Participants:
| Scene Title | Gingerbread Men II |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The Ferry attempt to rescue Scott Harkness from the governments hands on Staten Island. But there's surprises all around for both the Ferry, FRONTLINE and the soldiers just doing their jobs. |
| Date | April 2, 2011 |
Stretching inland from Staten's eastern shore is Miller Field. Its western expanse is little more than a grassy field, mowed flat and then freshly chalked. Broad lanes course their way down the field in perfect symmetry. Toward the more southern border lie other, far thinner lanes and four broad circles over forty feet in diameter. All of these chalk lanes, lead eastward back toward the shore and an assemblage of structures.
By far the most notable of these structures is a massive double-bay hangar, recently painted with a fresh coat of paint with sheets of heavyweight plastic stapled over its once vacant windows. South of the hangar itself is a large paved lot and two large concrete towers, which now feature floodlights to illuminate the surrounding area.
To the north lies a squat concrete tower topped with a heavily armored bunker. Running from either corner of the hangar are massive earthen walls that intersect at a huge steel security gate facing west into Miller Field proper. The entirely of Miller Field is populated by vehicles and personnel belonging to the National Guard and Stillwater Solutions, the latter of which being a Private Military Company that has been hired to assist with security for the reconstruction of Staten Island.
It's raining. In New York City. At night. The least surprising thing to have happen.
Water makes a shine on the flanks of the plane sitting pretty on the wet tarmac, and with all the capability of those Horizon helmets, the running water probably doesn't generate too much of a problem when repelled rivulets course their way over metal and glass. They resemble action figures, with their state of the art weaponry and defense, while the soldiers that mill around at least show their faces as ordinary men and women, caps used to stave off the fall of water. Broad flooding lights shine from the hangars and towers to expose the field of asphalt.
Megan is alone. Or at least, theoretically alone. Above her head, perched upon a branch, an owl keeps watch with keen ears and night vision, ready to alert her if someone approaches in her hiding place in the treeline. And so when the sound of Raith's approach reaches its ears, and then Megan's ears, it only looks, and does not make a sound. No need to give warning that a trusted ally is returning from whence he came.
She can judge that it's a twenty, maybe thirty second decent run to get close to the truck squeaking to a halt at the waiting plane, and the two FRONTLINE officers that step out of it and onto the tarmac, under the silver rain. Twenty, thirty seconds isn't a long time for every soldier in the vicinity to turn and start shooting for lack of better distraction. Twenty, thirty seconds made double if they're able to grab the man being manhandled out the back by two soldiers, his head in a hood and his hands bound behind his back, seemingly a little sedated in his slow trudge and drag. Run for the trees, out the fences they cut through.
If only it could be that easy.
It's with some amount of huffing and puffing that Raith makes his reappearance from parts elsewhere: It would hardly be surprising if he ran the entire distance from their escape vehicle, around the field to another spot on the grounds to conduct a little sabotage, and then back again. That's also why he had Megan carry most of his gear to her current waiting spot. "Right on schedule," the ex-spy remarks, briefly removing the water-repellent hat from his head to shake it off before returning it. Immediately after, he unzips the small duffel bag and digs in, throwing on his equipment harness and trading his MP5 for a much beefier weapon, an M-14 rifle. "What'd I miss while I was gone?" is asked as he slams a magazine into his weapon and loads it, before his turns his attention to the watch on his wrist.
Squatted in the dark night on the edge of a tarmac she knows as well as she knows Pollepel Island, Megan's red hair is hidden beneath a black hat that can be pulled down to a mask later. Although her pale skin has blacking on it, the rainwater is not fun. She watches through a pair of binoculars, squatted low with her M-14 sitting on the ground next to her in easy reach, and murmurs as he rejoins her, "Christ, that's a lot of soldiers." Blowing out a low breath, she asks, "Anything in that bag got a long enough range to have one person taking out the floods from here?" Weaponry is not necessarily her strongest point, but she knows a decent bit.
A heavy metallic thud sounds out as the boots of FRONTLINE officer 01-06 hops down from the truck and onto the ground, knees bending just a touch to take the impact before straightening back up. Curtis' helmeted head turns, panning around at soldiers, surroundings, then up towards approaching plane before he steps forwards. Webbing stretched across the back of his chest piece holds spare a set of holstered pistols, spare clips for the G36 in his hands, as well as a compact P-90 and spare clips for it as well.
He steps forwards, a slow stride that carries him closer to the other soldiers milling around. His head turns the entire time, scanning around him, watching the edges of the tarmac especially, though the rain makes it rather difficult to spot movement in the darkness out there. He grumbles lightly in his helmet, complaining about rain and the noise it makes as it patters off of the metal of his helmet. He glances to the side at Emerson briefly before returning his attention to the edges of the tarmac.
