Clusterfrag

Doc steadies his hands and reaches for the first claymore, his movements so lethargic and subtle that it looks like he's caught in slow motion. Perspiration beads on his forehead and sinew begins to stand on his arms from the prolonged effort of hovering awkwardly over the explosive. He winces and plucks the device up from it's blind spot. Turning to flash a triumphant grin at Max, the claymore slips from his fingers and clatters on the floor.

There's a collective gasp, a tentative moment and then a ragged sigh of relief.

Doc stoops over and retrieves the upside-down claymore. Gradually, and with greater care than before, he disarms the rest.

Val runs shaking hands down his face after it becomes clear that Doc's little mishap won't paint the stairwell as 31 painted the storage area. He anxiously thinks about what the team would do, particularly the injury-prone elf, if they somehow lost Doc. He shudders and banishes the train of thought, unable to face the possibilities.

Max grunts and says,

"Never doubted you for a second."

Running a slightly shaking hand down the front of his face to wipe off the sweat, Adams returns the grin.

"At least that makes one of us."

He pulls a set of radio detonators from his pack, and attaches them to the claymores. Working from memory, he places the devices back where they were.

"They shouldn't be able to tell the difference without closely inspecting them. With these in place, they may even think we took a different route down. Just because we're going in hot, doesn't mean we can't keep them confused."

He keys the detonators to one of his transmitters, and slips it back in his pocket.

With the claymores de-activated, the team picks their way down the dark staircase. Enviornmentals must be either down or haywire, as the enclosed concrete area quickly heats up and oppresses a sweltering silence on the runners. The bottom of the staircase has been reduced to rubble, leaving the first sub-basement as the one and only exit.

Max presses cautiously toward the exit with his shotgun up, easing his way around the doorjamb to the area beyond the destroyed staircase.

The beleaguered elf takes a step through the staircase door, swinging the venerable Marlowe to cover the corridor. A long stretch of laboratories lies directly in front of the runners. The walls have been speckled with arcane images in UV graffiti, which glows eerily a midst the lack of lighting. Broken lab equipment covers the floor.

Tyros examines the room closly in astral vision, paying particular attention to the arcane symbols, trying to pick apart their meaning.

The fomori studies the intricate, foreboding graffiti but can't make heads or tails of it. If it does have meaning, it may be specific to whatever magical lodge the intruders originated from. His astral vision does, however, pick up several whiffs of energy--magical signatures.

A group of hostiles emerges at the far end of the laboratory and notices the team.

Adams ducks into the nearest doorway, and takes up a firing position.

Max dives behind a nearby computer terminal. A myriad of cords and cabling drape between it and a cluster of equipment mounted to the nearest wall, and the cords sway violently as Max's weight slams behind cover. Catching his breath and his bearings on the situation unfolding, the elf who's had hardly a moment between firefights to gather his wits about him finishes the incomplete reload of his weapon.

One of the members of the group inches away from the wall, holding a frightened woman in a lab coat in a choke-hold. He presses the barrel of a pistol against her head.

"Any closer and you kill this innocent. We just want what we came here for. Retreat now and you can walk out into the desert unharmed."

Max peeks his shoulders, face, and shotgun around the corner of the console, and calls back,

"Yeah? And what's that?"

The elf sights in on the terrorist as he stares down the barrel of the shotgun.

The thug jerks the hostage, who lets out a muffled cry.

"None of your concern. Now back towards the stairs, nice and easy..."

Max breathes calmly, sights in on the terrorist's head, says, "Maybe next time, drekbag," and fires.

[ Max = 52 ]
[ Doc = 51 ]
[ ET 2 = 43 ]
[ ET 1 = deceased ]
[ ET 3 = 41 ]
[ ET 4 = deceased ]
[ Val = 39 ]
[ Sinjin = 31 ]
[ Tyros = 26 ]
(( 13P DAMAGE! ))

Marlowe's slug slips right through the man's skull, forcing him to go limp and release the girl.

