Nimbus, a small colony on the outside of UNSC space. Nimbus was a little planet, roughly the size of Mars, gravity of about .98G, and an otherwise normal breathable atmosphere. It was a temperate, terran world with weather cycles similar to most Western European nations on Earth, and was currently in Fall, with chilly temperatures and winds. Nimbus was also the site of the most recent insurrectionist movement, and most of the planet was currently protesting the Earth government, demanding independence. The Capital City of Haven in particular was awash with civil conflict, as protesters flooded the streets, marching on the Capital building, where the seat of UNSC power was held.

Already, the main Nimbian government had relocated to another building in the Capital, but had refrained from officially declaring secession from the UNSC government- for fear of the UNSC Military invading the small planet, but rather was pressuring the UNSC officials to allow the planet independence from its grip. The Capital Building was instead populated by the UNSC's Ambassadorial detail, set with UNSC officials, and security detail to begin negotiations with the Nimbian protestors.

Negotiations were going about as well as anyone could expect, with the UNSC-installed Government declaring the protests over and demanding that everyone returned to their duties, and with the Nimbians getting expectedly more rowdy. The current protest had been going on for well over two days, protesters even bringing tents to sleep in the streets with, effectively much of the Colony's production to a halt. To make matters worth, the Nimbian militia had begun protesting the UNSC as well, and have begun parading the streets with the Colony's protestors- many in organized units with firearms.

The Capital Building was as such, for all intents and purposes, under siege, with the Ambassadorial detail and its security guards all stuck within the Capital Building. Luckily, ONI had decided that attaching a covert team of ODSTs to the Ambassadorial detail would be a smarter move, and as such, some 5 squads of Orbital Drop Shock Troopers from the 42nd Tactical had been deployed to key locations around the planet. Alpha and Bravo teams had been deployed to the Capital City to relieve some of the pressure on the Ambassadorial detail and its guards, Charlie team was sent to a major arms production facility, while Delta and Gamma were deployed to do recon at Research and Military labs. All the while, the Red Glare, an ONI stealth prowler, maintained contact with all of them.

---

Three blocks from the Capital Building, the vacated, half-constructed office building provided the soldiers of Bravo Team with an excellent vantage point over the current riots, and the poor light that dusk provided gave the soldiers excellent concealment, even when poking their heads out of the windows. Out the window, the ODSTs could see the rioters in the streets below, a police car nearby was in flames, and a line of security guards with riot shields and rifles were blocking off the driveway to the Capital Building. Among the protesters there were countless numbers of signs, and the occasional rock was thrown. The sounds of screams and shattering glass were occasionally heard amongst the general ruckus of protesters.

Bravo Team, what's your status? crackled the comms inside the helmets of Bravo team, stirring Thomas 'K-Ton' Kensington into a state of wakefulness. The team had been on Nimbus for some 48 hours, and in this particular building for about 22, having been quietly dropped off nearby by a Special Operations Pelican, and stealthily made their way into the abandoned building to watch the protests from a vantage point. As such, they'd spent most of their time in the building watching the crowds in shifts, to keep the squad fresh when needed. However, it looked like something was afoot, and their full attention was needed.

From his space on the ground- a small stretch of concrete, with a cinder block pillow and a small tarp to cover it all, K-Ton groggily sat up and elbowed the nearest soldier, "Hey, its go-time." he said, as he pulled his helmet over his head and clicked the seal, his helmet HUD rapidly re-initializing as it reconnected to its suit. Using his M45 Shotgun to push himself up like a crutch, he clicked on his VISR and looked over into the crowd, the outlines of individual civilians flooding his vision.

Luciel had slept earlier in the day, a while after the squad had finished moving into the empty building. She woke after a full rest, finding others to have followed suit. Knowing they team would need all the sleep they could afford, Luciel quietly made her way over to a window overlooking the protest, stepping as lightly as possible to avoid making noise. She pressed her back to the wall next to the window and slid herself down, until her rump rested on the floor. Drawing her M6C SOCOM, Luciel activated the Smart-Link connection between her HUD and scope, aiming the pistol towards the crowd and switching her VISR on, magnifying the zoom by four for a clear view.

"Bravo Team, what's your status?" The voice came from her radio, nearly scaring Luciel to death. It had been forever since her last actual field mission, and she wasn't fully back into the swing of things yet. Her attention shifted to her now awoken teammate nudging her leg.

"Hey, it's go-time," the man spoke softly as he readied himself. Luciel gave him a nod.

"Understood sir," She replied, her usual chipper and up-pitch tone now hushed and deepened slightly. "I'm good to go, just waiting for the orders. We'll show these fucking rebels a thing or two." Luciel grabbed her Individual Grenade Launcher from the floor next to her, metal fingers lightly clacking on the weapon as she folded open the breech and loaded one of the gas canisters from her vest into the chamber. She brought the barrel back in line with the body of the launcher, securing it with a click.

Luciel barely managed to contain her excitement. Finally, after all the rehabilitation and subsequent training for the ODST branch, her patience had paid off. Now it was time to show her squad she was up for the challenges to come, starting with this simple operation. She aimed her pistol out the window once more to check on the crowd. "Rambunctious group, huh? I like our odds though..." she muttered.

Fours awoke from his slumber slowly, in a gradient. A buzzing in his helmet, and the words harshly ringing in his ears, finally stirred Fours to his feet. He looked around, remembering again his surroundings. He had fallen asleep earlier at a desk, upon which his medical gear was strewn in an organized chaos. With groggy eyes and slurred hand movements, he checked that he had each and every piece of equipment he might need in the field. Once, then again, eyes opening wider as he awoke more. A third time, before he was interrupted by K-Ton.

"Hey, it's go-time."

One fourth and final time, Fours checked his gear, before packing it all away. He then pulled out his pistol, checking the magazine. Two sets of four rounds lay dormant in the clip, eagerly awaiting a chance to snap at the throat of his enemies. He clicked the magazine back into place, before placing the pistol in a holster at his hip. As if suddenly remembering, Fours pulled off his helmet, and rubbed at a mark left on his forehead from sleeping in the armor. He mumbled something incoherent, placing the helmet down on the desk for a moment.

"Understood sir, I'm good to go, just waiting for the orders. We'll show these fucking rebels a thing or two. Rambunctious group, huh? I like our odds though..." Came the voice of the ever-excitable Luciel. Fours offered a groggy chuckle, turning his shotgun over in his hands as he admired his own shiny gunmetal gray reflection. He looked over at her, pointing her pistol down into the crowd.

"Just because they can't see us doesn't mean you should be aiming a pistol down at them." Fours slurred, still not quite awake, taking a playful jab at the rookie. He leaned out the window alongside the rookie for just a moment, taking a glance at the ruckus below for just a moment, before pulling back inside and leaning against a wall. He looked to Berne expectantly, as his fingers drummed against the wall. Dum dum dum dum. Dum dum dum dum. Dum dum dum dum. His head nodded along as he tapped, before he nudged the squad botanist, as Fours so affectionately preferred to call him.