Though it can't be seen on Hannah Emerson's face, she's nervous and trying her best not to show it. Despite it, she tries to look relaxed - or at least as relaxed as one can look when akwardly standing in the back of a transport stop. So, it's a silent relief that washes over the woman as the vehicle comes to a stop, a plodding step and a similar thud hearlding FRONTLINE 01-02's exit from the vehicle's rear. Sparser for munitions than her counterpart, the compact pistol at her side and F2000 pullpup assult rifle held tightly in hand showing she's no less prepared for the task at hand. Really, as well as the rain runs down her helmet's visor, the only other thing she could help for at the moment is a little windshield wiper built right into the front. Failing that? Some luck and a hope that the night goes well.
"Just me," is Raith's reply to Megan's question, "Delta Force with a Marksman badge for rifles, and some other systems. For as much good as it'll do." Briefly, he takes his attention away from his watch and moves it to looking through a pair of small binoculars. "I've seen five fifty-six rounds bounce off that FRONTLINE armor at close range, so here's hoping a larger bullet will do the job. Ought to knock them down, at least."
The binoculars are put down, and once again, the ex-spy looks at his wristwatch. Not long now. "You think they'll enjoy my light show? Usually have to cancel them if there's a breeze. Any town downwind catches fire."
Megan glances up at him with a grim smile. "With your little diversion, if you can take out those floods, we might gain ourselves an extra 15 or 20 seconds while the ones not wearing those helmets get their thumbs stuck up their asses," she observes. "But it's your call — I'm just a pair of hands tonight." She turns her gaze back out over the flightline. She feels like she should …. have something more to say. But she's given Raith every bit of intel on ingress and egress points on this base that she could possibly remember from the months of staying here with Chicago Air. "Harkness better say thank you before he starts cussing and bitching," she murmurs.
Scott Harkness will be sure to say thank you. After bitching about the unecessary risks that were taken to save him. Of the time and energy expended not to mention munitions and weapons that could otherwise have been saved ot be spent defending the Ferryman as a whole instead of as a single person.
Scott resists, in his sedated state the shuffle stops, weight thrown backwards, making it hard on the soldiers who are escorting him, two on either side. More come from out of the transport that the two FRONTLINERS and scott emerged from.
That just earns him a jab in the ribs a crack to the head from a soldier that makes him stumble and list forward, stretching out the time it will take for them to get him onto the plane. From where the Ferry are, they can't hear what's said, the orders barked out deep and clipped
.Emerson and Curtis can, the highest ranking soldier there turning to the two. "Keep an eye out. If shit goes down soldiers, you get this man back in the god damned truck and make sure he doesn't get taken. Do you understand me soldiers!?" The silver haired soldier barks to the two in the Horizon armor.
It's a good thing he gives that instruction to the two FRONTLINE soldiers now. Because maybe they won't know what to do, when shit goes down in the next moment.
The explosion is deafening, even if it's not within a scope that sends fire and concussive energy towards the asphalt field — only light, the sudden bloom of roaring fire that smolders like an oversized ember with pitch black rolling for the sky. A second makes the entire airfield shake and shiver, a golden orange light filtering in beneath the glare of flood lights to settle into a distant and very fast burning glow. Megan and Raith are in range to hear a solider exclaim: "Holy fuck, was that the— "
And then the pounding of boots as soldiers move, and though protocol doesn't abandon the tarmac completely free of personnel, nonessential staff go running for the direction of where the fuel tanks just went sky high, spreading fire, heat, in such intensity that it doesn't seem like the rain will make a lick of difference.
Curtis rolls one shoulder upwards, a soft hiss of hydraulics accompanying the motion. He steps forwards a few more times, then stops, and turns as he hears the thud of the prisoner being struck in the head. "Keep a hold on your agression soldier." He barks out, his voice amplified by his helmet, his tone crisp. His helmeted head turns back towards the ranking military man barking orders at… him and Emerson, and his encased head tilts to the side a hair, regarding the man.
"We are well aware of our orders and more than prepared to react should the situation get difficult. Shouting orders at us that we're already aware of won't make any difference… sir." His voice level and his tone neutral as he speaks, the suit making sure he's heard. He turns though, away from the man, regarding the edge of the tarmac, eyes flickering from place to place, constantly looking for potential threats.
There's no panic from FRONTLINE 01-06 when the explosions go off. He does drop down to one knee though, his eyes closing to block out the flares of light, then opening after a few seconds, gun trained on the outskirts of the airfield. His assault rifle is up, and the butt of it held against his shoulder, sweeping about steadily, scanning for targets, and secretly hoping that none present themselves too quickly, after all, he and Emerson need to at least make it look like they tried.
Hannah can't help but wince when the prisoner is struck as well, shaking her head over at the soldier. But Curtis does a good enough job of chastising the solider. Her free hand clenches into a fist for a moment as she looks aroundm listening to Curtis bark his reply. "Calm down, Autumn. He's just doing his job," is something she offers in turn, looking to look at him, The helmet makes it hard to share sympathetic expression, but she does her best to will the feeling over to him. "We're all a little tense here, nothing's going to work out as long as-"
Well, hat thought goes unfinished as the night sky suddenly lights up, Emerson instinctively looking away as to not gain spots in her eyes, never mind the visual protections added by her helmet. "Shit," is a simply curse, muttered as her rifle rises up in time with Curtis, head swivling around as she keeps an eye out for hostiles. She knows they're coming, but it's always best to keep a fresh look around you. "Eyes peeled and ahead, soldier. Don't let them catch you offguard. Let's give them something to remember, hmm?" Make it look like they tried, indeed.
