[i]Screen erupts into static, reforming to show Quintus in his place[/i] 

"Stay together! You! On the ground!" 

The natives they were escorting screeched in distress, scuttling about like one might expect if they lifted up an insect infested rock. In fact, the attackers moved in much the same way to the mercenary's sensibilities. However, he had the distinct notion his calls were adhered to, at least to an extent. Like workers bees they began to drop their crates together in a pile and lower their bodies, even if most of them still swarmed in a panic. It was hard to differentiate the fuckers, and for a brief moment all Quintus could do was to make himself a smaller target and dispatch the ones moving at him. 

His gas-powered assault rifle pumped two bursts of three rounds into a local with a blackpowder singleshot, before he rolled out of the way of one having had the bright idea to attack his flank with twin axes. The rusted iron hit the sand he had been crouching on a moment before, Quintus rising to a perfect crouch and killing that one with another burst. The next moment seemed to drag out, one glance at Inez telling him she was providing cover fire, her shots ripping through the thorax of a raider, black ichor staining the sand. Another glance, and he could tell it was going to be a close thing. Even with their limited numbers and antiquated weaponry, it was pandemonium. 

A plume of smoke and a crack, and Quintus's assault rifle was knocked out of his hands. The relatively soft bullet still cracking the aluminum-alloy barrel. Quintus cursed, seeing another native charging him with the winding pathing of a centipede. He unsheathed his BAK combat dagger and leap to avoid the swinging machete, the arc of the blade aimed at splitting his skull. He wove out of the way of a backslash and then buried his dagger into its broad chest, yanking the blade down to split its center open. They had tough exoskeletons, but with enough applied force, it was just as easy as stabbing into light-weight body armor. It was something he had done on many occasions.  

A claw scraped against his own protective vest, another slicing across the meat of his arm. He grimaced but kicked the thing's legs out from under it, yanking it down with the still-embedded knife. It croaked a mewling, insectoid whine as it fell to the dirt. He pulled away, wiping his blade and unholstering his pistol, one hand on the grip and the other supporting, he backed up to the crates, firing at any that held weapons. He couldn't be bothered with the possibility of one of the haulers picking up a weapon to defend itself. By the luck of the gods, he caught the glimpse of one looking his way and raising a blackpowder pistol. He twisted, but knew he couldn't evade in time, but it seemed the gods smiled on him. The pistol exploded in its monstrous hands, igniting his red-black hide and causing it to toss the burning piece of kindling aside and writhe in the pain of its misfortune. 

Quintus was not about to press his luck, holstering his pistol again, turning, and diving into the water before they were overrun. There were less than a dozen raiders left, by his estimation, but he couldn't take them all alone. He had done enough to be paid.