"What's the plan, boss?" He asked simply, as he continued to tap his rhythm against the hard concrete wall.

Sergeant Ruben Berne, Haven, Winter 2525

It was quiet. Too Quiet. JK :)

There had been four way-stations between Ruben's squad and their prowler, shimmering now , no doubt, miles up in the vacuous expanse above, invisible to all but the most dedicated appraisers of Nimbus' notably honeyed sun-rays, who's tendrils the imperfect cloak oft-times flared and spun, like thread onto a hungry and life-starved canvas. Four workstations, and it was only here and now, huddled in the husk of a rumbled building, that Ruben had attuned himself to the electricity of rebellion.

When they had first touched down, assembled in a shivering bunker gilded with frost, the planet had seemed to be all it aspired to when it had christened its capital haven. Then, the sky had been awash in the pulsing amber of Nimbus' twin red-dwarf, which, with the recess of its parent, hung as on orb in the firmament, filaments of violent plasma streaking from its sides and grasping, vine-like, to the vacant sky before breaking into tubes of wispy purple aurora. On Earth, these displays confined themselves to the frosted wastes of the poles, where few people, loving of comfort, who clung tighter and in ever-greater numbers to the country swallowing great-cities, ever contrived to tread. On Nimbus, such views were a birth-right. Nimbus was new, fresh, the lights of Haven, perhaps only a million citizens strong, had glistened subserviently, and, perhaps, Ruben thought, appropriately, then on the shrinking horizon, no match for the heavenly opera that, even in the depths of winter, could be embraced by a man armed with little more than a shawl or coat to ward of the cold. These frontiersmen, sojourning out from the orbit of the inner-worlds and their torch of right-culture were deprived and naive of so many beuatious conceptions, Ruben thought, but with their natural theatre, and the simplistic radiance of the second-sun, it seemed they retained some small measure of the human spirit that, on Earth, seemed to have irreversibly dimmed. Ruben knew first hand, serving years ago at the foot of ONI as a biological science-officer, that to the UEG, there was no sentiment to nature - only consumption, and rage at its denial.

But that had been days ago, and as, with each discreet and slinking pelican drop, the docile glow of Haven grew emboldened to dominate the horizon, to drown out the cosmos wavering above, the peaceful allure of Nimbus drained, as if a torrent, from Ruben's war-wearied eyes. In the streets below burned pyres, stoked and spilled fort from the hearts of the Nimibians themselves and arrayed into patches of choking inferno, sustained by mis-matched oils and petrols, stolen from beneath the glow of house-lights that had once lit wholesome family meals, or providing dimming backdrop to countless, tenderly amorous encounters.

Now, all the lights in the city were ablaze and inferno, the power-stations long since abandoned to strike and to frothing indignation, or themselves consumed by rioting or protest. Beneath his feet, perhaps ten-thousand citizens crammed and milled about the streets. How many, Ruben thought, had simply fled their power-less and frigid homes, and joined the blaze not for ill-contentment, or for contrivances of politics, but for warmth and sustenance? How many cared not for the origin of their refugee-meal, the dispersion of which, itself, had now a cause for riotous conflict, the contenders competing now to paint themselves as forthcoming and benevolent with the piping weapons of stock and of soup.

Ruben rose from his seat, crooked in the sill of a wind-blasted window, from whence he had kept a keen and sympathetic eye on the crowd for these past forty-eight hours. At the crook of his nose pulsed an orange-tinged string of ticking numbers, their filament-heat steaming the clumped recesses of snow from the front of his still-polished visor.

"2h 37m have elapsed, it is 19:00 hours!"

The computer intimated over Ruben's private comms. It was an arbitrary sleep-time he had set, but he had known when it had been entered that he would not rest it through. The vibrancy of the self-righteous crowd pulsed within him, a viral and unwelcome proxy, filling him with a verve and excitement Ruben yearned to throw off his shoulders like a shawl, and to retreat, in the way his squad-mates had, slumped as detritus on the once-marbled floor of their vantage point. Ruben knew he had been in a place like this before, he had read his personal logs yearly, like a favourite novel, entranced by the years of movement, his movements, that held no place in his memory, but he could not allow himself to believe that his twitching and irrepressible alertness was a sentiment birthed to him from those times, lost in the recesses of Far-Isle's ashes.

"They were traitors..."

Ruben mumbled through the mufflers of his suit, and assured himself again. Pressing one hand to the dusted ground, Ruben lifted the one personal effect he had ever allowed himself, a hold over of his colonial-past - a simple plastic rosary. Ruben had no conception of how it had come his way, tucked, as it had been, into his swaddling clothes whilst he languished in Far-Isle's crumbling refugee-camps, nearly thirty years ago. At one time in its life, the rosary had been shimmering, perhaps real-ivory, ironically hewed from the husk of the nature those who followed its religion were sworn to protect. Now, one side was cast in shadow and in soot, bleached and blackened again by the raining thermo-fire that had levelled Ruben's one-time home and delivered him, trussed and hooded, to the doorstep of the UEG, and a life spent here, amidst the flames of more and more embattled colonies, who numbers rose with each rising and setting of whatever sun he happened to be sitting under.

Leaving memory at the window-sill, Ruben strode, thudding and deliberate, towards the centre of the room and to his make-shift depot.The squad had tinkered long into the night, tinkering malicious and not-un-remarkably cruel military tools into "weapons of peace" as if, in this dense and choking crowd, a cloud of smoke would be any less deadly when launched from a grenade-silo than a round of napalm-infused explosive. Still, Ruben's conciseness had insisted they be converted - brass was far too gleeful to deploy lethal force against these rioters, that one might think the UEG really did view their outer-colonists, not as dutiful children, but as cash-bags and expendable yokels. As he strode, the floor buckled and creaked in turns, robbing Ruben of any poignancy or grace as he wobbled to steady himself. The building itself was old and crippled, built in the now ancient, and inexpensive, Earth style of concrete and girders, but to Nimbus and its shearing winds and clumps of periodic dust-storms, holdovers from the still un-cemented terraforming process, it may as well have been a ill-planted leaf. According to the brief, it had been abandoned and unlivable for nearly ten years, and had been in miserable and unpleasant condition long before that, becoming a haven with Haven for sweat-addled narcotics abusers, and violent, secretive black-market trade.

Nimbus' first ruin...

Ruben mused, wondering how many more would fill its wake if he and his team were to fail.

"Bravo Team, what your status?"

Ruben motioned a hand to press him comm-button for reply, then lowered it, pausing to recall the particulars of the mission briefing he had dozed through some two days past. There was something about military planning that seemed so aloof, so pontificated - so detached from reality, that made Ruben recoil at the hearing of it. Throughout his decades of training, he had always found solace in academics, carving himself an indispensable place in the UNSC through his mind, and not his ability to be directed and poised, doll-like, to whatever target his superiors inferred, before slinking off to their officers' mess and the rump-steak with all the trimmings that awaited them. That was what was so liberating about the ODST corps - the designs off his superiors never came to fruition, and with his squad, Ruben was, for perhaps the first time in his life, his own master, and that was more liberating than a thousand righteous colonial uprisings.