Max swings his shotgun easily away from the terrorist whose gore explodes all over the innocent woman and fires on the next closest target.

(( Sorry for the lack of posts, guys. The email server at work decided to die. ))
(( 10P DAMAGE! ))

Max's second burst catches one of the terrorists in the torso, critically injuring him.

Adams breathes a quick sigh of relief that the eco terrorist has been disengaged from the hostage.

He sights in on the first eco terrorist, who is still standing stupefied at the sudden violence visited on his comrades by Max and Marlowe, and opens fire.

Doc's first burst destroys a table full of lab equipment, but fails to hit the intended target.

Adams swears under his breath as the last casing clatters to the ground.

You getting soft?

He keeps the target in his sights, and fires again.

(( 15P DAMAGE! ))

Doc's second burst lands right betwixt the eyes, splattering gore against a shelf full of glassware.

The wounded terrorist drags himself upright and fires a burst at Max.
Max dives out of harm's way.
(( 1P DAMAGE! ))

Max stumbles as the bullets riddle his arm, but do little more than a flesh wound.

Max paws at the injury and scoffs heartily,

"Ha! I think I got you better than you got me, you pansy slitch!" 

A terrorist peeks from behind a concrete column and squeezes off a burst at Doc.
(( 1P DAMAGE! ))

Doc winces as a bullet penetrates his armor and digs into his shoulder.

The terrorist retreats to complete cover behind a stack of heavy crates.

Val curses softly as his target dives behind complete cover. He can almost feel the amplified electric burst in his nerves as his reflexes kick in and serve to take advantage of the opportunity given him by the more exposed tango. He centers his smartlink reticle over his new target, and fires.

(( 7P DAMAGE! ))

Val puts the wounded terrorist down with an expert shot.

Max sees the mortally wounded terrorist go down and calls out to Val over the din of war,

"Can't get enough of my sloppy seconds, can you?"

Val grins despite being in the midst of a firefight and shouts back toward Max,

"Someone's got to clean up your mess!"

Val sweeps the business end of his rifle back to where his former target is cowering behind a stack of heavy crates, not that Val can really blame him for it. He covers the area from which the terrorist is sure to emerge should he wish to move, and waits for a clean shot with an itchy trigger finger.

(( Delaying action. If he moves or takes an action, I'll attempt to keel him. ))

Adrenaline surging as ricochet's and the ringing of spent ammunition casings crescendo, Sinjin throws himself into battle. Like a hound after pheasant, he rushes forward to flush the terrorists from cover, hoping to surprise and attack them as they hide from the sharpshooting of his teammates. Preparing to reach out and clothes-line the nearest combatant as he rounds the corner, Sinjin plans the follow up downward heel-strike he is sure will crush the man's windpipe, quickly dispatching him.

((I dont know if thats two actions?? If so, I'll just punch him and burn my second IP action with Finishing Move (AR 159) to, well, finish him off!))

Max registers the retort from Val just as he sees the team's resident oft-invisible ninja slide into action. The ork's movements are majestic and beautiful for their ferocity and lethal cunning, and the elf can't help but be amazed at the balance and grace of them. Every member of the team is deadly at his worst and indomitable at his best, but Sinjin's mastery of his body is perhaps the most striking thing that any member of the team can bring to the table. It's as if he sways fluidly from station to station, orchestrating his own bloody symphony with every element of the battlefield as the myriad instruments at his disposal.

Staccato, forte brass. Legato woodwinds. Crescendo strings. Finale on a plume of gore and broken teeth. Hold for applause.

Max watches in half rapture, half terror.

(( 5P DAMAGE! ))

Sinjin's heel-strike slides against the man's raised arm, dislocating his shoulder and tearing away a chunk of flesh.

(( 11P DAMAGE ))


Sinjin vaults upward, using the momentum from his heel-strike to become airborne. He does a quick somersault and drops, bringing his knee downward on to the terrorist's skull. There's a sickening crunch as the ork's girth crushes skull and spine. The nimble adept tucks into a roll and springs away from the contorted, lifeless body.