"Pair of hands with a gun is most helpful. Ten seconds." That was earlier: Ten second later, and suddenly it's- "Showtime!"
Ignoring the erupting flames as best he can, Raith seizes the moment to dash out of cover, stopping after a few feet- best to do it before someone sees him and decides that interdiction is called for- and raising his rifle to his shoulder. It's a somewhat haphazard shot, targeting one of the regular soldiers and aiming, perhaps perplexingly, for a relatively less-lethal shot to the hip. A quick adjustment to the side, and another round goes out towards another soldier's hindquarters. They may never walk again, meaning that someone will have to drag them out of the line of fire. And Raith is charging on again, stopping periodically to throw a round or two downrange to provide encouragement for ducking.
Dark though it is, the flash hider affixed to the end of the M-14's barrel works pretty good, and the flames from the muzzle are unlikely to be noticed. Except perhaps by someone specifically looking for them.
"Goddamn Jensen," Megan breathes in awe. And then as fast as she can go, she's hot on Raith's heels, rifle yanked to her shoulder and her tactical belt carrying clips of ammo for the rifle and the pistol that's strapped to her leg along with several incendiary grenades. She's not a crack shot, and as they come to a halt at an angle to one another, Megan fires one direction while Raith handles the other so they're spraying bullets in a wide field, hers lower to the ground than his just because she's figuring if she gets lucky and hits any of those soldiers in the knees, their legs are unlikely to be armored. And because she's not a crack shot, she puts more bullets out there than he does.
There's plenty of soldiers to shoot, must be fifteen in all in and around, not to mention more that will be further in on the airfield but not on the tarmac. How many soldiers does Horizon armor count as? Sarisa Kershner could likely tell you but she's not here, and there's a light show going up over the fuel which cuts down the count to at least six or seven in and around. Two of which are still holding onto scott, stunned at what's happening. In that moment though, they're turning, heading towards the truck, expectation that the Frontliners will cover them, protect them while they move the asset back to the truck, the mans feet stumbling and half dragging at times. One minute, maybe one and a half if they're lucky and scott starts co-operating with them in going back to the van.
But he doesn't, suddenly rearing up, digging heels in on his slippers and tugging back, resisting.
Elsewhere on the airfield, there's one soldier, gunshots going wild as he takes a round to his hip. Another one goes down, a private Forest - so his sewn on namebadge says - and he's more concerned wth grabbing his ass and not getting killed than returning fire, inchworming his way to cover.
From the tarmac, it appears as though the trees closest to the edge of the field are shedding their leaves, still new and green, but as they fall they're swept up again by what looks like a strong gust of wind that blows them out after Megan and Raith.
It's nighttime. Looks are, of course, deceiving. The distant glow of the firelight illuminates the sleek, glossy bodies of Eileen's starling flock as it forms a swarming vortex around the two Ferrymen, obscuring them from the soldiers' view and providing them with the cover they need to close the distance between their initial rendezvous point and their target. Hundreds upon hundreds of wing beats join the the rain's thunder-drum.
Curtis glances to Emerson, a snort heard over the inter system coms. "I'm not angry, I'm just telling off an idiot. I was military for most of my adult life. Right up until recently. People that have to shout orders when there's nothing…" But that's about when the explosions go off, cutting off both him and the other FRONTLINE officer.
His helmet flicks to the side only once after he's on his knee, checking on Emerson, then back out, covering his field of fire intently. When he spots the body making it's way out of the cover, dashing forwards to light off rounds Curtis tilts his head to the side, aiming carefully, and puts a solid burst of rounds down range, burying them in the ground a few feet in a very precise grouping near Raith's position, attempting to make it look like he's really trying to take him out, at least to the soldiers around him, and hopefully letting Raith know that he's safe, though that's a rather hard message to convey with a simple grouping of bullets hitting the ground.
He turns his head, spotting the men trying to take the guy back to the transport. He shakes his head a bit and rises from his crouch, walking steadily across the tarmac, loosing bursts at the shadowed figures, hitting flood lights if he's at all able to do so with his rounds, if he's not oh well, but if he can he'll pop the flood lights, more excuse for the prisoner to have gotten away. When the swarm sweeps down out of the sky Curtis blinks a few times, eyes scanning about, a smile spreading across his lips inside of his helmet. He starts putting bullets into birds instead of trying to fire wide, making it at least look like he's trying to hit the two ferrymen in the flock.
