Clusterfrag

The sound of the Merkava's rail-gun can only be likened to God's fist slamming against the hardened concrete walls of the Firestarter compound. A seam splits open in the belly of the structure, accompanied by a sprinkling of dust from the ceiling overhead. Halogen lights sway from the kinetic force of the impact, illuminating the service corridor with a disco of flickering spotlights. Klaxons ring out their piercing distress call as the Firestarter defensive A.I. struggles to regain control of the rapidly deteriorating situation. All around is smoke and sound and confusion.

A security contractor clad in a kevlar vest and lined coat stumbles around the corner, clutching feebly at the slick walls for support. He paints a trail of crimson as he approaches. An HVAR hangs uselessly in the sling around his chest--the rifle absent of a magazine. The comm-piece that links him with the company's TACnet is a star of shattered plastic, indeterminable from the matted hair and blood covering one side of his unshaven face. His eyes bore down the corridor, probing it's inhabitants. A sort of calm surrender dwells behind the bloodshot gaze.

"They've breached the perimeter--" his speech is interrupted by a grunt of pain. "At the front gate now, it's only a matter of time before--"

A tiny steel cylinder bounces down the hallway junction behind the contractor, coming to rest just a few meters from his feet. The canister is gunmetal, bearing the unmistakable stripe of a high-explosive warning. It appears an enterprising soul has removed the detonator pin.

The dead-man-walking cranes his neck away from the object that will shortly be his undoing. His gaze meets that of his employers; a blackened, bloodied face bearing an expression of helplessness and defeat.

A deafening concussion rings out, followed by a ravenous cloud of embers and concrete debris. As ears stop ringing and auditory modulators adjust, the sound of rapidly approaching boot-steps can be heard pounding through the entryway.

Doctor Miles Adams doesn't bother to wipe the sash of crimson from his face. A grim sneer curling his lips, he raises his rifle down the hallway and fires two fragmentation grenades toward the source of the first grenade, airbursting them as they pass in front of the perpendicular hallway from whence it came.

"And so's your mum!" He shouts after the retreating echo of the twin concussions.

He looks back at the others, eyes glazed and focused on a point somewhere beyond the walls of the previously impenetrable fortress.

"This is bad," he says, "we need to get somewhere defensible now. We have reinforced doors, wards, and those two auto turrets on the armory. That may be our best hope."

His heart races as he frantically queries the team's vehicle and drone fleet, testing the condition, location, and status of the twenty Arachnae spider drones, the Steel Lynx, the Nissan Hound, and the Rover.

C'mon fellas, you're not all down. Not yet.

Max draws out a stunned stupor of what feels like it could have been days, weeks-- fraggin' months-- and finds himself on the floor. The sudden violence of the incursion blunts his usually keen awareness and turns the volume on everything down to a three, the world viewed through a battle-blear as foreign as it is hazy. 'Stupid to ever think this wouldn't all come home to us someday,' he thinks in the daze as dust rains down around him. Doc is shouting directions, his friend's eyes keen and focused. The other members of team are unaccounted for. For Max Overstreet, they could be within arm's reach but a million miles away.

As he moves to stand, the elf becomes aware of the searing pain in his right thigh. Max reaches for the wound and pulls back a bloodied hand. 'Shrapnel. Fraggin' shrapnel.'

The blood dusts the cobwebs away.

The cold steel of Marlowe Mk. II centers him again, and he uses the butt of the shotgun to pull himself fully upright. Doing a quick inventory of the scene, he makes eye contact with Doc, and the pair of combat veterans-- whose side by side exploits through the murderous shadows have stitched together as strong a trust as ever shared by a couple of good-for-nuthin' chummers-- know immediately how grave the situation is. FRSR has been caught with its pants around its ankles today, and there's no getting around it.

"I've got your six," Max offers with a nod toward the door.

As he prepares to keep in lock-step with his combat surgeon counterpart, Max is keenly aware of his weapon in his hand, and that all but its full payload worth of ammunition lies safely stored in the FRSR armory. 'This is gonna' get interesting.'

"Perimeter breach in sectors 2, 3, 4 and 7. Multiple hostiles--personnel and drone," chimes a breathless, artificial female voice from nowhere in particular--belonging to MINERVA, Firestarter's security artificial intelligence. "Structural integrity of interior walls at 44%. Tactical analysis suggests retreat to stairwell C-2."

A holographic arrow flits along the floor to the pair's flank, made all the more visible by the fog of war swirling around their ankles.

The pounding in Adams's head sings a duet with the wailing klaxons, drowning out his thoughts for a moment. He shakes his head, and finds a mental lifeline back to his military training, grabbing at it with the desperation of a drowning man.