"Copy that, Alpha-leader. We have completed our...circadian cycles, and are ready for where the crowd might take us! We will contact you once we've facilitated the hand-shake. Bravo-Leader out."

Ruben clicked the button again, and cringed. The reply was laced with far too much sarcasm, and the alpha-leader was a noted stickler for the rules, born, as he was, on Reach, in the shadow of the Azod shipyards. A man such as this could not have escaped being imprinted indelibly with compliance and submission.

"I'm good to go, just waiting for the orders. We'll show these fucking rebels a thing or two."Rambunctious group, huh? I like our odds though...""

The rookie's voice crackled over the comms, dripping with irreverent enthusiasm. She was remarkable, in a way, Ruben considered, striding over to her wake, the whirring of her cybernetics pulsing globules of dust in rhythm from the ground, women who had endured such tragedy were regrettably commonplace in the UNSC, but few of them bore it with such poise. To Ruben, her attitude was paradoxically irksome and inspiring, admirably resilient, but tinged with just a hint of sociopath - for is someone was not moved to emotion or to brooding by such a loss, would they be moved by anything, beautious or sorrowful, that life could appoint to them?

"You will show them nothing..."

Ruben grumbled, prising off his helmet and raising his brows in an imperative scowl. She was not a diminutive girl, but wagging her pistol flippantly from the window-frame, she looked every inch of her near six-foot frame as though a child would, at play with her father's effects.

"You are far too flippant with your contempt. If you are going to hold that implement, then I suggest you display to me a little more discretion in who is deserving of your use of it."

Ruben placed his hand on the pistol with a grimace, skillfully triggering the safety before fixing Luciel with a wordless, smouldering glare.

"Just because they can't see us doesn't mean you should be aiming a pistol down at them."

Muttered Fours, his eyes blinking rapidly, still recoiling from the shock of the comm-chanter he was too exhausted to fully process and react to. The man was flippant and contemptuous himself, perhaps even sadistic, but Ruben felt a twinge of respect for him, all the same. Beneath his scarred and greying eyes flickered, it seemed, the brain of a good-soul that, perhaps, needed some light encouragement to come forth. Waddling towards the window frame, Ruben tapped the back of the medic's helmet, in part to stir him from his fractious sleep, in part as a clumsy thanks for his scolding of the rookie.

This will work Ruben thought, The more I starve the Rookie and her outbursts of affection, the greater the drive to live up to our example.

"What's the plan, boss?"

Fours implored in response. The question was confirming somehow, if another of the squad had been so dejected in the briefing, then, perhaps, Ruben's little kingdom of six would be more conducive to any off-the-book detours. Gesturing to the rest of the squad, Ruben strolled over once more to the weapons cache, lifting a smoke-converted grenade launcher onto his lap before sitting down clumsily between two half-settled crates.

"The Plan, Fours, went out the window with that crowd. It was consumed in their pyres!"

Ruben wagged a hand flamboyantly. In ten years of giving military speeches, he found, for the soldiery, each one of which was endowed with a sense of divine-purpose and of self-importance; everyone appreciated a little theatre.

"Everyone, the ambassadors for the UEG have been holed up in the Capital Building for days, and they haven't done much in the way of their job description!"

That was an understatement. The Ambassadors seemed little more than the enablers of a coup-de-etat, riding to the colony on the pretence of concession, before depriving their fellows of legitimacy, and declaring them criminals. It was they who had summoned these riots that entrapped them, and Ruben felt little pity for their predicament, stacked, as they were, with armed guards possessed of dubious morals.

"So, then, if the ambassadors cannot make their entreaties, and leave the capital without being torn asunder by disgruntled protesters..."

Ruben paused, summoning all the gravitas he could from the room, crimson tinged now as the sun slipped below the horizon, and the first tendrils of the binary-star grasped the sky.

"Then we shall simply have to escort those with whom they ought to be debating to them! The protesters will not hurt one of their own, if we want this to go over smoothly, we need to find and escort Nimbian government representatives to Capital."

Ruben swallowed. Many of his squad were bought-and-sold UNSC fanatics, more like to shoot at Rebels than to facilitate conversation. it would take all his clout and charisma to keep them on task.

"So, I would like to open up the floor. We know there's a very severe risk to the Capital building at this very moment, one which requires urgent addressing before we go on the hunt. Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we may proceed? I am all ears."

Oblivious to all the talks below, was one ODST operative - whom was lying prone on the roof of the office building. It wasn't because they were anti-social or had a dislike of their current squadmates - rather it was because, their mission parameter was different than the others.

Mira Niella was Bravo Team' Designated Marksman and Sniper - namely anything long-range was her responsibility. Most would assume, that as a sniper - it was her job to shoot anybody from afar, before they could spot her. That was far from the truth - snipers weren't all long range shooters. Amongst their jobs was also recon, observation, surveillance and target acquisition. In short, her current assignment wasn't to prepare to shoot those unsuspecting civilians down on the streets - rather, it was her job to pin-point and observe any changes to the crowd. Were they being attacked, taunted or being riled up for some kind of an attack. Any such changes could easily result in the entire mob storming the Capital - getting themselves and anybody else in the resulting clash killed.

She had been up on the roof, for the past two days sine they had arrived here. Snipers were trained to hold positions for far longer - two weeks if need be, not moving an inch from their location. Gathering intelligene or waiting for the perfect moment to shoot their target or targets. Mira hadn't moved much during the past two days, always watching and staying still. She had eaten, drinked, slept even reliefed herself ontop of the building. Because it was her job, any sudden movements needed to be relayed down command, so they could react. A missed opportunity could be the difference between a street riot and a planetary riot.

For the most part, she had designated and marked atleast twelve leaders amongst the rebels. Or those, whom were the most local and were spotted moving from place to place and talking to people. So far, none of them had urged an attack or taunted the mob into action - yet there was always the possibilty of one idiot, thinking he had all the right answers to rally the mob into a blind frenzy. If such a thing happened, it would only in death - for him immediately, if the order was given to shoot or by guards stationed with the Ambassador.

She herself just wished the Nimbians would go home - rioting like these, would only result in more crackdowns sooner or later. Be it against them now or later - or against more Outer Colonies, should they remain uncooperative and adamant for their 'independence'. Such things always ended in tears - she had a file in her own documents, which ended with seven UNSC soldiers dead and about a hundred 'rebels' as well. The UNSC called her a hero after that, Mira herself wanted to simply eat a bullet then - she would have, only that she forgot to load a round into the chamber then...

She activated her radio then, to give her report to her Sergeant - every designated time. She didn't much chat with the others, since that would distract her and because she needed quietness to focus. "Sergeant, this is Iron. Protestors are getting more bolder within the hour. Many more are rising and agitating the crowd further - it might get ugly, within these next twenty-four hours."

