[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=steelblue]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1][img]https://78.media.tumblr.com/c6f0f86d13839f8542e4b754c251da73/tumblr_ojog8uNf9k1qdhps7o1_r1_500.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][color=steelblue][b]Location:[/b][/color] Arnco Mills Safehouse (E10)
[color=steelblue][b]Skills:[/b][/color] Leadership [/center][hr][hr]

        Ash watched as the others began to fruft off to sleep. It must have been blissful. Or a relief, however temporary. The change in breathing for some meant that their rest wasn't exactly as restful as they would like. That was to be expected, too. If Ash himself got out of this with just a nightmare or two, he might consider himself a damn lucky man. 

        It was an extremely unsubtle reminder of how fragile anything was these days. Their whole town, everything they had worked for over years, gone in an afternoon. So much death. So much loss. It was enough to make anyone crack. Along a similar thought, Ash realized that he hadn't heard from that little voice from his subconscious for a while. It could be because that part of his personality was foremost in his brain at that moment, living as he was with tactical survival for he and hus people in mind. Maybe he was just giving himself permission to cut himself a break. 

        All these things, all these concerns, plus a host of many others swirled around in the back of Ash's mind. Focus on the job at hand - inventory had been taken, priorities assigned (or mostly so) for their survival, think to the plan tomorrow. And for now, keep to self-assigned watch. This is what he could to to help as many of his people as were left. 




[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=dc143c]Thalia Carmichael[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/e4117d5f-65c8-4b8e-98df-5810a59267c5.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=crimson]Location:[/color][/b] Eden, Lower Lobby
[b][color=dc143c]Skills:[/color][/b] Stealth, Survival, Pistol [hr][hr][/center]

	Others started to filter into the room. Backup, if you will, provided that the septuagenarian cage-dweller was on the up and up. Thalia was beginning to trust Alexander, enough at least that in this particular scenario her guns didn't flash around. The tall, twitchy old guy was definitely not on the cool list. In fact, she would have been a lot less anxious about the whole situation if he had a series of 9mm ventilation holes and was left in a gasping heap, winding down to a gurgling, undramatic halt like a broken toy. His saving grace at this point, silver lining, if you will, was that he had claimed to be a doctor. Well, he'd better hope that he was a damned good trauma surgeon, because that's what was needed. Otherwise, there wasn't a soul that was coming out of this building happy. She'd damned will see to that. 

	The thought stopped her for a microsecond. In the space of a couple of minutes, she had gone back to a dark place. She used to live in that place as a means of survival. Hell, it was possible that if people like this had found her instead of the Valkyries, and then later Lola, she'd have fully perverted the ethic of her Familia and turned into something like ...these people that she was mercilessly killing. She was supposed to be better then that. Her father's people tried to instill something better in her. Just as blatantly violent, granted, but better. 

	Take the guy bleeding out in front of her. Thalia was down on a knee right in front of him. Gavin - that was his name. He stepped in front of her and took the fully automatic lead spray without even thinking about it. She couldn't tell if the poor bastard was alive or dead, and every instinct that she had was screaming at her to shake it off and complete the mission. But no one else was even checking to see if he was alive, let alone moveable. [color=dc143c]"...mierdita..."[/color] she swore, slowly setting down one of her pistols to tentatively place her fingers on the man's neck. She was no doctor but she [i]did[/i] know where to cut for maximum splatter effect, a lesson courtesy of the elders of her family. She held her index and middle fingertips where a living man would show the involuntary movement of blood vessels. Sadly, there was none. The firearm had done its work well, even piercing the guy's throat. She shouldn't have bothered going for a heartbeat. Wounds like that, she might have seen air trying to get in and back out. There was nothing. The big Texan's story ended there. [color=dc143c]"He's gone. We need to move. Navy?"[/color]