"Okay gentlemen, you heard the lady! C-2!" He shouts over the din. "MINERVA, can you give me a feed on what's outside?"

He refills the MGL-6's diminutive magazine as the pounding of his running feet adds another beat to the chorus.

MINERVA's voice is eerily but unsurprisingly calm and easily heard as it emanates from several of a thousand micro-speakers located throughout the facility.

"Affirmative. Seven humanoids--armaments include high velocity assault weapons and ballistic armor. Two Renraku Hunter-Killer drones, model number 85B."

Somehow, MINERVA's muster directive registers in Val's mind amidst the cacophony of warnings blaring through his VR feed. He launches one final Black Hammer assault at the enemy decker trying to infiltrate Firestarter's Tac-Net, but doesn't wait around long enough to witness the result. His feet begin to move even as his brain lurches back into AR.

How in the fragging--

The thought is cut short as Val's world lurches sideways in a gout of flame and a cloud of ferrocrete dust. After what seems a minute but can only have been seconds, Val picks himself up and once again gains momentum, albeit in a disbelieving, dazed autopilot. For the moment, only one coherent thought remains to guide him.

C-2... C-2.

Max and Doc backpedal quickly, combat boots glaring orange where they encounter the holographic indicator. Their headquarters is a shadow of its former self--filled now with the sounds of intermittent gunfire, distant artillery and the smell of war. The two men have never been on higher alert; both bear postures akin to foxes protecting their den. Overheads flicker and the klaxons wane to an inaudible whine as power falters in the main sector.

Arriving at the C-2 junction, the elf and medic very nearly collide with a lone figure. Kato has looked better. The yakuza-cum-bartender is wearing one of his garish trademark suits--this one black velvet with a purple polka dot inlay and a silver tie. Bits of fabric have been torn away from melee combat and the usually plucky Nipponese wears a sizable bullet wound on his shoulder. Despite the environment, a pair of mirror shades still adorn his distinctly ridiculous features and a long-since burned out Alpaca unfiltered defies gravity at the corner of his mouth. His disheveled hair has been pulled back into a hasty ponytail. The lack of styling product indicates the gravity of the situation. An AK-97 rests across his chest, one bejeweled index finger tapping irritably on the trigger guard. He tilts his head by way of greeting.

"I want big raise."

Max is huffing and puffing harried breaths, but manages,

"Believe me, you'll get it."

The elf turns to Doc and Val, wishing after all the times he'd thought he'd quit smoking 'later,' and says,

"We need to keep moving! Keep following the exit path!"

By the time Val makes his rendezvous with Max, Doc, and Kato, his shock from the blast in the hallway has mostly faded. Nodding in response to Max, he winces and rolls a shoulder, looking down to check for damage to his combat suit. A few minor scrapes adorn it, and the dulled holographic FRSR logo flickers fitfully on his left breast. He frowns at it briefly, flicking the micro-projector array with a gloved finger. It makes no difference. His eyes lift back to the AR trail set by the facility's AI.

Keep moving, 'mano. You've been through a lot worse. Keep moving.

His boots pound silently down the hallway; any breath of sound they might have made is lost in the din of network intrusion warnings screaming through his commlink.

The foursome clusters around the stairwell entrance at C-2, warily checking their sixes down both intersecting corridors. Now that the audible alarms have lost power, the only meaningful stimuli is the ragged breaths of the Firestarter employees and the flickering emergency strobes. The nigh-impenetrable fortress now feels more like a deathtrap.

Kato ejects his magazine, glances into its recesses and curses in Japanese.

A shout from down the primary corridor pierces the lull. "Contacts! Open fire!"

Adams ducks behind the wall of the stairwell as the ferrocrete around the entrance erupts with impacts.

"Get up the stairs to the armory!" He hisses loudly over the cacophony.

His hands fumble in his pack, and emerge with a soft brick, and what appears to be a golf tee with a glass lens on the end.

"You're going to have to try harder than that. Come and get us," he mutters, as he buries the end of the optical sensor into the plastic explosive.

Max falls behind cover closely behind Doc. The orange emergency strobe paints the scene in a grotesque shifting light that looks like violence-- looks like death.

Max's eyes trace Doc as he places the explosives, and the elf can't help but smile. The situation is completely fragged, but FRSR's lethal cunning is always a source of pride and dark amusement for him.

He doesn't wait to see any more, and with a deep, held breath, he makes for the stairs, wondering idly how many times he's already been shot in this line of work.

Adams keys the comm,

< Tyros, Sinjin! We're fighting our way back to the armory, meet us there! >

He places the explosive package on the steps, and pauses.