"You will show them nothing..." came the voice of her Sergeant. "You are far too flippant with your contempt. If you are going to hold that implement, then I suggest you display to me a little more discretion in who is deserving of your use of it." His hand came from above her shoulder, and Luciel watched as his thumb slid over the already engaged safety. Luciel

Does he think I'm going to start raining bullets down on them? I might be new to the squad, but I do know how not to compromise a mission. He'll realise the safety was on on his own. She looked back and up towards the man towering over her as she gave her response. "Aye aye, Sergeant, though my contempt is justified." She tapped the barrel of her Magnum against her left arm to punctuate the sentence, keeping her response short and simple.

"Just because they can't see us doesn't mean you should be aiming a pistol down at them." chimed in Fours, the team's medic. He had obviously also just woken by the sound of his voice through the comms. Luciel wasn't sure what to make of the man yet exactly, though being so new she didn't have many opinions of anyone yet.

"Are you going to tell me you've never used your scope instead of your HUD binoculars? In any case, I just can't get over this M6 variant. You Helljumpers get all the good gear... I mean, the optics on this thing are stronger than my DMR. And this suit? The way my shoulder mounts are designed to lock right in make it pretty damn comfy." A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she disconnected her Smart-Link.

She stood and moved towards their squad leader as he gestured for everyone, holstering her weapon and sitting upon a crate to his left as she didn't want to stand from the floor again afterward. Luciel listened with attentive ears, enjoying the Sergeant's idea of adding a bit of pageantry to his speech, something which brought her mind back to her days as a gymnast. As he finished, Sergeant Berne asked for suggestions as to their course of action concerning the protesters' threat to the building. Not wanting to make any more negative impressions, Luciel kept her mouth shut.

Jason had been sleeping before the call came- Or, more accurately, dozing upright in a corner, leaning on the locked joint of his metal knee to stay standing. It was rare that he took his helmet off in the field- A long taught lesson from his previous C.O. And, snoozing as he was, the visor was darkened to hide his face. Of course, all of this made it all the more comical when the call to attention came through their comms. The young ODST jolted to wakefulness with a grunt, stumbling forward a few steps and shaking his head to clear the ringing from his poor, unprepared ears.

"Gah..."

The word came out as a grumble, while he started working the stiffness out of his limbs- Listening idly to the conversations of the others. It wasn't his place to chime in on the 'mistake' from their rookie. He was barely any older than her- And he'd only been a helljumper himself for a year. So he left it to the more experienced members to reprimand her over eagerness. He was even about to chime in on the light ribbing from Fours when Ruben started with one of his.... Famous speeches. It took everything Jason had not to start giggling in his helmet- He even resorted to ghost boxing in the corner, something he was rather prone to doing whenever he was idle and not sleeping.

"Then we shall simply have to escort those with whom they ought to be debating to them! The protesters will not hurt one of their own, if we want this to go over smoothly, we need to find and escort Nimbian government representatives to Capital. So, I would like to open up the floor. We know there's a very severe risk to the Capital building at this very moment, one which requires urgent addressing before we go on the hunt. Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we may proceed? I am all ears."

As Ruben wrapped up, Jason ceased his antics, instead stepping closer to the group- Checking his pistols as he spoke, to make sure his magazines were full and spares were ready. And that his knives were in easy reach, of course.

"There's not much we can do about a crowd like that unless we start taking pot shots from the windows. Calming them down is useless- We need to redirect their attention, is all, without sparking full force violence. You're good at giving speeches, Berne; Hop up on a podium, broadcast a message- Feed them some sob story, get them listening, sympathizing. Doesn't matter how. While you do, send Hanzer and I to grab our Nimbian. We're quick, clanky as we might be- Can get them in to have a little chat with out ambassadors before you even finish bringing the audience to tears."

He shrugged, slipping one of his pistols back into its holster on his thigh with a metallic 'shhk'.

"Keeps them from throwing molotovs at the capital, and unless somebody tries to fire on us while we're walking our new friend into the front doors, it shouldn't require a lick of bloodshed. Most of them are just farmers following the mob mentality, no reason to get violent with them right now. But, as always, Berne- The call's yours."

He dipped into a flourished bow, lightly mocking the Sergeant's theatrics.... It really wouldn't be the first time. He'd bought the man peter pan tights for Christmas the previous year.

"And with fours and Iron on overwatch, it should go off without a hitch. As long as the Rookie can keep up with me."

"The Plan, Fours, went out the window with that crowd. It was consumed in their pyres!" Came the rousing voice of their leader, in his usual manner of bravado. In his rookie days, Fours had always thought of Berne's theatrics to be a bit cheesy at best, but over time Fours had grown to know nothing but respect for the man. His leadership skills had proven tried and true time and time again. Even as the leader gave him a somewhat reassuring -if a bit too vigorous- pat to the back of the head, Fours began to second guess these thoughts.

Of course, Conrad enjoyed giving the newbie shit as much as the next guy, but he couldn't help but cringe at Berne's overtly aggressive scolding of Luciel. "Are you going to tell me you've never used your scope instead of your HUD binoculars? In any case, I just can't get over this M6 variant. You Helljumpers get all the good gear... I mean, the optics on this thing are stronger than my DMR. And this suit? The way my shoulder mounts are designed to lock right in make it pretty damn comfy." Came the rookies response. Fours looked at her a moment, before responding.

"When I treat gunshot wounds, my first question is always what the wound is from. If the answer is one of these," He murmured, tapping his own magnum against the wall for effect. "I don't waste supplies on treatment. Need to save the money for their funeral. You only point one of these at someone if you want them D. E. A. D., dead." The medic spoke, eyes narrow. The story was quite obviously a load of bull, but he had little doubt the average rookie would be at least a little bit unnerved by the hyperbole. Again he remembered Berne's harsh words, and gave the rookie a quick smile, but said no more.

Fours' porcelain-still fingers caressed the surface of his shotgun, before he leaned further back against the wall, almost grinding down the wall with his shoulders. He raised up the shotgun, aiming down the sights as he pointed it directly down at the ground, trigger finger resting alongside the gun. Though his eyes were trained on Berne, his mind and hands were elsewhere, distracted in his preparation for their mission.

Hit the safety. Point the gun down at a 45 degree angle. Cycle the rounds back with one hand. Cover the loading port with the other hand. Turn gun to the side. Keep hold of the shell. Repeat once, twice, thrice, four times. Repeat again once, and twice. Cycle rounds, ensure no bullets are left. Four ran through the motions mentally as he followed them with his hands. Swift fingers loaded the bullets once again into the weapon of death. One, two, three, four, one, two.

"One." He thought, focusing once again on Berne.

"So, then, if the ambassadors cannot make their entreaties, and leave the capital without being torn asunder by disgruntled protesters..." Again, Conrad's attention strayed to the gun in his hands. Safety on. Gun to the ground. Cycle back. Hold the shell. Once, twice, thrice, four times. Once and twice. Cycle again. Now load one, two, three, four, one, two. He thought. Each round he loaded into the shotgun brought a grisly image flashing before Four's eyes. Gruesome faces of rioters, blood painted visages twisted in fury and pain as they raged against their opposition. Flying bricks, choking smog, and bristling flames chipped away at Fours' demeanor as these images danced before him.

"Two." He continued, before shifting his gaze towards their leader once again.

