Starlance

FALLOUT: ALOHA (RP)

The interceptor raced skyward, its launch site nought but a tiny dot in the distance. Its target - likewise still a mere dot in the sky - was rapidly approaching. Deep beneath them, the Seattle Space Needle stood tall and defiant like a true American patriot, a steel and concrete middle finger to the Communist menace grasping at it with its centrally planned claws. The interceptor reached the target altitude and detonated, a blast wave screaming toward the incoming warhead, but alas the fuse triggered early and the shockwave dissipated before it met the incoming munition. With the way clear, the ballistic missile continued its murderous mission until its fiery conclusion, the Space Needle falling to its wrath. ”Frickin' bastahd.” Vigil cursed under her breath, popping the Atomic Command holotape out of her Pip-Boy and returning it back into its protective casing. 300 points and she would’ve passed her high score from two months ago.

She’d spent most of the trip on the weather deck, looking out across the ocean in search of whales. Back in the Commonwealth, she’d of course heard the legend of ‘Ol’ Peg’, a supposed Ghoul Whale living off Boston harbor, but she’d believe it when she saw it with her own eyes, and two weeks on the Green Horizon weren’t looking too good for Ol’ Peg’s credibility. That being said, Vigil was looking forward to getting off the ship. The sight of ocean was nothing new to her, but there was something fundamentally wrong with the scene that greeted her when she looked down along the hull, an endless mass of water churning at the bow and stern, threatening to swallow anything and anyone who’d fall in.

She hung back from the crowded sections of the deck, wanting no part in the moshpit and the landmass ahead being just a landmass to her, uninteresting like any other. Lounging lazily on a squeaky deck chair, she noted the reporter trying to talk to the drunk, rolling her eyes. Bothering a drunk was risky business, much less a grieving one. In a way, Vigil could sympathize with losing a loved one to a machine, a fellow Vault 75 Dweller she was very close to falling to an Institute Courser at Bunker Hill, though the drunken man’s specific circumstance had a special sting to it she couldn’t help but feel bad for. Seeing the newsman and his colleague heading her way, she moved her hat down to shield her eyes from the sun to take a nap, hoping it would dissuade the reporter.

It didn’t.

“Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

“Work.” She replied with one word, merely canting her head so she could see Sam with one eye. “And why do the viewahs cahe? How does knowing help them in life?”

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

She was about to swing when another crack was heard, not a part of the fighting but the sharp barking of sonic cracks followed by shouting. Turning to face the angry voice, in utter disbelief at what just happened. ”What by Odin’s ravens are you doing? Has no one taught you how to safely handle firearms, you maniac?!” The combination of discount berserker rage, blatant violation of gun safety and sudden onset tinnitus enough to get even the sunny-natured MechWarrior to fly off the handle. Not that she couldn't be expected to apologize for the outburst by breakfast except under extreme circumstances. But first and foremost, she simply didn’t see Ingrid’s threat being worth taking seriously in this situation. Even Takka, the apparent instigator of the brawl, wasn’t that batshit nuts, right? Right…?

But something kept tugging at her eyes. Something wasn’t right. It took Marit a second or two to figure it out, maybe on account of a pretty good haymaker she found herself on the receiving end of just before Ingrid’s non-negligent negligent discharge. But there it was. Despite standing some distance away, Marit was looking Ingrid in the face with her head level, not canted downwards. She started snickering at the sight, pointing the box out to Ziska.

Nevertheless, orders were orders and she took her place in the queue. Best to get it out of the way early, and maybe the pain would go away by the time she went to sleep. ”I ever tell you you can be hard to like sometimes?” She said to Ziska in the same tone someone complains they ran out of milk, a smile nevertheless creeping onto her face despite knowing how much the rest of the day would suck.

Raven Squad: Second Storm (Military/Spy-Fi RP)

Boraro
Jemaa-el-Fnaa, Marrakesh, Morocco
1412 Local Time

---

Ebrima followed the Nepali ghost out of the cafe, once again replacing the half-empty magazines with full ones, noting they were the only full ones remaining aside from the fragmentation grenades for the launcher. They better start wrapping up, else he’d have to start scavenging 5,56 and forget he even had the Origin. In absence of a grappling hook, the Albino had to employ a bit of imagination to find his way topside again. A younger, less experienced Ebrima would’ve taken a few seconds to give Purna good-natured grief for showing off with his flips and mid-air cartwheels, but the man knew it was more responsible - not to mention fun - to wait for the right moment. It was a great shame the rest of his previous team didn’t get the same opportunity he did, he could vividly imagine comments about ‘wearing tights to a fight’. Well, those who made it out of Colombia at least.