< And don't take the stairs. Trust me on this one. >

Tyros looks up from the grimoire he was studying in his arcane laboratory at the sound of the first explosions. Instinctively, he knows something is very wrong and in a way, he knew this day would come. A gut terror grips him as a sixth sense tells him that doom approaches.

Standing quickly, two steps takes him to his claymore, which rests against the wall. With a jerk, he tears the blade free of its scabbard. The hermetic acolyte studying on the other side of the room is already in motion, a testament to the quality of FSRS troops, bringing defensive spells up automatically. His eyes, however, betray his nervousness, as he gives the agitated troll a wide berth.

Tyros surveys his surroundings. The room is his laboratory, library and home. His eyes fall on the golden coffin, jars of arcane crystal, and blood magic tomb sitting in places of honor and study around the room. Their secrets have only just begun to be unlocked! The thought of their loss is almost more painful than the concept of his own demise.

Turning to the acolyte, "Take the artifacts and escape. The team and I will create a distraction and hold off whoever is attacking us for as long as we can. Find me when things have cooled down and we'll finish what we've started."

The junior mage nods solemnly, lifting and bundling the items in a levitation field under a simple blanket. He hurries out the door and down the corridor, trove of magic treasures floating serenely in his wake.

The troll sighs, giving one last look to his home as he says goodbye, and heads the opposite way - towards the sound of explosions, gunfire and screams; towards the FSRS team, his brothers in arms; towards the end.

<"I'm on my way gentlemen - once more unto the breach, dear friends.">

Max winces as the troll's words float fatalistically over the comm channel. So the elf isn't the only one who somehow feels that this is where it all ends. Alarms blare all around him, but he thinks of his family-- his revised family-- comprised of a departed wife, a daughter who doesn't know him from Adam, an embattled combat surgeon, a twitchy decker, a pit-fighting ork, and even a magically awakened troll. As strange as this life is, the only thing that seems fitting about it is the way Max is suddenly sure it will imminently end.

The behemoth physical adept in a barbed battle-suit tightens his grip around Sinjin's neck. Had it not been for the several minutes of intense melee prior, his adversary may have had the strength to crush his windpipe. As it stands, the two are mostly depleted of stamina and beginning to display weaknesses--like the one that allowed Sinjin's opponent to flash a pair of hands through his guard.

"You must have pissed off someone pretty important," quips the enemy adept through a voice-modulated facemask. Plumes of tear-gas still undulate around their intermingled forms. "I'm getting paid a small fortune to squeeze the life out of you."


Firestarter's resident knuckle buster scans the corridor fervently, looking for a means of turning the tide. Had he been closer to the armory, a spider drone might have come to his assistance. Unfortunately for Sinjin, the ork happened to be training in his dojo when the attack occurred. His battle-hardened, blood-shot eyes cease their frenetic rolling as they settle on the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall--just behind his adversary's head.

A satisfying detonation echoes from the base of the stairwell as some unwitting intruder stumbles into Doc's trap. The retreating trio gather at the top of the stairwell, down the corridor from the armory doors. At the opposite end, pouring through a freshly breached hole in the concrete, is a squad of armed men.

Max's eyes narrow to slits as he peers down the hallway at the approaching enemy, his pockets freshly and frantically filled with shotgun shells. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lip. Most of his body hidden by a door jamb, the elf ventures a single payload of lead in the direction of their guests.

[ Assailant 4 = 49 ]
[ Max = 46 ]
[ Assailant 1 = 46 ] **DECEASED**
[ Assailant 2 = 46 ]
[ Doc = 45 ]
[ Val = 37 ]
[ Assailant 3 = 32 ]

A soldier in form-fitting body armor rolls across the corridor floor to the safety of a junction box, pausing at the end of the motion to fire a burst from his Ares Alpha.
The sudden attack catches Max off-guard, sending a spray of automatic fire across the breastplate of his Phalanx.
The slugs form sizeable dents in the carbon-kevlar piece, but fail to injure the hardy elf.

The only thing worse than a punch in the face is having to admit he had been taken by surprise...not something for which Sinjin can forgive himself easily .The enemy Adept is impressively strong, standing toe-to-toe and trading elbow-for-elbow with Sinjin far longer than he had come to expect from even the worlds more elite merc outfits. Tiny objects in Sinjin's vision dance in time to the desperate rhythm of his ragged breathing. Small knots of air force their way past his tortured throat like swallowed barbed-wire. What little saliva he had now covers the inside of his face shield and runs wastefully from his lips and chin like the drippings of the soy noodle soups he always loved so much. Blood pounds in his ears, building pressure ever faster as his heartbeat quickens out of control.

Vying desperately to break free of his adversaries choke, he manages to croak between rasping breaths, "Welcome...to Firestarter....drekbag..."