"...The protesters will not hurt one of their own, if we want this to go over smoothly, we need to find and escort Nimbian government representatives to Capital." Berne's briefing continued, listing off the vital information they would need for the mission. Needless to say, Fours found this a good time to shut him out and continue his exercises. Safety, point down, cycle shells, catch shells -one, two, three, four, one, two. Cycle. Load one, two, three, four, one two. He thought as he unloaded and loaded the gun once again, cringing ever so slightly at the last two shells. He looked to his squad mates, attempting to gauge their feelings on the matter. A rather difficult endeavor with many wearing helmets, and one currently on the roof, so he gave up.

"Three."

"...Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we may proceed? I am all ears." Said the leader, something that surprised Conrad. Perhaps this had been the norm with his briefings -Conrad honestly wasn't sure. Most briefings, Fours either wasn't paying attention, or wasn't present as he dealt with more pressing matters. need for the mission. Needless to say, Fours found this a good time to shut him out and continue his exercises. Safety, point down, cycle shells, catch shells -one, two, three, four, one, two. Cycle. Load one, two, three, four, one two, came Fours' mantra one final time, allowing him to rest his firearm in a more comfortable position, slung over his shoulder.

"Four." Conrad thought, feeling a mental weight falling from his shoulders. He allowed himself to focus on the current situation once again -his squad mates, his mission, and his physical state. He looked around the room, eyes still slightly glazed over with grogginess. He gave a curious glance to Luciel, surprised to hear -or, rather, not hear- a suggestion from the seemingly gung-ho newbie. Stick, however, piped up with a very optimistic suggestion. Conrad raised a finger lazily into the air.

"Seconded." Fours said in response to Stick's suggestion. While he admittedly wasn't entirely on board with the plan, he certainly didn't have any better ideas, and felt a need to get a move on. "But I stay with Berne. Something goes wrong, I can't back him up if I'm stuck jacking off up in some sniper roost." He stated simply, standing up slightly straighter.

"Where's Iron tucked away, anyways? Feels better to get some input from our best eyes before we go in on any plans." Came a slurred suggestion from the medic, punctuating the statement with another yawn.

K-Ton watched as their squad leader, Berne roused them in all of his usual bravado. It was cheesy at best, cringe worthy at its worst. Nevertheless, it was something the squad enjoyed, it brought them out of the cold, hard, nitty-gritty life that they lived behind enemy lines. Most ODST had a secretive appreciation for this kind of talk- most of the older ones anyway. Pageantry was a lifestyle, and to be a squad leader, one had to have it, and each leader had his own spin on it. Their mission, as defined by their squad leader, was to 'secure' the Nimbian leaders, and bring them to the Capital Building for 'negotiations'. It was, as always, easier said than done. With just 6 of them, it was no easy task to bring some four government leaders unharmed to the building- what with both the militia and the protesters out and about- Not that the militia was officially against them.

"Belay that Bravo Team," crackled their helmet comms, someone had either left their transmitter on, or had accidentally keyed the comms button while holding their helmet. Either way, they had broadcast the entirety of the speech to rest of the ODSTs on planet, as well as the Red Glare up above.

"The crowds are really starting to get riled up." came the ever calm voice of Alpha leader, "Our marksman confirms sighting militia discreetly handing off weapons to protesters. We might have to step up our timetable." came the voice of Alpha leader.

Alpha's concerns were punctuated by the sound of shattering glass and a small burst of fire as a home made incendiary molotov shattered against a guard's shield. A few more were thrown, and shattered harmlessly in the open space between the rioters and the line of guards- no one appeared to be too keen on being close to the shields, when a row of rifles were leveled right behind them. With the assistance of his VISR, Kensington could see the outlines of weapons in the crowds, and proceeded to mark them with his tacpad in red outlines for the rest of the ODST to see. There were a collection of handguns, and a few MA37 rifles, and even a DMR or two in the mix. The outlines, were still hard to see, even with the assistance of the VISR, and frequently disappeared from view.

"Recommend deploy CS gas to disperse the crowds, then proceed to target building."

"Nice speech Bravo. This is Charlie, the local Misriah Arms factory appears to be in use- but they have their lights off, like they don't want anyone to know what's going on. We're gonna go turn the lights on for them- after all, its dangerous to work in the dark." Cut in another voice over the comm. This only added to the concerns that the militia were handing out weapons to the protesters.

Any response Kensington was about to make was cut off as his tac-pad lit up with a red light. Stepping away from the window, Kensington waved at the rest of the squad to get their attention. "Perimeter alarms just got tripped too- someone's in the building."

Luciel nodded approvingly during Stick's suggestion, and failed to stifle a snort toward the end about her being able to keep up. Fours voiced his agreement, and as Luciel was about to do the same when her comms came to life with the voice of Alpha leader. He warned the squad of weapons being dispersed through the crowd, something which couldn't just be ignored. Charlie followed with a report of activity in the arms factory, bringing additional validity to the warning.

Immediately after the comms went silent, Luciel noticed K-ton's wrist light up red in alert. "Perimeter alarms just got tripped too- someone's in the building," he spoke, explaining to the team. Luciel was the first to respond, springing off the crate with deft footsteps. She made her silent way with grace to the stairwell door, pressing her back against the wall to the left as she drew her M7S and flicked the safety off, holding the weapon in her left hand with a mechanical finger resting next to the trigger. Her right hand remained empty, as she intended to attempt disarming the intruder if possible.

In her eyes, despite detesting them, the insurrectionists were useful if only for information on their allies. Luciel aimed to utilize this opportunity to the fullest extent, wanting to make a positive impression by showing she wasn't all about shooting first and questioning later. She looked toward her Sergeant, expressing her intentions through the covert operation handsigns she learned in her training. She outstretched her right arm to the door, stopping just before the frame. She kept Berne in her peripheral to see his confirmation or order to back off, though her attention was focused on the door and listening for sounds behind it.

"This is Iron. We got several people coming - militia colors and they look armed. Good arms too - within range. Permission to fire?" spoke the voice of Iron, in everybody' com. While it was unorthodox for snipers to break, radio-silence, it was usually done - in the case, that the danger outproceeded the threat presented to them.

And since the mob didn't possess radio-scramblers or 'tappers' - then there wasn't much backlash, since those tactics were mostly the regular tactics trained and used in every mission. Usually subjected to change, should the need arise. And the sight of fifteen armed individuals approaching their location, proved a necessary sacrifice.

She hated to fire at civilians, yet these weren't unarmed civilians following the mob. These were armed people, with the likely order to either kill or capture them. While they were all human - there was a common trait, of the deepest darkness hidden in the most common man. And at this point, if she had to choose between them or her squad - she would choose her squad, everytime.

"Permission to fire?" she repeated, more urgent - since a urban brawl was bound to get nasty one way or the other.

Sergeant Ruben Berne, Bravo-Team Office building, Winter 2525

"There's not much we can do about a crowd like that unless we start taking pot shots from the windows!"