Coming back up onto the roofs following some jump pack-assisted gymnastics of his own, he paused with a double take, the disbelief at a heavy operator somehow stuffing himself into a mech almost physical, but with no good angle on the man and an armor-clad personification of Twitter or whatever it was called these days showing up to handle the problem with brutal efficiency, he let it go. Still, it wasn’t looking great down there, even the heavies looking worse for wear. Calling out to Purna to go on ahead along the evacuation convoy’s intended route and that he’d catch up, he took up a position behind a low wall on the market-side edge of the roof, shouldering the MSRx again and taking potshots at whoever he could find down there that was still causing trouble until the evacuation trucks arrived. Purna of course had a good point in getting out while they could, being on foot and thus slower even if the city would slow the vehicles down considerably, still leaving while the fight was still on felt wrong.

With that, he turned around and broke out into a run, keying his radio. ”Wilk, Boraro. Viper and I are withdrawing, will try to follow along your route and join you when we’re clear. Out.”
Ebrima opened a satellite map on his PDA, trying to figure out which way the convoy might take as he made haste to catch up to Purna and gave up almost immediately. The Souk was a mess of alleys, meaning the lead vehicle would most likely be guessing their route on the spot based on roughly the direction they wanted to go and which alleys were open, unless they had an Italian there to make sense of the street spaghetti they found themselves in.

They had to clear out an attempted ambush or two, but the chaotic nature of their environment worked for them as well, as the sheer amount of possible routes made setting up an ambush difficult and the hectic day had seemingly started to slow down at last, allowing the two Rooftop Ravens to slow down a little. Someone really should’ve told him being ‘the good guy’ was this much effort, he would’ve at least considered networking from the prison instead.

Rise of Rasalhague

Karel watched the Hunchback’s demise and its pilot’s ejection, tracing the flight path of the seat with his crosshairs. Nah. Pirate or not, there were boundaries better untested. Not like it was any mercy, his buddies in the VTOLs had already run away and it would most likely be a while before they’d dare venture back here, too long for the poor sod to make it in these conditions. ”Hope you’ve got a sidearm on you, guy.” The MechWarrior mused to himself. Puking one’s guts out while going red from radiation buns was not a good way to shuffle off this mortal coil.

He did a quick check, no alarms blaring, nothing feeling off, the row of ‘Really Bad Lights’ along one side of the panel likewise remaining dim. ”Not a scratch on the Mongoose, nothing on the scope.” He reported. Good, keeping this thing in good shape for as long as possible would make life easy for their quartermaster and it would keep him away from the Urbanmech and the rest of the assorted wrecks their ‘Mech Bay had been graced - cursed - with.

Looking over the company, it looked like the commander had taken the brunt of it. It was always nice to see when the commander was leading from the front instead of playing tail end charlie. He waited to see if Firestarter guy asked for help or not, moving to help him out if so and otherwise taking up his post at the formation’s right flank again.

FALLOUT: ALOHA (RP)

Vigil

appearance

_Source

A brown-eyed young woman, Vigil stands at 162 cm (5’4”) and weighs 54 kg (119 lb) with a lean, yet deceptively strong build for her size and tanned skin stemming from being outside a lot, sporting shoulder-length brown hair usually worn tucked out of the way in a bun.
She speaks rather quickly with a crisp and quiet voice, though is capable of achieving a good amount of volume if someone needs yelling at, the Boston accent still apparent in her speech.

Name: Vigil McCall

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Age: 25

SPECIAL:

Strength: 6
Perception: 7
Endurance: 7
Charisma: 4
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 7
Luck: 4

Skills and Perks:

SKILL: TAG - BONUS - TOTAL
Unarmed: 0 0 0
Melee: 0 2 2
Throwing: 0 0 0
Guts: 0 0 0
Athletics: 0 2 2
Guns: 2 1 3
Energy Weapons: 0 0 0
Explosives: 0 0 0
Medicine: 2 1 3
Piloting: 0 0 0
Sneak: 0 2 2
Lockpick: 0 0 0
Science: 0 2 2
Repair: 0 3 3
Speech: 0 0 0
Barter: 0 0 0
Survival: 2 1 3

Good Natured

You gain a +1 to your Speech, Barter, Repair and Science skills whenever you perform a good deed for others. However, breaking the law comes less naturally to you and thus, you gain a -1 to any skill and attribute checks that will be used to perform immoral deeds.