It's a bit of a preprogrammed response on her part - the moment Emerson spots something she perceives a threat, in this case the sight and sounf of Meghan and Raith opening fire upon the remaining men and woman stationed around them, she instinctively squeezes her trigger. A spray of automatic fire is sent Megan's way, though not close enough tos trike her in part thanks to Emerson's hurried movements. "Get some Goddamn cover, and make sure the prisoner's safe!" she shouts as she backpedals to the side of the truck. More shots fired off as the swirling vortez of birds begins to swarm around the pair of them, and that leaves her at a bit of a loss for a moment. But really, a shield is a shield, the best she can do is keep post and keep picking away at it as best as she can, firing at the lower and upper layers of the bird storm.
A part of Raith wishes the birds weren't there to add additional cover, if only because it complicates aiming for him far, far more than he should like. For the moment, Scott is on his own. In response to Curtis' ground-bound burst, the ground next to… well, the one that looked like they fired at Raith is torn up by a rapid succession of three or four rounds. The M-14 has a full-auto mode too, and the bullets make much larger holes than the G36.
"Loading!" is said solely for Megan's benefit. The ex-spy yanks the magazine out of his weapon, shoves it into his pocket, and then replaces it with a fresh one. Twenty rounds may seem like a lot, but they don't last so long after all. Briefly, Raith stops to line up another aimed shot, this time at one of the soldier's giving Scott trouble, and this time aiming for the center of mass. Hopefully, he remembered to get dressed before he went out.
NPC pages: my next pose will have robots
Megan sticks with Raith, moving in tandem like a good soldier. When he calls out the reload to her, she turns to fire straight at the Horizon armor while she waits for him to be set. Them she is not worried about hitting full-on. When she hears the clip jack into the gun, she says, "Loading." And she lets him take his shots the same way. And then they're ready to move forward again in the swarm of birds.
Too bad there's not a real telepath here.
Someone who could tell Raith and the others that Curtis, in his horizon armor, is trying to deliberately throw the fight forthem.
His aim is good pointing up, taking out floodlights, killing the illumination nearest to those perched in the tree's and around them, a little less flash against the wings of the starlings as they swarm and give their lives to the the people that they are commanded to protect by Eileen.
"I told you to secure the prisoner! Stop shooting out the fucking lights! The prisoner!" The silver haired soldier in charge bellows to curtis as he's taking cover, taking pot shots at the small group.
There's sirens going off a few heartbeats after his order to Curtis, alarms, and the countdown has started. Soldies are dropping, trying to pick through the birds, hope that something hits someone, even as birds drop with unheard thuds to the ground in amidst the noise of them, the gunfire, alarms, plane engines.
A round thuds into Raith's vest, bound to leave a vibrant bruise beneath for a few weeks, and the same for Megan. Both alive but for the grace of ballistics Nylon and the plates sewn within. Another shot comes so close to her head, strands of unsecured red droooing from her head, fabric of her hat frayed.
But her bullets hit true, smattering across Curtis's armor, pinging off plates as the armor responds, the specialized fluid doign what it's supposed to do and protect it's wearer.
Scott meanwhile, isn't going quietly into this good night and the sedatives seem to bear wearing off - helps too that a stray bullet hits one of his escorts in the knee - and he starts to elbow the other remaining soldier, making himself one really unruly prisoner.
And then a noise lifts like a flock from the trees.
Out of everyone on the tarmac, it rings most familiar to Jensen Raith — a wailing klaxon screaming mechanical from somewhere unseen through the treeline that Megan and Raith had just run from. It's dark and difficult to see now that the flood lights have been taken out, but should anyone look back, the small silhouette of a young woman can be seen darting from the thick tree line. But it may not be what gets the second glance — what gets the second glance is the glow of twin red lights, and the mechanical whirr of something in crunching pursuit.
It's ten feet tall, because it has a long neck, and long legs — four of them, sinking heavy into soil and then making metallic scratches on the tarmac in its pursuit. The red light emits from the silver skull on top of the long, equine neck, with tentacle-like sensors spilling from where a lower jaw would be, all eerie blue glow and insectile writhing. Negation gas is already trailing after it in greasy yellow tendrils, while regular steam plumes out, thick and white, from its rib-cage like metal flanks.
Swiftness is sacrificed for coming armed. It stops, four legs bending, as machine gun turrets click into place, ready to turn the running Evolved into bits and pieces of Evolved.
Through the trees, there's a second klaxon wail, and a second later, a mechanic line of machine gun fire comes splitting through the trees from obscured source, throwing splinters of wood like confetti.
If this was a normal transfer— it's a very complicated one. And catches the FRONTLINE officers by surprise as much as the terrorists.
Eileen would be shouting something if there was any need to shout — as it is, she's fairly certain that Megan and Raith can see what's coming for themselves, and so there isn't any waving of her arms either. A lone starling alights on the hood of an abandoned patrol vehicle left parked out on the tarmac and with a crackling flutter of its wings pulls the avian telepath in that direction.