Jason chimed as he slipped from the gloom of his windowed-perch, trailed pervasively by his room sucking silhouette, drooping from his feet and skirting the fringes of the dusted sills, reticent at the dimming of the sun. Berne's eyes lingered fleetingly at the shadow, at the point where, knee-high, it broke and splintered, spotted with ripples of shimmer in the half-light, animated at the fringe of its twisted form by the rhythmic hum of micro-gears and the hiss of hundreds of cushioned springs. Jason's mechanical adornments had not irked at Ruben's sense before, in ways, such limbs were a marvel, and on Earth were carved and worked into a myriad of divine and captivating forms, bejewelled or enamelled always in exuberant defiance of the reticence appointed of the cripple. But now, in the cauldron-heat of defiance below, and with the cyborg-girl, scarce twenty, scowling now in the corner with her metal-hands clamped to colder and more lethal steel, the leg seemed more profound, more prophetic, than the clump of hardware it had masqueraded as this last year.

Shall I start taking my measurements? Berne mused, tugging blackened gloves over the back of his hand before slipping it, cradle-like, into the grip of his battle-rifle, the cold of its padded-steel still invading his still-quivering palms. I am more...lucid now. He thought, filled still, even after all these years, with the convulsive adrenaline of a fight to come. It was a burden ever soldier reckoned with, Berne had instructed himself, shaving, perhaps two weeks ago, at a window-glass shard he'd clumsy polished with the remains of a sock, to fling yourself at danger when ever sinew demands that you recoil, but it was one for which he was eternally grateful. Feeling the surge of anticipation drumming at every extremity only confirmed the beauty, the immediacy, of his humanity, and, despite himself, he could not help but pity the two cyborgs at his command, such curiosities of nature blown off and lost to them forever.

Calming them down is useless- We need to redirect their attention, is all, without sparking full force violence.

Jason's continued, Berne snapping his head from the shadow to meet all too human eyes, once more. It was oft that Jason slumped beneath his helmet, but any illusions of a shrinking violet were dispatched to the wind by such irises, driving at their fringes and receding at violent turns, brimming with the ennobled flagellation of his youth. It was enviable, Ruben mused, as his helmet cruised over the dome of his skull, masking his jaded eyes and filling them again with the screaming orange of VISR, but how many others his age milled about now, beneath the smoke and pyre, armed with stolen pistols and the same, piercing gaze that would drive them and his team to a head.

You're good at giving speeches, Berne; Hop up on a podium, broadcast a message- Feed them some sob story, get them listening, sympathizing. Doesn't matter how. While you do, send Hanzer and I to grab our Nimbian. We're quick, clanky as we might be- Can get them in to have a little chat with out ambassadors before you even finish bringing the audience to tears."

Ruben scoffed at that, as Jason genuflected in teasing bow. Berne knew his pontification to be more Gilbert and Sullivan than Mark Antony, pageantry in the recitation stumped the stoicism that fit like a glove to so many ODSTs, and such a tone, all he could summon, could not be welcomed in the broiling-pot that the insurrectionists so clamoured to spill over.

"Keeps them from throwing molotovs at the capital, and unless somebody tries to fire on us while we're walking our new friend into the front doors, it shouldn't require a lick of bloodshed. Most of them are just farmers following the mob mentality, no reason to get violent with them right now. But, as always, Berne- The call's yours. And with fours and Iron on over-watch, it should go off without a hitch. As long as the Rookie can keep up with me."

"Seconded. But I stay with Berne. Something goes wrong, I can't back him up if I'm stuck jacking off up in some sniper roost."

Fours concurred, finally returned from the rhythm-ed void of his neurosis. The four-by-four clicking of his shotgun, his rifle, his thudding yet impossibly still cheerfully irreverent footfall had been piteous and grating, both, when Ruben and his now well-trusted medic had first crossed paths, huddled under the flickering lights of an beleaguered infirmary as the mad-doctor hap-haphazardly administered agonising needle-marks to those soldiers unfortunate enough to have been flaked by particularly sadistic innie-opportunists. Pipe-bombs were something Ruben hoped he'd never experience, recalling the shredded limbs devoid of whole-some flesh, the potted skulls still loosely cradling a brain lucid enough to agonise, sights that curled his stomach even to this day, perhaps five years on. Fours, though, fours had displayed no such qualms, patching, without em-pathetically at the ruined skin, before retreating to a corner to rap his knuckles four-fold in the wall. Now, having woken to the clicking of shells nightly, four on the dot, on and off for half a decade, Ruben saw the habit as little more than an enigmatic relaxant, akin to the glass of all-too-gasoline scotch the Sergeant through back in the wake of another placated arena of rebellious uprising. Anything to keep him on task.

"Where's Iron tucked away, anyways? Feels better to get some input from our best eyes before we go in on any plans."

Ruben centred his eyes, scoffing, guttural and phlegmy, from behind his muffled helm, before opening his comms for his pronouncement.

"I've heard from her"

The sergeant grumbled. To hear from his sniper,prone and vacant, no doubt, above, scanning the crowd with an ethereal, unknowable gaze, was a rare commodity it itself. In truth, Ruben knew nothing about her - long since abandoning any attempts at arm-round-the-shoulder chats in the mess-hall, pontificated scalding, as the Rookie had received, or even basic deference of greeting, all bequeathed the same, chilled response. For now, she was herself a commodity, a facilitator of knowledge. And it was always grim pickings.

"She seems to think the cauldrons about ready to bubble over, and soon, and I don't disagree."

Ruben recalled the light-show with which he had been entranced an hour ago, flares and tifo morphing into vulgarity-packed chants, that flickered profanity across his visor in a hundred hitherto feeble tongues and colours. When he had risen from his perch, sleepless, his irises still burned upon their closing, the sight of a petrol stoked and choking inferno fleeing, directionless from all sides of an upturned truck, coating the ultras and riot-police both in homogenising soot and, in the blind and colour-void struggle, the first of the thrown firsts and winding-ups of clubs had split the crowd further into factions of frenzy.

"Jason, as much as I'd love to kick-start my fledgling political career with a storied speech, I can't imagine a full-armoured ODST is going to be a paragon of diplomatic virtue!"

Berne wagged a dismissive digit in the in the air before fixing his eyes on Fours and beckoning him forth.

"It would be...appropriate for us to split up, we are limited in our resources, but I cannot tolerate any injury to our charges. Fours and I will find the ring-leaders..."

Grappling behind him in the gloom, Berne clamped a clumsy hand across the butt of a smoke-launcher, before throwing it at Jason's dangling arms.

"Your good self, and Kensington over here, will watch the crowd"

Berne commanded, gesturing at his second-in-command to recline himself across the sills once more. Kensington had an impeccable service record, it was true, but if in the song of silence Mira took the alto, K-Ton sung the bass. The man was apt and capable, moulded to the task of an ODST, if perhaps, prone to the chaff of subordination he did not by his extensive service merit, but he held his surrogate authority with a detached and pragmatic air. Berne knew his capable, but silence and militarism rung in his ears as a bleeding cacophony, and fours was far better a travelling companion. Besides, Jason was nothing if not gregarious, the stapled frame of a pair of vermilion tights perpetually above Berne's other-wise pristine bunk on the Prowler spoke to that. K-Ton would enjoy his leave of autonomy, and Jason would enjoy prising him from his shell.