Personality:
Not one to waste effort on what can’t be controlled, she’s got a can-do attitude and expects people to get to it when a clear task is presented. Though not lazy, she is efficient, preferring the easiest effective solution available. Vigil is protective of people who just want to get on with their lives, dedicating hers to making sure they can and willing to commit acts that would make the old Geneva Conventions blush against anyone opposing this goal to do so. She has a distinct lack of any fucks to give, leading to a no-nonsense attitude and generally being blunt when dealing with people.

Vigil is enamored with pre-war cultures, spending her free time looking for written records of how people lived back then and drawing the world around her as it could've looked like before the bombs hit with... varying degrees of accuracy.

Background:
Virginia McCall was born into vault 75 in 2265. Like every generation for the past 186 years, she was raised from the start by the Overseer and research staff with rigorous physical and academic training, hoping to one day ascend to the "Uptopland" to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. But fighting came to he life earlier than she expected, in 2280, as the dwellers of Vault 75 realized what was happening and took their lives into their hands. Now free, the survivors continued to live in Vault 75 for a time, but supply shortages eventually forced them to depart in 2283. Following the shoreline, they eventually reached Bunker Hill where they took up residence.

But even though it had always been a lie, some of the Vault 75 survivors looking for a purpose turned to protecting others from the new world's dangers anyway, having been equipped for the task by their captors even if they had been dishonest. Those that did adopted new names to mark this mission and turn over a symbolic new page in their lives, Virginia choosing "Vigil" to symbolize her watchfulness over those who'd seek it, watching over Bunker Hill with her fellow Vault 75 survivors until parting ways in 2285, one of several people who left to offer their talents elsewhere.

She continued to bounce around the Commonwealth, taking odd jobs of guarding caravans and settlements until 2290. Hearing of the Aloha Isles and the pirate menace they endure, Vigil has made the perilous ten-month trek from the Commonwealth to the West Coast, where she boarded a ship bound for the isles to see how she could be of help.

Equipment:

• Weapons:
  • Combat Rifle - A pre-war rifle commonly found across the Commonwealth, chambered in .308. Fitted with a long barrel, full stock and medium scope.
  • S&W Model 29 - A bog-standard pre-war double-action revolver chambered in .44.
  • Survival knife.
• Ammunition:
  • 100x .308, 5x 20-round magazine
  • 24x .44
• Armor & apparel:
  • Vault 75 jumpsuit (slightly worn).
  • Armor - A medium combat armor vest and left shoulder pauldron, fairly well-preserved despite some wear and numerous field repairs, worn with greaves and gauntlets improvised out of nylon straps, fabric and pieces of aluminum.
  • Gas mask.
  • Slouch hat - Worn with pride. Touch at your own peril.
• Consumables:
  • 1x RadAway.
  • 3x Rad-X.
  • 2x Stimpak.
  • 1x Med-X.
  • 2x tourniquet.
  • 4 days of food and purified water.
• Misc:
  • Pip-Boy 3000 Mark IV.
  • Backpack, sleeping bag, two person tent, whetstone, gun cleaning kit, compass.
  • 5500 Caps.

Raven Squad: Second Storm (Military/Spy-Fi RP)

Boraro
Souk Semmarine, Marrakesh, Morocco
1410 Local Time

---

”On the way.” Ebrima replied calmly as soon as Purna’s first request came through, taking a second to get his bearings before setting off toward the cafe. The Cameroonian reloaded both his rifle and shotgun along the way, a fresh drum of slugs and magazine of armor piercing 5.56 rounds ready to clean house. Well, figuratively. Literally speaking, he and Purna were about to send the cafe’s cleaning lady to therapy. Clearing a gap between buildings wide enough to comfortably fit a truck with hardly any effort, he rolled with the momentum to carry as much speed as he could to get over the wider gap between his current roof and the one with the Cafe. He had an idea. An evil idea, one might say, until the presence and need for the anti armor equipment the bad guys carried threw the thought of using his thermobarics out of the window. Stunners would have to do, he thought, once again swapping out mags and moving through the cafe until he had an angle on the men on the balcony in final stages of preparations. Five to twelve, indeed. ”Am here. Grenades, then follow.” He let Purna know before pulling the trigger.