As his world begins to blacken, Sinjin's grasping hand breaks free the safety catch on the cold, painted steel fire extinguisher behind his enemy and with it, the nozzle.

Max staggers forward, a bestial snarl emanating from his lip as he yanks on the trigger of the legendary Marlowe MKII.
** 15P DAMAGE **

The merc's head pops like an over-filled balloon, spreading brain and skull fragments on the pock-marked concrete walls.

Sinjin's opponent roars in frustration and claws at his face as the flame-retardant foam covers his face.

The nimble orc takes this distraction as an opportunity to lunge backwards, out of the way of the blind swipes and resumes a fighting stance.

[ Sinjin = 38 ]
[ Enemy Adept = 34 ]

(( Sorry lads, I was basically delirious with fever all weekend and didn't remember that any of this had happened. ))

Max doesn't feel the smile spread across his lips as the mercenary's head explodes. The impact phantoms of where the dead mercenary's rounds beat uselessly against the elf's phalanx armor, the dull ache of their force is beginning to radiate into his ribs like a vague, thrumming heat. 'Nothing like prototype military grade ordinance,' he thinks as he catches his breath. But his arms are already moving of their own volition. He shifts his weight and settles into a different resting position in his hips, his smartlink targeting reticle coming to rest over another enemy as he simultaneously squeezes Marlowe Mk. II's familiar trigger.

A cloud of concrete dust erupts as Max's second volley strafes the wall adjacent to the target.

The next soldier falls into position behind the Van Gogh of gore on the wall and takes a burst at Max.
{{ 1P DAMAGE! }}

Max slams back against the wall as a stray slug penetrates the carapace of his future-armor. He pulls a gloved hand away crimson and roars in fury.

Adams sneers at the armored thug attacking his comrade. Anger boils up from dark corners of his mind as he spots the streak of blood coming from Max. These frag-faced slitches have invaded his home, harmed his friend, and created more goddamn work for him on his fragging day off!

He's screaming by the time he fires the first volley of oversized anti-vehicle slugs at the assailant.

Sucking air like the platoon of HVAC units in parade line atop the roof of FRSR's headquarters, Sinjin feels his blood pressure drop as he regains a portion of body control, slowing his heartbeat and filling his veins with much needed oxygen. The Adept's particular gifts afford him a supernatural sensitivity to his physiology, but he doesn't need his magic to know this was a close call. Damn close. Itching for a little payback, the muscled ork sets his jaw and fires off a lightning fast attack.

Sinjin's muscular leg sweeps an arc through the air so swiftly that it barely registers to even cybernetically enhanced eyes.
{{ 5P DAMAGE! }}

Sinjin's counter attack is rewarded by the sound of cracking ribs, and a rivulet of blood from his enemy's mouth; which is stretched open in astonishment.

Doc shakes off a momentary haze; as if he's spent months locked in a trance. He lets his battle rifle do the talkin'.
{{ 13P DAMAGE! }}

The intruder's head explodes like a ripe melon as Doc directs a volley of anti-vehicle rounds across the hallway.

Doc's eyes refocus as the world re-solidifies around him. The bits and pieces of the former intruder's head seem suspended in mid air, like the afterimage of a dream. Doc sees another man turning his weapon toward him out of the corner of his eye. His long-unused reflexes twist the barrel of his own rifle toward the man. The barrels race to converge along the same line, and Doc's gets there first. His rifle taps out a victory tune, the bolt keeping a perfect harmony with the report.

{{ 11P DAMAGE }}

The thunderous reports of Doc's lethal implement are complimented by a trio of gaping holes in the assailant's torso. He glances at them in astonishment, gurgles, and keels forward.

The final, lone assailant swings his assault rifle to bear. A beam of crimson, made visible in the masonry dust and gun smoke, flits from the weapon's laser-sight and bobs along the grim faces of Val, Doc and Max. In the tense moment that follows, the laser bobs madly and then disappears, followed by a clatter. The trio hunches down, weapons at the ready. As the haze slowly clears, a grisly scene reveals itself.

Fixed in a terrible position, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, the armed intruder is suspended by a gleaming katana blade shoved through one ear and emerging from the other. At the non-pointy end, Kato (blood drenched and scowling) steadies himself on tattered pinstripe trousers and rhinestone-encrusted dress boots. With a sickening slurch, the former Yakuza enforcer pries his weapon loose, leveraging a glamorous foot against the carcasses rib cage. He flicks his wrist, clearing most of the gore from the long blade.

The enigmatic bartender turns his head slowly to the partially assembled firestarter team and adjusts his mirror-shades.

"This place gone to hell in a bread basket."

Max smirks despite the small pang of pain, and says,

"You're tellin' me. We need to move. You hurt?"

Kato shakes his head. "Where Sinjin and Tyros?"