"Perimeter alarms just got tripped too- someone's in the building."

Kensington implored, red flashing at his wrist casting his twitching face in a hazardous wash, even as his voice drowned amidst static and radio-chatter. This was grim news. The labour of the insertion had been draining, blood now pooled and steamed-off in clumps at Ruben's eyes, weeping as testament to his half sleep. With this encroachment, a crumbled and unassuming building against a smattering of lower-hanging fruit, came the foreboding gloom of the rebel's foreknowledge.

Have they evolved? Ruben thought, shuddering as he motioned to the stairwell, where the rookie twitched, a diminished predator, eager for the chance to discharge the weapon she had so delicately loaded with those cold, whirring hands. Do they spy on us as much as we do on them?

"...Recommend deploy CS gas to disperse the crowds, then proceed to target building..."

A command crackled into vibrancy from amidst the static ether before its voice dipped and receded again into the throng of shouts and the ringing of footfall on the marbled floors below.

"Right, safety's off, suppressors on..." Ruben barked, placing a hand on the Rookie's wire-mesh of a shoulder and pulling her back.
"Luciel, I want you to run upstairs. Use the DMR to spot for Iron, if we fail, she'll need all the help she can get."

Placing one foot on the stairs, Ruben whirled his armoured frame, clinking and shimmering in the evening-sun, to raise one final imperative digit in the Rookie's direction.

"Contempt." He Implored, eyes shivering and rapid with intensity. "Is not justified."

Turning with a gush of cooling wind, he squared his rifle to his sights, and softly descended.

"Permission to fire?"

Implored Iron, ethereally clear where everyone else had been crackled and piece-meal, her fingers no doubt drumming on her pristine trigger. They were close, he knew, perhaps only a metre of concrete separated sniper from commander, but all the same the clarity of her metallic twangs led credence to her name, and chilled at Ruben's weight-worn spine.

"Not just yet, please." Ruben whispered at the comms, the bottom of the first flight of stairs already screaming into view. "If the crowd hear a sniper, our goose is cooked. Fours and I will try to deal with them more discretely. You just sit tight and watch for trouble makers. I'm sending Hanzer to help you, don't get twitchy when she arrives."

Ruben glanced at his clock, the orange hum still driving whips of care-free steam from his snow-addled helm. 19:32, read the glow, stinging at Ruben's sleep-crusted eye-sockets. Time on missions was implacable, fluid, to him it had been decades since touch down, and yet minutes since the sun had last triumphed over the horizon. All he had was this one, excruciating pulse-light to keep him tethered to the present.

"K-Ton, Stick, keep pointing those smokes at the crowd. If Fours and I go down, go up to the roof and find a way out from there. It'll be all up to you. Other than that, sit tight. We'll be back once we've dealt with the wire-trip. Good luck, everyone. And K-Ton, remember to radio this in."

Sighing defiantly once more, Ruben threw his comm-link into a leathery pouch strapped to his thigh.

"No more chatter, Fours." He glanced back at his medic, steadying his weapon and rounding the stair case with a deft and graceful verve, keeping the balls of his feet prised precariously from each footfall.

"It's just you and me, now...

Upon seeing Berne styand and begin his walk toward the stairwell door, Luciel knew she wasn't going to be allowed to go through with her own stratagem. "Right, safety's off, suppressors on..." he spoke as he placed a hand upon her shoulder, pulling her with force unfelt by her biological form. Such an experience, actions without cause perceived by touch, it was something she wasn't sure she'd ever be used to. "Luciel, I want you to run upstairs. Use the DMR to spot for Iron, if we fail, she'll need all the help she can get."

With an exaggerated sigh of reluctance, along with the flash of a toothy grin behind red tinged lips, Luciel voiced her confirmation of the orders given. "Not quite my area of expertise, zough I suppose leaving my comfort zone is somesing I'll need to get used to if I'm going to be rolling with you guys," her voice, no longer hushed, now carried the full extent of her light accent, a remnant of ancestors from Earth long passed.

She began to make her way out the door after the Sergeant, when he turned and raised a finger. "Contempt is never justified." The man stared into her eyes, and she back into his. Her mind flashed to her old squadmates, looking into each of their eyes as they moved hurriedly through the rubble she braced above herself. As she returned to reality, Luciel was unaware of exactly how much time had passed. She was still looking into his eyes, the fact he was even still there suggested it had only been seconds. Perhaps too late she darkened her visor and made her ascent, setting her feet on the handrail circling the middle of the staircase and grabbing hold of the rail above her, vaulting up to the next flight of stairs in one fluid motion.

If he thinks this is bad, he's just lucky none of them died. That's what made it worth the sacrifice. Luciel took a few seconds to compose herself, remembering to holster her M7S on her left hip before exiting the door onto the rooftop. "How's it going zere, Iron? Berne sent me up to help you out if sings are to get ugly. I'm just hoping I von't be in your vay." Luciel strode over to the edge of the building, laying prone slowly to avoid making excess noise from her prosthetics against the concrete. Once she settled Luciel removed her DMR from her back, adjusting the strap of the grenade launcher she had been carrying to prevent it from getting caught. Her HUD lit up once more with the orange outlines of the distant crowd as Luciel activated her VISR. Bringing her rifle in front of her, Luciel switched the select fire from safety to single shot, hoping for the best though preparing for the worst.

"Why not ring a bell, I think you woke half the neighbourhood," said Mira, as a sniper she moved with barely making a sound. Luciel' movement was almost the equal of ringing a dinner-bell near her ear - since she had come to enjoy the silence. Well, if she was sent here - might as well make good use of her.

"See those men below? Near our building, keep an eye on them. And I don't mean shoot them, whenever they make a provocative. Or say, they are lifting their arms to me. Just inform me, when they are moving closer to us or away," she stated, before resuming to watching the larger crowd in the streets.

It was liable to get messy real soon, no doubt about it - now it remained to see, who would pull the first trigger - them or the mob.

"Perimeter alarms just got tripped too- someone's in the building." Fours said nothing when K-Ton made the announcement, waving the group down. With slow, precise movements, Fours slung his shotgun over his shoulder, and pulled out his magnum. The movement was followed only by a silent scraping of metal on metal, and the light click of a safety being toggled.

Fours' eyes tracked Luciel as she sprung into action, ever eager for a fight. Fours admired the shining spirit the girl bore, though he certainly didn't appreciate her lack of finesse. He frowned as she pressed her back to the wall directly adjacent to the door, preparing to attack anyone who would dare come through. His eyes narrowed to a scalpel point, as visions danced through his head. The door splintered open, shrapnel and dust making a cloud in the air that swallowed the rookie, leaving behind a brutalized pulp of gore and wooden shards. Fours shook the image from his head, only for another to shove it's way in. Light penetrated into the room in horizontal columns of dust. Each spread of light opening into the room was punctuate by a loud bang, moving in a quick waving from right to left. As the spray of piercing rounds fired into the room, they found resistance in the body of the rookie, shock from the bullets keeping her suspended on her feet long after life left her glazed eyes. One more vision lurked in the side of his vision, distracting the medic -a massive aberrant blue figure smashed through the wall, an alien form of nightmares, whose massive metallic footfall brought the rookie down with a gut wrenching crunch.