Four stun grenades sailed across the room, exploding in mid air between the Artemis anti tank team. Lightning arced through the air, writhing blue fingers reaching for metal and men alike and filling the air with cries and the smell of ozone, preceded by loud cracks.

The thing about exosuits was that they were made, at least in large part, of metal.

The thing about competently designed exosuits was that they acted as a lightning rod, protecting the wearer from such hazards. The targets cried out more in violent surprise rather than pain, the men stumbling as a result of that and the massive kick their exos just got; a few thousand volts being to the electronic brains of their armor what a pint of Diplomatico would be to a human one and causing the lucky Artemis operatives to have their armor spazz out for a moment or the less fortunate ones’ to shut down entirely.

One tried to return fire, his suit’s mobility unaffected enough to let him turn around and raise his weapon immediately. But with any augmented vision modes temporarily or permanently disabled, he couldn’t see much as he peered into the shaded cafe from the sunny balcony. Until the muzzle flash, and then he could truly see nothing.

The Origin barked, the slugs shredding armor and mincing meat, target selection driven solely by how coordinated they were in their movements. Ebrima didn’t know where Purna was, but he must’ve been there unless the man on the other side of the balcony decided to die spontaneously. Another one seemingly threw himself from the balcony mere moments later. It was over almost sooner than it started, and Raven did not take prisoners.

”I hope you know how to use these.” He said to Purna as they stood over the prepared AT weapons, Boraro recognizing a late evolution of the Israeli Spike-SR launchers. Shalev sold these and their sister variants like candy, able to source ‘the good, home-grown stuff’ with ease that stumped Ebrima even after months of working with him, but that also meant they were always around for Ebrima and the others to learn to work with. Hefting one on his shoulder and picking a target, he called it out to the Nepali cutthroat next to him. ”Be ready to run, they won’t let us be.” He cautioned - likely unnecessarily - and fired, throwing the disposable launcher away and immediately reaching for another one, the first two BTRs doing their best impression of Roman Candles before the pair could reload.

FALLOUT: ALOHA (RP)

Vigil

appearance

_Source

A brown-eyed young woman, Vigil stands at 162 cm (5’4”) and weighs 54 kg (119 lb) with a lean, yet deceptively strong build for her size and tanned skin stemming from being outside a lot, sporting shoulder-length brown hair usually worn tucked out of the way in a bun.
She speaks rather quickly with a crisp and quiet voice, though is capable of achieving a good amount of volume if someone needs yelling at, the Boston accent still apparent in her speech.

Name: Vigil McCall

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Age: 25

SPECIAL:

Strength: 6
Perception: 7
Endurance: 7
Charisma: 4
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 7
Luck: 4

Skills:

SKILL: TAG - BONUS - TOTAL
Unarmed: 0 0 0
Melee: 0 2 2
Throwing: 0 0 0
Guts: 0 0 0
Athletics: 0 2 2
Guns: 2 1 3
Energy Weapons: 0 0 0
Explosives: 0 0 0
Medicine: 2 1 3
Piloting: 0 0 0
Sneak: 0 2 2
Lockpick: 0 0 0
Science: 0 2 2
Repair: 0 3 3
Speech: 0 0 0
Barter: 0 0 0
Survival: 2 1 3

Personality:
Not one to waste effort on what can’t be controlled, she’s got a can-do attitude and expects people to get to it when a clear task is presented. Though not lazy, she is efficient, preferring the easiest effective solution available. Vigil is protective of people who just want to get on with their lives, dedicating hers to making sure they can and willing to commit acts that would make the old Geneva Conventions blush against anyone opposing this goal to do so. She has a distinct lack of any fucks to give, leading to a no-nonsense attitude and generally being blunt when dealing with people.

Vigil is enamored with pre-war cultures, spending her free time looking for written records of how people lived back then and drawing the world around her as it could've looked like before the bombs hit with... varying degrees of accuracy.