Bullets punch through its siding instead of pinging harmlessly away like they would if they'd been fired from a smaller caliber weapon and create a sound like singing steel. Eileen slams into the tarmac, not because she's been hit, but because there are very few places to take cover, and the underside of the truck is the closest and most accessible. Her momentum carries her forward, rolling, and she disappears beneath.
Curtis continues to fire off into the cloud of birds, not much else he's able to do… other than… He starts forwards his steps slow but sure as he strides towards the swarm of birds. He glances back to Emerson, vocalizing over the speakers. "Heading into the swarm, see if I can flush them out, once it's to the truck we won't have a chance of seeing what the hell is going on." Which gives him an excuse to get out of the way and /lose/ himself in the swarm of birds. He continues to fire into the swarm though, a bit high, or rather low, hitting birds, but no people… hopefully, not that he can even see the people through the swarm of avian creatures.
"Knocking out the flood lights denies them the ability to see us as well, and there might be more than just the two of them." The speaks in his helmet amplifying his voice so it can be heard over the tumult of birds and bullets, explosions and screams of pain.
When those rounds smack off his armor Curtis growls within his helmet, not out loud beyond the confines of his armor. He lifts his gun, and puts a couple of shots towards where those bullets came from, aiming for a torso area on someone of average height, which, if his aim is true, will put the shots into Megan's chest area, and hopefully inform her that he does not appreciate being shot, even if all he feels are the faint impacts upon the armor.
But then… everything goes to hell in a handbasket, as if things weren't bad enough. Curtis' eyes go very wide within his helmet. "Hit the deck." Is offered in a fairly calm voice to Emerson as he himself drives forwards. He tosses his G36 rifle to the side, and one hand reaches back behind him to pull the P90 from it's webbing. The G-36 is an anti infantry weapon. The P90… is designd to be deadly accurate, with an incredibly flat trajectory, combine that with armor piercing rounds, and you have a gun capable of slicing through a wide variety of armors.
He doesn't stay on the ground though, that would be presxenting a target. He gets a knee beneath him, and uses it to launch himself up and to his feet, and he goes running… not away from the tank, but towards it, at an angle, not running straight on, but he's dodging and weaving as he runs. He lifts the P90 up, and sighs down it as the rapid hiss of the hydraulics on his suit sounds in accompanyment to his movements. He lines the sights up on the head of the robot, aiming for the eyes where the armor will hopefully be thinner, and then lets loose with the armor piercing rounds that in the top loaded magazine of the weapon, controlled tight bursts lancing out towards the head of the construct as he sprints, hauling ass across the tarmac. Between his suits strength and his own strength and speed, the man can move.
Chaos. That's the only word Emerson could every used to describe what's going on. Not that any battlefield is ever organised, as much as some may want it to seem, but this is unexpected even for her. Gritting her teeth when the order comes back out to sexure the prisoner, she head snaps around, looking for assistance. "Will someone please get their ass in gear and help us get this secure!" she yells out over the modular speakers of her helmet. All of this without taking her attention off the target ahead of her, laying a spray aof fire about where she thinks Raith and megan's feet lie within the flock swarming ahead of them.
"Where's a smoke grenade when I need it," she mumbles. Curtis may have the right idea, thinking about sotming into the flock itself. It makes them easier to shoot, but fi they can cover the gap, there's really no chance to stop them in close quarters, thanks to their armour. At least, that's what Emerson would like to hope, having made a habit of punching anyone she got up close when she could.
It made sure they were out cold. Always a bonus.
But that option quickly disintigrates as another volly of fire comes from elsewhere, the sound of kalxons and teh apperance of drones leaving her momentarily confused. "What the— io this someone's idea of a late April Fool's Day Joke?!" she shouts, trying to keep her attention ahead even as she's not trying to mveo out of //another field of fire. "Did someone get Dooley a new toy? Because if so, I want it called off!" Not that her order has much weight here, unfortunately. Even when her FRONTLINE rank is stripped away, she's still outranked easily by anyone in charge. "Fucking hell," begins a continuing stream of curses as she hunkers down against the truck, pausing to refresh her clip before resuming fire.
Someone once said, 'A plan is just a list of things that don't happen.' If that's the case, then the Ferrymen planned the shit out of this engagement, because as soon as that thing roars out, Raith knows that whatever plan they had just fell apart, and turning his attention away from the soldiers and over his shoulder give him a near instant analysis of how fucked they are.
"Shoot it!"
Raith yells it at the top of his lungs, just the way the drill instructors taught him. He keeps his wits about him largely because he's faced and fought these monstrosities before, and that was something even the most grueling Delta Force training could not prepare him for: The uniformed regulars just might be crapping their pants enough to mistake him for their section leader. "Shoot the shit out of that thing!"
From out of Raith's and through the air sails a canister that starts belching smoke even before it hits the ground. It was supposed to cover their escape. Now, it's just covering them, and maybe not all that well. "Young! On me! Get to Harkness, we've got to regroup and get out of here!" And Raith is running again, this time straight at the truck. With luck, everyone else is too distracted to pay him any mind. If they aren't, he still has live weapons in his hands.