Fours pressed his fingers to his eyes, finally succeeding to erase the unwanted thoughts of brutality from his mind when Berne pried Luciel away from the doorway. As if on cue, a voice chimed up over the comms. "This is Iron. We got several people coming - militia colors and they look armed. Good arms too - within range. Permission to fire?" Fours' eyes widened, marginally, at the comment. He had admired Iron's professionalism for as long as they had worked together, though her constant silence was something unnerving. Hey certainly appreciated the fact that she was wise enough to stray from the line of fire -there were very few occasions he had the need to patch her of any wounds. Yet, her silence was certainly unnerving at times. The knowledge that eyes are constantly watching, placing their ironclad judgement on any and all under their gaze.

"Jason, as much as I'd love to kick-start my fledgling political career with a storied speech, I can't imagine a full-armoured ODST is going to be a paragon of diplomatic virtue! It would be...appropriate for us to split up, we are limited in our resources, but I cannot tolerate any injury to our charges. Fours and I will find the ring-leaders... Your good self, and Kensington over here, will watch the crowd" Fours listened to the plan of the leader, nodding his head as the man spoke. Fours tried his best to not think too hard about orders given by Berne. As a medic, Fours was out of a job if everything went according to plan. Always better he focus on the present, leave planning ahead to the more foolhardy and optimistic. Fours' preparation consisted instead of repeating a mantra in his head of medical procedures, whatever he thought might be useful in the coming shitstorm.

"Knock knock, knock knock. Here come the peacemakers." Thought Fours, staying just a pace behind Berne.

"No more chatter, Fours. It's just you and me, now..." Fours heard some chatter coming from the others as he followed Berne into the staircase, but did not pay any heed. As Berne had so succinctly put it, it was just the two of them. Two walking armories of men, against a raging wave of protestors, their only assurance for survival a pair of sniper rifles and some canisters of gas. Fours shuddered at the thought of something going wrong. Iron could drop a few adversaries at most, and tear gas would do more harm than good, should the ODSTs get overwhelmed. He considered making a statement along those lines to Berne, but remained silent at his orders, simply raising his pistol to head height as he followed closely behind.

Luciel winced and went stiff as the sniper made a remark on about the noise she had made while settling. Apparently she had not been quiet enough. "See those men below? Near our building, keep an eye on them. And I don't mean shoot them, whenever they make a provocative. Or say, they are lifting their arms to me. Just inform me, when they are moving closer to us or away," Luciel had quickly set her sights on them, her cold finger whirring softly over the trigger.

"Aye aye," came the short reply as she did her best to remain quiet. The group below didn't change their activity much at all however, and Luciel contemplated what type of role she would be put into in this new group of soldiers she found herself in. In prior missions within the regular Marine forces, her previous commanding officer had placed her on point many times. Looking back on those however, Luciel did realize that her current mission required more tact than she was used to. He probably wants to properly guage me before assigning me to something I could screw up royally. I can't blame him for that.

Her eyes focused on the individuals making up the group of hostiles. They were all armed, that much was for sure. Upon closer inspection to the weapons themselves, Luciel could see they were all Misriah models. "Looks like Charlie vas right, Innies must be manufacturing arms for zemselves. Just give the vord venever you vant me to pop off some of zose smokes, Berne."

"Some people get all the fun," K-Ton remarked lazily as their Sergeant gave them their new orders, which was to split up their already small team to take the objective. It was a bit unfortunate, K-Ton didn't think Alpha would have any trouble watching the roof on their own- that's what they were already doing before Bravo got set up anyway. But at the same time, they were dug in pretty well here, and there as no point in abandoning a set-up post if they didn't have to. Either way, not that his nap was over, K-Ton was starting to get antsy, it looked like a fight between the protesters and guards would erupt any second now, and K-Ton really didn't like the idea of being caught between them.

"Bravo Team? Do you confirm the deployment of CS gas? Berne?!"

"Corporal Kensington, assuming temporary control of Bravo Rooftop element, our squad leader is dealing with some intruders, recommend hold off on CS for now. No use in riling up these protesters any more than they already are."

"Oh, that felt good." K-Ton sniggered as he turned off his transmitter, so only himself and Stick could hear. "Its always worth it putting Sgt. Rowles in his place."

K-Ton could almost see Alpha team's leader fuming from his rooftop across the street. Alpha wouldn't launch CS without confirmation from Bravo, and vice versa. If only one side of the street fired CS, it'd be a quick guess to find out where the CS came from and then their cover would be blown. If both sides fired CS at the same time, it would force the protesters back down the street from whence they came, allowing the guards to round up any stragglers and break up their groups. The protesters definitely had power in numbers, but they had tech and tactics. Still, K-Ton kept his finger wrapped around the grenade launcher's trigger, and kept it leveled at the streets below. More and more people were pouring in, and the mob was getting increasingly irate. It was like watching water slowly drip into a full glass- it would dome up and fill to past its capacity, but eventually it would pop, and water would start pouring out of the glass and onto the table below, however in this case, the table was pavement, and the water was blood.

---

Up on the roof, where Iron and Luciel watched the armed men below, they could see more arms being handed off by what appeared to be militiamen in plainclothes. More alarmingly, another group of some dozen armed men approached a building across the street- where their resident neighbors, Alpha team had set been set up. The armed men stood around for a bit, trying to look inconspicuous before a few of them entered the building. One of the men across the street gave a thumbs up, to which the group of men below them responded in a similar manner. While most of them held assault rifles, the sharp eye could pick out the glint of DMR scopes in their groups.

---

As Berne and Fours descended down the staircase, they could hear the rapid patter of thick leather feet running across marble floor. The footfalls were rapid enough that they couldn't tell how many pairs of feet were in the building, but there were definitely more than one or two. As Berne and Fours rounded a corner, they came face to face with a protester who simultaneously rounded the opposite corner. The protester froze up, his pistol raised just like the ODSTs, but his grip shaky, and clearly unprofessional. The protester had goggles pressed up to his forehead, and had been wearing a bandanna, but it was around his neck instead of over his face at the moment, his shoddy clothes seemed dirty and somewhat torn but befitting of a ragged guerrilla. He looked no older than 17.

(Time to unleash the fury)

Iron cursed under her breath, loading a round into the breach and pulling the safety, whispering something to herself. Old memories of a similar incident flashed in her mind for a moment - before she decided to take it. "Alpha-One, your a duck," she spoke, before she squeezed the trigger and blew the scope and head of a rebel marksman. "And you've just been caught. Get out. Now!"

"Spot for me rookie, and don't fire unless I order you," she spoke, loading up for a firefight. Then switched to her channel. "We've been caught, several minutes. May God have mercy on us all."