Background:
Virginia McCall was born into vault 75 in 2265. Like every generation for the past 186 years, she was raised from the start by the Overseer and research staff with rigorous physical and academic training, hoping to one day ascend to the "Uptopland" to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. But fighting came to he life earlier than she expected, in 2280, as the dwellers of Vault 75 realized what was happening and took their lives into their hands. Now free, the survivors continued to live in Vault 75 for a time, but supply shortages eventually forced them to depart in 2283. Following the shoreline, they eventually reached Bunker Hill where they took up residence.

But even though it had always been a lie, some of the Vault 75 survivors looking for a purpose turned to protecting others from the new world's dangers anyway, having been equipped for the task by their captors even if they had been dishonest. Those that did adopted new names to mark this mission and turn over a symbolic new page in their lives, Virginia choosing "Vigil" to symbolize her watchfulness over those who'd seek it, watching over Bunker Hill with her fellow Vault 75 survivors until parting ways in 2285, one of several people who left to offer their talents elsewhere.

She continued to bounce around the Commonwealth, taking odd jobs of guarding caravans and settlements until 2290. Hearing of the Aloha Isles and the pirate menace they endure, Vigil has made the perilous ten-month trek from the Commonwealth to the West Coast, where she boarded a ship bound for the isles to see how she could be of help.

Equipment:

• Weapons:
  • Combat Rifle - A pre-war rifle commonly found across the Commonwealth, chambered in .308. Fitted with a long barrel, full stock and medium scope.
  • S&W Model 29 - A bog-standard pre-war double-action revolver chambered in .44.
  • Survival knife.
• Ammunition:
  • 100x .308, 5x 20-round magazine
  • 24x .44
• Armor & apparel:
  • Vault 75 jumpsuit (slightly worn).
  • Armor - A medium combat armor vest and left shoulder pauldron, fairly well-preserved despite some wear and numerous field repairs, worn with greaves and gauntlets improvised out of nylon straps, fabric and pieces of aluminum.
  • Gas mask.
  • Slouch hat - Worn with pride. Touch at your own peril.
• Consumables:
  • 1x RadAway.
  • 3x Rad-X.
  • 2x Stimpak.
  • 1x Med-X.
  • 2x tourniquet.
  • 4 days of food and purified water.
• Misc:
  • Pip-Boy 3000 Mark IV.
  • Backpack, sleeping bag, two person tent, whetstone, gun cleaning kit, compass.
  • 5500 Caps.

Couldn't find a date for when exactly the Vault 75 uprising took place, so took some liberties there. Yell at me if it doesn't make sense.

---

Edit 25/04/2024: -1 PER, +1 AGI.

FALLOUT: ALOHA (RP)

I'll throw my hat in too if you'll have me. I'm cooking up a Vault 75 survivor.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

”Wait, hold up, let me catch up you magnificent lunatic.” Marit protested as she staggered after Ziska, surprised by the sudden shift from being weighed down to being dragged along. The scene that greeted them was about as could be expected if too many fighting folk live in tight quarters for too long. They could have at least saved the fighting for bad times when it was understandable. ”Is it so hard to simply bask in the victory and keep all your teeth? We should- What? Em- Ziska, NO! For Gods’ sake.” She should’ve anticipated that, that was on her. She jumped to the nearest person who wasn’t Ziska and tried to pull them away from the fight, not feeling like getting socked in the head by the madwoman in her blood haze. ”Save it for the Fists!”
“Here’s a fist.” Someone she didn’t recognize in the melee retorted and clocked her in the cheek.

Marit wasn’t good at fighting with her hands, as an oh-for-two score in the Scrap Yard illustrated. It was one thing to wield a bar stool like a bat to even out the odds when some spaceport worker was talking shit, but such tactics couldn’t be applied to the situation at hand because unlike the random peasants in a bar, broken ribs and noses were a concern here. Still, a hit like that did release some small reservoir of Viking blood into her system. Briefly seeing red and subconsciously noting Ziska’s callout, Ziska’s phrasing switching on the fighting autopilot in Marit’s mind, she took advantage of being grounded and latched onto the leg of her assailant, lifting it up and toppling him to clear a way for her to intercept Ziska’s oncoming problem with a blow to the gut followed up by an elbow to the back of the head.

In the corner of her vision she noticed a crowd of spectators assembling. ”Whatever you’re gonna do, do it fast.” She replied to Rivers’ voice, earning herself another bite of a knuckle sandwich with a loud *clack* of her teeth for momentarily dropping her guard.