Megan's vest is hit twice more by Curtis's shots, the last round knocking her backward several steps. The redhead manages to keep her feet under her, but she can't breathe, gasping soundlessly as she bobbles the rifle she carries. It is into that momentary panic that the klaxons start and even as Megan sucks in her first actual breath, her eyes are pivoting backward.
Ho. Ly. Shit. She grabs for the back of Raith's vest in a vice grip, gasping, "Robots!" They are still not nearly close enough to the transport to help Harkness. But he barks that order out, and goddamned if the redheaded soldier won't follow him. Dropping her hold on him instantly, she swings around and essentially disregards the robots, the birds, and even the soldiers. Anyone who's shooting hopefully is shooting that monstrosity. She hauls ass straight for where Scott Harkness is fighting his two guards.. well, one guard anyway. The rifle is slung over her shoulder for now. It'll do her no good in close quarters.
The robots don't seem to differentiate between partisan and patriot, the ratta-tat-tat of bullets that grace this ultimate showdown take down soldiers in as much as they hit others, some in protected places, others not so much. Like the singular bullet that gets past curtis and slams home into the brainpan of the second soldier protecting scott, trying to yank him into the vehicle that Emerson is covering.
Which leaves Scott running hell bent for leather, unable to see, wrenching at his hands to get them out of the restraints. This runs him right into Megan with a gasp. But there's something wrong. From afar, everything was right, everything looked right in as much that a hooded man with scotts rough build and the leaked intentions to transfer a man named scott Harkness can be scott.
But the build is just off enough, too broad in shoulders, and when she takes off the hood when he's managed to run into her, the voice isn't the same and the man under the hood, isn't Scott.
"I didn't sign up for this" Thinking it's a soldier. "I didn't get told this was happening, I was going to be safe in the pla-" Wait a minute, that is not a soldier. "Oh my god" It's a terrorist.
The man posing as scott lashes out with an elbow, going for Megan's nose, before turning to scream at the sight of robots and start to run off towards the adjacent buildings that Miller Airfield houses. This was not in his contract.
This leaves Emerson guarding no one, frontline left dangling, and the Ferry… without a scott.
The gunfire is relentless from the treeline, but also relatively blind — it sweeps to cover the tarmac, soldiers diving for cover as hard as the terrorists. All the while, distant fire from the exploded fuel tanks sends thick columns of black into the night air, blotting out the stars even more than the storm clouds already are. Assault coming from Curtis' direction seems hesitated over by the robot that had stormed out from the trees, and then met in kind — automatic fire is sent his way, although it seems to register as suppressive fire rather than an aim to kill, a generalised territorial warning, but it's too late. The skull is snapped back off the long neck, sparkings flying.
It stops. Confused.
It can't see, as eyes do imply, cameras and course plotting stolen from it. But there is more than meets the eye, and with blind steps, it starts towards where its compass system directs it go — to the nearest Evolved. From her cover, Eileen can see the plodding legs, strangely shaped, like huge knives, coming for her hiding spot. Erratic bursts of gunfire hitting nothing in particular, but gaining accuracy the closer it gets within range of what it smells on the wind. Virtually speaking.
The second robot retains its cover, providing wide, generalised sweeping firing before it too emerges from the trees, cutting off the distance between everyone else and where the bird telepath happens to be hiding. It continues that klaxon wail, as if it could deafen communications too.
Underneath the abandoned patrol truck that sits between the treeline and the Ferrymen's target, Eileen's breath hisses in and out through her teeth. The nerves in her shoulder are ablaze where her body took the brunt of the impact with the tarmac, but it isn't the pain she's focused on — it's the creaking hydraulic sound of the advancing machinery and the grind and scrape of metal. As she blinks away and spits out the rainwater that clings to her lashes and has run into her mouth, she inhales sharply through her nose and is not surprised by what she smells.
The bullets that slammed through the patrol truck's exterior have also punctured its gas tank. A hand gloved in softer leather drags through the puddle under the vehicle. She pushes herself up onto an elbow, small enough that she doesn't have to worry about knocking her dark-haired head against the undercarriage.
There are more pressing concerns she needs to address, regardless. The robot bearing down on her, for instance. A hand digs into the sodden wool coat so heavy and waterlogged that its weight feels smothering, and comes back out again with something clutched in the deepest part of her palm.
One last deep breath and she rolls out into the open on the other side, sheltered by the patrol truck's shadow. There's a sound like a twig breaking. A solitary flame snaps to life between her fingers — she flicks the lit match down into the expanding pool behind her and takes off at a stumbling run.
Curtis glances back towards the truck, but he has no idea what has developed, just seeing the prisoner running… away… from the people who are supposed to be rescuing him. He blinks a bit, and with the head coming off of the big ass robot, he slides down and to a knee, twisting at the waist to aim over at the fleeing man. a single pull of the triger sends a shot racing towards the back of the man's leg. The round is an AP round, so if it hits, it would slice right through whatever it hits and exit the other side, not really cause a crater, or even all that much damage other than putting a nice neat whole through the meat of the man's thigh. If it hits. With the shot fired he swings back around towards the robot, chips of the tarmac panging off of his armor from it's surpressing fire.
