In the beginning of this giant gun battle, before shit hit the fan, he had been taking care of a request from another source, to break out a slave that went by the name of 'David Kimbler'. Now, it seemed as if that little task, for the 1000 caps it would've netted him, was a pretty moot point. Slavers all around was wielding guns and battling it out with what seemed to be a rebellious task force of men of all shapes and sizes. The entire settlement seemed stirred up and chaotic, and with the smoke and smog deep in the air, fire raging around, and the sounds of screaming and groaning blasting throughout the air, his life was now his most important priority. David was dead, from a bullet to the brain from a stray round, and Jackdaw was left in the Northern Slaver's HQ, where he had ducked inside of when shit hit the fan. 

[i]''Course they decided to liberate when I was on a mission...'[/i] Jackdaw thought rather sourly, pressing his back against the concrete wall. A slaver rushed passed him, not even taking notice of the quiet figure in the dark building, and Jackdaw instantly grabbed the man by the back of his combat armor, slamming the man into the wall and yanking his combat knife through the slaver's jaw. A jagged line of pooling blood was the only sign of attack, and Jackdaw let the dead man fall, moving further into the building. As he moved, he unsheathed his other knife, wielding both razor-sharp tools of death in both hands, a reverse-grip allowing him mobility and versatility in his slashing and thrusting movements. His footsteps were quiet, his movements fast. Any rushing slavers, on their way to the outside to help their fellow men and women, were quickly disposed of with quick and brutal slashes and stabs, Jackdaw dropping their corpses on his way to his goal.

His goal? He didn't really have one. He was aiming to join in on the liberation, since he fucking hated slavers anyway. Living as a slave for years did that to ya.

When the last man fell to his blade, Jackdaw, like a ghost, sheathed his knives and busted out through the front door, into the smoke of the battlefield. His SCAR was unslung from around his shoulders, and before a nearby slaver could even say anything at his sudden entrance, the man received an AP bullet through his forehead. Jackdaw descended on the enemies, assault rifle up and aiming as he quickly and quietly ambushed the slavers from the back. The rebels were in front of them, coming from the South direction, so Jackdaw was a third-party wild card. A burst of rounds riddled another slaver's back, before Jackdaw twisted to the left and slammed two more bullets into a slaver's head, bursting it like a watermelon. 

Seeing a group of slavers beginning to release some of their trained K-9's, Jackdaw grabbed a grenade from his belt with his free left hand, biting off the pin and viciously throwing it at the group, where it nailed a dog hard in the flank.

"Boom." He felt a smirk form on his gasmasked-face, even as he rolled behind cover, as the grenade exploded in a hail of shrapnel and fire. Oh, and screams.

Thankfully, it was enough distance away from the other liberators.