for action. One of the Latino bikers brought his own sawn-off pump-action twelve-gauge from under his duster; his companion swung a pair of nickel-plated .44 Magnums to bear. The vampire two stools down slipped a hand-axe from his belt. Another in the booth by Xander's elbow produced a huge Bowie knife from somewhere.
Oh boy, Xander gulped. Individually, he could take any of these guys, weapons or no, and Buffy was one of the ass-kicking-est people he knew, but outnumbered twenty-to-two and them all armed to the teeth (and back)? "Uh, Buff... I think that's our cue."
Taking in the visible hardware, she nodded a little. "Yeah, I guess. But we'll be back."
"Ah don't reckon so," the bartender snorted, jerking his chin at a panel by the door. It bore a pool-style blackboard with two columns; the first column held seven tally marks, the second more than thirty. "Them's is all the bounty hunters as tried to take mah customers. Most of 'em limped out. They had to drag a few. Either of y' comes back ever agin, y'all go on the board."
"Wanna bet?" Xander snorted, joining Buffy and accepting the .45 she offered him. MEU(SOC) version of the Colt M1911A1. Looks like I'm not the only one who's been shopping at the 29th's armoury. Baring his teeth, he leaned down, knocked the Ventros out with a belt of his left fist, then took both spare magazines from its inside pocket. "Thanks, pal."
"Bet?" the redneck sniggered. "Oh, hell yeah. I'll bet that twenty grand that you're worth."
"So if I come in here again and walk out under my own power, you'll throw me a bag holding twenty kay when I get onto the street?" Xander smirked, as he and Buffy backed towards the door. All the glares and weapon-muzzles tracked them as they went. "Free money's always cool."
Once they were out the door and safely around the corner, Xander stuffed the .45 into his belt and cradled his left hand in his right. "OW! Sonofa - You'd think I'd learn, right? Using your fist on somebody's head is a good way to break your own knuckles! Damn, that hurts!"
- * - * - * - * - * - * - * -
TRANSCRIPT OF TACTICAL RADIO INTERCEPT
INTERCEPTED BY: 33RD MEU(SOC) TACTICAL SIG-INT UNIT
TARGET FREQUENCY: S.P.D. PATROL CHANNEL
DATE/TIME: 0858Z (08:58:31/25-08-99, GMT - 00:58:31/25-08-99, PDT)
[Transcriber's notes, based on prior traffic and intel on S.P.D. codes and deployments:
VDG is radio brevity code for S.P.D. Dispatch.
2LS9 is supervisor unit, Sgt. Jack Fenton.
2A7 is two-person patrol car, Cpl. George Wyszynski and Off.(P) Rachel Greyfeather (2A7W).
2L13 is single-officer patrol car, Off. Denise Jordan.]
2LS9: "VDG, this is Two Lincoln Sam Niner, 925 [suspicious individual] corner Daly Place and Masters Avenue, show me Code 6 [leaving vehicle to investigate]."
VDG: "Two Lincoln Sam Niner, copy you Code 6 Daly and Masters."
2A7: "VDG, Two Adam Seven, show us en route to assist Two Lincoln Sam Niner."
2LS9: "Two Lincoln Sam Niner copies. Appreciate the thought."
2A7: "Just remember that the next time we go drinking, Two Lincoln Sam Niner."
2LS9: "*I* can't afford to drink on what I make, much less pay for you too!"
2A7: "You always were a cheapskate, Two Lincoln Sam Niner!"
2LS9: "Huh - says you. 10-23 [stand by], Two Lincoln Sam Niner is Code 6."
[Next 2LS9 transmission: 09:01:06 Zulu.]
2LS9: [excited, over gunshots] "Shots fired, shots fired! Two Lincoln Sam Niner is under -" [transmission ends abruptly]
VDG: "All units, all units, officer-involved shooting corner Daly and Masters, repeat 998 Daly and Masters, Two Adam Seven respond Code 3 [emergency]. Two Lincoln Sam Niner, come in."
2A7: [excited] "Two Adam Seven, responding to 998, Code 3."
2L13: "Two Lincoln Thirteen, responding to 998, Code 3."
VDG: "Roger, Two Adam Seven, Two Lincoln Thirteen. Two Lincoln Sam Niner, come in."
VDG: "VDG to Two Lincoln Sam Niner, come in."
VDG: "Two Lincoln Sam Niner, Code 1 [acknowledge]!"
VDG: "All units, negative contact with Two Lincoln Sam Niner, shots fired and possible officer down Daly and Masters, responding units proceed with caution, Code 77 [possible ambush]."
2A7: "Two Adam Seven, 10-97 [arrived on scene], Code 6."
VDG: "Two Adam Seven, copy Code 6."
2A7: [agitated] "VDG, Two Adam Seven, officer down, officer down! 11-42 [paramedics required], Lincoln Sam Niner is down, say again, Lincoln Sam Niner is down! We - [sickly] oh, good Christ...."
VDG: "Two Adam Seven, repeat last transmission?"
2L13: "Two Lincoln Thirteen, 10-97, Code 6."
VDG: "Two Lincoln Thirteen, copy Code 6. Two Adam Seven, come in."
2L13: [crisp] "VDG from Two Lincoln Thirteen, 187 [murder] and officer down, corner Daly and Masters. 11-42; also requesting Henry unit [Homicide] and 2-Henry-90 [Forensics]; Code 20 [notify media]. 187 victim is Caucasian female, approximately nine years of age; same apparent MO as last night. It looks like Lincoln Sam Niner interrupted the suspect. Two Adam Seven William is attempting to render first aid to Lincoln Sam Niner, but it looks pretty bad. Better tell those paramedics to haul ass."
VDG: "Two Lincoln Thirteen, paramedics en route. Status of Two Adam Seven and Two Lincoln Sam Niner?"
2L13: "Lincoln Sam Niner has suffered multiple GSWs [gunshot wounds] to chest and head. Adam Seven is, uh, temporarily out-of-contact."
VDG: "Two Lincoln Thirteen, say again?"
2L13: "He saw the kid and started puking his guts into the gutter, VDG. Somebody took their time on her with a knife."
2A7W: [worn-down] "VDG from Two Adam Seven William, no rush on that 11-42. Double 187 at Daly and Masters, unknown Caucasian female child and Two Lincoln Sam Niner. They executed him - he was dead long before we got here."
[Transcript ends.]
Chapter End Notes:
Umbra - 'shadow'. (Latin)
Xander's point about the price of arms in South Africa is unfortunately on-target; the Jo'burg ghettos could teach South Central L.A. a thing or two.
The Desert Eagle .50AE was the weapon of choice for the Agents in The Matrix; while it is ferociously powerful, its size, weight and punishing recoil mean that only the largest people can hope to fire one with any sort of accuracy. Despite what you've seen in the movies, any idea of hitting anything while wielding this piece of hand-artillery one-handed is downright preposterous for anyone who isn't built like a Frag'chal.
The differences between the MEU(SOC) M1911A1 and its parent are mainly detail modifications, small-ish ergonomic improvements designed to make the weapon more user-friendly under combat conditions.
SigInt - SIGnals INTelligence, a higher-budget iteration of a radio-band scanner. 33rd MEU(SOC) monitors the SPD band for practice; after all, why waste money on setting up artificial radio traffic for an exercise when you can simply practice on the real thing?