Confusion shows on his scarred face beneath that helmet, as to why it's not firing at him to kill. Confusion, but it does still fire at him, so he turns back towards it, running in it's direction, P90 lifted, and sighted, bursts of fire sent hissing through the air towards the joints on the machine. He has absolutely no idea what the hell this thing is, or who's it is at the moment. Government posessing robots is something he would know, but this thing? "Fucking hate surprises." he growls out into the com system in his helmet, the transmission carryin gover to Emerson. "You have any clue what the fuck these things are? And should I keep taking it apart or stop?" He asks the woman who has more experience with FRONTLINE. Who knows, maybe she's run across them.
"I don't fucking care," is Emerson's half snarled reply over the coms as she braces herself against the truck. "Make it stop shooting. If someone bitches, they can deal with me later!" Surprises are one thing, but when said surprise can't tell friend from foe, then fuck that. It's time to put that surprise to pasture. "I feel like we're fighting those more than the terrorists at the moment!" With that grumbled reply, she leans out over the side of the truck, looking for both teh terrorists, and the drone. One of them is getting shot, if only because now Emerson is pissed. But what she spots first, like Curtis, is the hostage that she ahs been dutifully protecting running away from his would be rescuers.
And again, confusion sets in. What the hell is going on today? "Curtis, somethng's gone weird. Keep taht thing at bay, but get yourself back over here! We need to regroup and hope these thigns don't kill everyone ehre in the process!" There's still terroists out there, and she leans out again, offering a pepper of fire out in the direction she last saw them, but right now her priority is trying not to get shot, and figuring what's up with the "prisoner".
Raith sees it just the same as Curtis and Emerson. He, however, has the benefit of being close enough to hear part of the exchange and, more importantly, to see who is under the hood. Maybe a plan is just a list of things that don't happen after all.
"Young!" Raith is half-shouting again, grabbing ahold of Megan's arm post her being elbowed to make sure she hears him. "Get Ruskin, we're bugging out!" For the second time that night, the ex-spy yanks the pin on a grenade, causing smoke to begin pouring from it once the contents ignite. This one will cover their escape, and it goes rolling along the tarmac to throw up a covering screen. The only bullets from his rifle now head in the direction of anyone that looks like they might try to stop them and, for the moment, not the robots. They don't need any help finding their enemies. Once Eileen and Megan have collected themselves enough to start running- a process unlikely to take long given the immediate need to depart- it's back to the trees and back to their own vehicle, and then into the night with a mighty cry of 'fuck this noise.'
As they push forward and Harkness hauls ass back toward them, Megan has a moment's relief. They're actually going to at least wind up in the same spot. And then he rolls right smack into her, and….. something's wrong. In the instant that her brain recognizes that, her hand has already reached up to snatch off the concealing hood. She gapes at him, unable for that split second to comprehend what just happened and then pain blasts through her face from the elbow to her nose, which sends blood gushing out. Oh that's going to be a beauty of a set of black eyes tomorrow, for sure. She reels back howling, "It's not him!" at the same time Raith reaches forward for her.
Through watering eyes, Megan scans the tarmac catching sight of the tiny form of the avian telepath racing thataway. The redhead touches Raith just enough to give him a direction and she races toward Eileen to round her up so they can all evacuate under the confusion.
The bullet from Curtis's gun flies true at the running 'Harkness' bullet piercing leg, dropping the man to the pavement, screaming and clutching at the new hole that the Frontliner put there. With prompt medical attention, he'll survive.
The majority of the soldiers though, are trying to protect themselves from the robots, from their fire, but a few focus on the retreaters, potshots taken, that hit vests, bound to leave marks, one grazing Raith's thigh but soon enough smoke deters anymore successful hits.
From afar, backup is coming, they better move fast back to their vehicle. This was, quite decidedly, a trap.
One sharp robotic foot steps in asphalt puddled in fluid, the other scraping its 'shin' along the edge of the truck in order to perhaps crush it to death in its slow, plodding pursuit for the scurrying Evolved. And then everything is fire as things that shouldn't catch alight, as flame suddenly fans up into the damp air with the same tenacity as the still burning fire yonder, and the heave of an explosion suddenly cracks through the setting as the truck— and the robot— are caught up in a fireball.
The force of it heaves the blind robot back, its legs trying to figure out where to go to achieve balance, but blinded, it has no choice to simply go crashing down, fire licking over parts proofed against such things, but there's the crack of glass, the melting of plastic. Pieces of vehicle debris come raining down.
