[center][h2][color=#FF7800]Boraro[/color]
Fireteam Hammer, Île de la Tempête[/h2][/center][hr][color=#FF7800]”I think that only applies to restaurants.”[/color] He replied to Skye. On second thought, that was to check if there was a fight going on, and it was pretty much expected. The helicopter hole was an obvious entry point. Too obvious, perhaps. Two Tricksters detached from Ebrima’s armor, one creating a perfect copy of Ebrima, the other of Skye, and headed into the breach, their entry immediately met with gunfire from the inside, matched a few seconds later by the authoritative bark of Ebrima’s shotgun as he went in through a nearby side door. [color=#FF7800]”Clear.”[/color] He simply reported, a bit of an understatement given that the room had three bodies in it, but only two heads. He detached one trickster and set it to follow Skye as they entered the payload assembly hall.

The Tricksters went in first, Ebrima and Skye at the end of the virtual stack as the decoys got lit up. He did not stop moving as he fired, the closest targets getting it first while Queen handled the other side of the hall. One soldier appeared out of a smaller room near him. Shotgun raised to deflect a bayonet strike, buttstock to the face to stun, jump pack assisted roundhouse kick to the head strong enough to send the helmet flying, dead check, moving on. No time was wasted, no quarter was given, leaving behind a trail of dead bodies, spent shells, severed body parts and hundreds of thousands of dollars of destroyed equipment. An electron microscope was not meant to be used as cover, nor parts of a weather satellite as a blunt weapon. With no one else around, Skye separated to clear an adjacent storage hall while Ebrima took a few seconds to stick several infected USBs into any running computers he saw. The silence of the room was interrupted by a cyclic, mechanical whirring. The sound felt familiar, like he’d definitely heard it before.

[hr]
The sheet metal wall of the warehouse burst open with a loud crash. With two or three bounces, Ebrima eventually rolled to a stop by someone’s feet, too busy remembering which way was up to see who it was beyond recognizing they were an ally and letting them out of his mind. Pulling himself up as soon as he could stand up straight again, he wasted no time running back into the building.
”Back for more?” The raspy voice behind the helmet of the Artemis heavy who tackled him through the wall chuckled,”Don’t mind if I do.” He started approaching, all 240-ish centimeters of the guy closing in on Ebrima disgustingly fast while completely ignoring the 12 gauge slugs pinging off his helmet and bevor. ”None of that.” He croaked as he grabbed a hold of the Origin and pointed the barrel upward, ”There are fragile things-” Ebrima boosted up and with a single motion drew his kukri, severed the sling binding him to the lost cause shotgun and rammed the blade into a gap between the giant’s shoulder plates mid-flip, his momentum yanking the blade back out, the heavy’s grunt of mild discomfort and moderate annoyance masking the sound of detaching Tricksters. The Artemis operative turned, seeing three Ebrimas where he expected just one, the mirror images perfectly mimicking the original as they all slowly circled the Heavy.
”It doesn’t matter how many there are.” He grunted, the hall filling with the sound of a two-stroke engine as he pulled what could only be described as a chainsword off his back.”It’s just more meat for the meat grinder.”

All three Cameroonians moved forward at once, the first time they broke the unity. One leapt up, missing the gap between his helmet and bevor by a few inches, another went low, striking at the back of the knee while the third went for an elbow, the chainsword passing harmlessly through. A sharp pain in his knee let the heavy know which was real, but by the time he turned around they mixed up again. ”Party tricks won’t save you forever.” He spat, already having to fend off another volley of real and fake knives. A metallic clink sounded from the sword, a wide swing of it still catching one of the Tricksters and crushing the small drone like a meringue. Another brief exchange of feints and dodges followed before the Ebrima the heavy was fighting flickered out of existence, the Trickster returning to its slot to recharge, but it bought Ebrima enough time to reload the M 25.

A volley of thermobaric grenades briefly deprived the room of oxygen, wind rushing in through the holes in the walls to feed the flames. The engine sound cut out, but that was only a momentary respite as the heavy emerged from the inferno. Soaked by the fuel from the sword’s ruptured fuel line Ebrima had damaged earlier, he wasn’t just facing a giant anymore, oh no, he was facing a burning giant. ”Didn’t think that through, did you, little man?”
Then, inspiration struck. The fire giant went on the offensive, Ebrima now on the back foot with no decoys and limited weapons available and very little chance to get through the armor in a meaningful way. Before long he was backed up against a row of tanks along one of the walls, stumbling as he backed into them.
The giant saw a chance, taking off and covering the last half dozen meters between them at a sprint much like when he first sent Ebrima flying outside.

The fake stumble did exactly what it was supposed to, as Ebrima boosted away and behind a satellite on a nearby workbench. The giant’s momentum and injured knee worked against him as he slammed into the pressurized oxygen tanks Ebrima had directed him to and the warehouse shook with another explosion as the Artemis heavy operative’s still burning armor breached the tank and ignited its content, setting off the nearby ones in a chain reaction.

[hr]
“Man, why do these gen threes take for fucking ever to boot up?” The first soldier complained as his hud showed the ‘checking for updates’ spinning ring. “Everyone else got gen fours weeks ago.”
“Because Rob’s dumb ass got caught stealing ammo and the whole squad got shitcanned for it.” Another replied as she was sliding magazines into her pouches.
“Motherfucker, you were supposed to be the lookout!” Rob raised a feeble defense as he slung a Benelli M1014 over his shoulder, “Where are the slugs, they’re supposed to be-”
The door to the armory opened, an unknown figure standing in it. [color=#FF7800]”Your company owes me a shotgun.”[/color] It stated flatly as the door closed behind.