Raven Squad: Second Storm (Military/Spy-Fi RP)

Boraro
Souk Semmarine, Marrakesh, Morocco
1350 Local Time

---

”Did he just say ‘Mech’?” Ebrima sounded almost annoyed, ”Pick a side.” He offered to the Gurkha before making his way upstairs himself. Ebrima was glad he got sent up top. Yes, having been raised in Central Africa’s rainforests, he thrived in close quarters. Heck, it was one of the pillars he built his career on. But not having to mind stragglers when shooting was better. He had to hauů ass to keep slightly ahead of the main team, but not too far ahead in case someone came at them from behind. ”Chaos, if you still have drones up, would appreciate early warning.” He asked as he sent two frag grenades over the heads of a machine gunner and his assistant mid-leap, slamming a new magazine of frags into the M25 and transitioning to the rifle. He kept it moving, thinking less like an infantryman and almost like a fighter pilot - don’t move in a straight line for long, attack with speed and altitude - until he misjudged the material of the roof on landing and crashed through into the room below, feeling something moving under the piece of corrugated metal under his feet.

Three heads, two regular and one exo, snapped to face him. One immediately erupted into pink mist as an armor piercing round went through it. Ebrima’s brow furrowed when the exo-clad operative grabbed the other guy to use as a shield, a surprised “Wat de fok?!” indicating this wasn’t standard Artemis procedure. Some leader this was. Not that he sympathized with the South African, just that his commander pissed him off, even more so when the meat shield turned into a meat missile launched at Ebrima. He dodged him quite easily, leaving a foot behind to help the hapless guy on the ground. A groan from under the metal sheet he initially landed on confirmed the guy under it was still a factor as well. Boraro got his weapon up quick, but the Artemis Exo had a head start, a salvo of 9x18 mm from a PP-19 hammering against Ebrima’s chestplate. In true Russian fashion, the weapon’s designer seemed to compensate quality with quantity and gave his creation 64 round helical magazines, and although neither bullet found any weak spots, it would be a big bruise tomorrow.

The endless stream of lead was only interrupted by the MDR’s barked reply, the Artemis operative recoiling just enough for Ebrima to close in and grab the business end of his weapon and wrench it away from his face. Unfortunately, the other guy had the same idea, landing them in a bit of a stalemate. After a few seconds of pulling at each others’ guns, Ebrima took advantage of his enclosed helmet over the Artemis Exo open-faced design and headbutted him in the face, letting go of the Bison a split second later and throwing the other guy off balance, buying himself enough time to draw his kukri. A quick slash across the torso caught the sling and disconnected the Bison from its wielder, allowing Ebrima to hold the kukri under his right arm and yank the Russian submachine gun away and throw it to his right side. A dull thud and a hissed “Ow!” confirmed he hit roughly what he was aiming at, but the Artemis exo made good use of his now-empty hand and grabbed Ebrima’s rifle with both.

The Cameroonian made the mistake of fully trusting the sling and grabbed the kukri again to make sure he didn’t drop it, but with a sharp pull and a rip of tearing nylon, his weapon left his grip. Okay, now the guy was just copying Ebrima’s homework and slightly changing the answers. The pale merc pushed forward, under no circumstance intending to allow the other guy to aim. The kukri never stopped as Ebrima circled around the other man, the Artemis operative too busy using the stolen rifle as a shield to keep the Nepali blade away from his unprotected face to use it for its intended purpose. Moving around turned out to be a prudent decision, as it allowed him to see the South African picking up the Bison and put the enemy exo between himself and the Russian lead hose. The spray hammered against the back of the artemis exo like rain against a metal roof, the exo and shooter both startled by that turn of events enough for Ebrima to lean around him and finally shut the South African up with his USP, raising his left knee to catch the descending head of the exo operative a split second later as he bent over from the spray, following up with a kukri under the armpit as he straightened up from the blow. Exosuit or not, functioning with that was difficult, even if Ebrima wasn’t sure if he got the axillary artery or not, but the slowdown was enough for Ebrima to shove the USP into a soft spot and keep shooting until the noises stopped.

Another safety round belonged to the South African.

The man under the rubble finally got himself from underneath it just in time to be shot in the face before Ebrima retrieved his rifle, hastily tied the torn sling together and jumped back up to the rooftops to rejoin the fight. ”Still alive.”