The second doesn't mind that its comrade is down, continuing its firing and wasting an immense amount of ammunition until it senses that something is get away. Finally, soldiers and FRONTLINE alike are given relief as it turns, and rattles machine gun attack for the departing terrorist bodies sweeping into the treeline. With a certain unstoppability, the robot leaves the tarmac to follow their path. Whether they're caught or not will only be known to Emerson and Curtis by the time they've finished all the godawful paperwork just waiting for them in the wake of all of this.
The heat generated by the explosion ripples across Eileen's back, and as she and Megan retreat with Raith, so does the multitude of birds, swept out into the trees like a bubbling wave drawn back into the ocean. Smoke and a raucous cloud of starlings covers their escape.
Black soot rises, churns in the air. There are little broken bird bodies everywhere and smears of gore on the tarmac, but it's the two explosions that leave the kind of mark the more forgiving light of day won't wash away.
Curtis nods his helmeted head lightly to Emerson's reply. "Roger, was just seeing if you had more intel on these than I did…" He grins behind his helmet though, and the next statement broadcasts loud and clear. "Well then you movie side show wannabe… lets tell your designers that they need to do a better job on the next model." And with that the man is running, full tilt towards the big ass machine, fully intending to have at it at close range. His aim lifts from the leg joints towards wherever the turret is mounted, and he unloads the rest of his fifty round clip on full auto at that spot. A quick pop sends the empty plastic magazine catapaulting over his shoulder to clatter across the tarmac in his wake, and his other hand slides out a fresh clip, slapping it home down on top of the weapon. Immediatley he starts unloading that clip into the gun mounting on the robot as well, all of his shots aimed at it, trying to knock it out of comission as he advances on it, his horizon armor helping to propel him a hell of a lot faster than he'd move normally.
The rapid slam of his feet hitting the ground is lost amid the sound of the dying, the roar of the fire Eileen has just lit, and everything else going on. He runs, and when he gets in range, he'll take a running leap, launching himself in the air, trying to come down on top of the machine, despite the fire licking up around it and blazing nearby. He wants this thing out of comission. And further bursts of gun fire directed down into the joints of any and every moving part he can see will hopefully achieve that end.
The lack of gunfire from the woods, or rather, the change of direction for it leaves FRONTLINE officer 01-06 bewildered, glancing out into the woods in the direction of the crash and rattle of the departing robot, then back to the one he's been assaulting.
Emerson is similarly lost and confused. She didn't even see the terrorists slip away in teh chaos that the robots had caused. But the sudden change in direction - presumably to fire on who it's supposed instea dof trying to turn them all into swiss cheese - has her heaving out a sigh of relief, eyes closing for just a moment before she pushes herseld from against the trust, moving quickly around the truck, weaons till raised as she surveys the area. "We need medics out here, stat!" she shouts, even as she casts her eyes to wear the "prisoner" lays, immediately making her way over he has fallen, hit by stray fire. "Curtis, get whoever's till standing, prepare to send a group after the robot and the targets!" She's not in charge, but she's taking it for the moment. "I don't trust that thing not tor educe them toa fine red mist, and I'd like someone alive!"
Deep inside, she thinks Liz owes her ana cting award. THough, honestly, she's nota cting anymore. She's pissed and she doesn't care anymore. She wants that robot brought back and the injured tended to. Crouching down and gently rolling the injured man over. His face, clearly seen for the first time since things went haywire, proves not to be the man she was briefed. "Someone get this man a medic! Now!" So that's two surprises tonight.
Someone's going to hear about this, that's for sure.
It's down, out, a hunk of machinery so carefully crafted by one Hector Steel, dessicated at the hands of terrorists and government agents alike, torn asunder by the weapons and hands of another million dollar piece of machinery.
But there's more of them, where they came from, a glimpse given to those that were here, at what the government has up their sleeves when dealing with such pesky things as domestic terrorists.
In the end, in amoungst the dead bodies of birds, a handful of dead or dying soldiers, brought down by robot and human alike. The fire burns, marking the skyline, people who can see it from afar in their homes, glued to the sight even as re-enforcements start to arrive with wails of sirens unlike those that heralded the arrival of the robots.
Emerson clues in and Curtis will learn soon enough, that this was a trap, meant to ensnare the Ferry, that indeed, 'The Prisoner' wasn't really Scott Harkness. Some poor sap who got drafted to play the part and earned a bullet for his trouble. Demands for medics are answered as people start coming out at runs, tires squealing to a halt, clean up getting into full swing.
The Ferry will retreat, taking their people with them, reaching their vehicle and disappearing off into the night and off the island like they are known to do. Evading anything and anyone sent after them befitting the skill of those who are in their ranks with training for just such things and their limited numbers. Back into the pouring rain, the depths of the night to lick their wounds.
To be sated with the knowledge that if this had been real, if Scott Harkness had been there, they would have him safe and sound, another member saved from the hands of the government that seems bent on exterminating them.
But it's not real, and the casulaties of this endeavor, go beyond Miller Airfield and have only just begun to unravel. People will be interviewed to see what went wrong here tonight.
And this is a very cruel April fools joke. A day too late.