Quintus casually laid his heavy blaster on his big shoulder, striding forward and watching the ensuing hijinks with a mild interest. He exuded the philosophy of 'not my problem unless I'm getting paid,' however the Ur-Bot escaping did meet that criteria. He was about to take a shot before Ijin hit it in the leg.

"Noooo, that's not racist. Now callin' him a Clanker on the other hand..."

He noted Silas didn't seem too concerned about Cho, and with that problem more or less solved, Quintus began to whistle as he meandered on over to the Ur Bot. The thing tried to drag itself like a wounded animal, but it was clear it couldn't get far. Meanwhile, Quintus's movements were slow and languid, as if he enjoyed it and didn't much care if there was more of a chase. However, his eyes were locked on the small android. If it made any sudden movements, he would be on it in a flash. "Well, I'm not a veterinarian, but I think your pug needs an oil change, Cho." He placed his boot on the side of the small bot, and tipped it over so it had even less ground to find purchase on. It scrabbled helplessly, and he had to fight the urge to crush it. With one, strong hand, he grabbed it by one of its legs and lifted it up to hold at arm's length.

"Better be something valuable about this guy. If not I can scoop 'em out and use 'em as a money pot."

Silas, the good news is that Cho is probably going to make it. He's got some serious contusions, some cuts and scrape--including a particularly gnarly one above his eyebrow--and a clearly broken arm, but none of that seems life threatening. He almost certainly has a concussion, given his lack of a helmet; unfortunately for you, without a head scan, the symptoms of a brain injury and the effects of being pumped full of psychoactive drugs and tranquilizers look pretty similar.

Can you transport him? If you're careful. Will he make it? Probably. That's about as much as you can realistically say here, doing your examination in a trash-strewn alley under the cover of dark.

Quintus, the small 'bot wriggles in your grasp, but the fight has gone out of it. Cho-Tyrek's head moves, slightly--the first movement you're seen out of him since he fell off the bike.

"Lmgo." The noise fell out of his mouth like a dead fish. "Pm dn." The index finger of his unbroken arm twitches slightly. His attempt at speech draws the attention of the ur-bot; its single optic turns to regard the mangled assassin, and you hear the whrr of servos focusing. It stops struggling, then looks up to you, meeting your gaze for a wordless moment before going limp.

In the distance--though not as far as you might like--you hear the sirens of the district's fire service. House Malklaith sector security is likely not too far behind them; in a district this rough, they're as likely to be dirty as not, but either way, it's going to be annoying at best if you don't clear out before they find you.

You catch a glimpse of the truck behind you, just in time to see a roof-mounted sign advertising the "FIREY INFERNO NOODLE BOWL" curl up and blacken from the blaze that has engulfed the whole vehicle.

It's probably best to find some other way out.

As the ground team secured their targets, Ijin allowed himself a moment of introspection as he observed the goings on from his sniper's perch. The Gweldite wasn't 100% sure, but he certainly wouldn't be surprised if other humans questioned whether or not what they were doing was morally sound.

In their rush to pursue their quarry, two of his fellows had commandeered a food truck and subsequently allowed it go up in smoke. Such a thing likely meant the complete destruction of the rightful owner's livelihood. At best, the proprietor was properly insured and had enough emergency cash tucked away to make this little more than an inconvenient mishap. At worst, they had just ruined someone's life. He doubted such irresponsible behavior was considered moral among humans.

Then their was the target himself to consider. Cho-Tyrek was an assassin of the Ashen Knives who apparently wanted out of the business. And yet here Ijin and his team were, tracking Cho down to drag him back to his employers. At best, they were going to sink their hooks back into the man as deep as they could go. At worst, he would be made a long, slow, demonstrative example to his former colleagues of what happens when one of them tries to walk away. Either way, Ijin felt that human observers would consider his team's hand in bringing about either outcome to be immoral.

And last, but by no means least, was the matter of why Cho decided to walk away.

The assassin's Urbot charge seemed to be childlike both in nature and in form. Ijin knew of a habit that humans possessed. One that compelled them to see things that look and act like children to actually be children. Even when all other indicators showed that they were obviously not children. Ijin found this the easiest aspect to find the immorality in. Rare was the species that saw harming children as anything other than an utterly reprehensible act of evil.

All in all, Ijin could see how other humans would find what they were doing to be immoral.

The Gweldite himself didn't see it that way though.

In both his eyes and the eyes of the rest of his species, serving one's Purpose was the ultimate moral justification. In the serving of one's Purpose, even what would normally be the direst of sins could be forgiven. Ijin recalled that the humans had a colloquial term to describe such a mindset. 'Blue and Orange Morality' or something along those lines.

The sound of sirens shook the sniper from his introspection then. Knowing that being being seen by District Security would bring them nothing but trouble, Ijin collapsed Finbl into its portable mode as he looked out across the city. The xeno's perfect long distance sight and vision across all of the electromagnetic spectrum allowing him to attempt to map an escape route back to the Cerberus for the rest of his team.

Quintus eyes flicker between Cho-Tyrek and the Ur-bot. He did not like complications, and the questionable relationship between the two was a curiosity he wasn't interested in. However, it seemed like the Ur-bot was out for the count now, and since it was already too damaged to go anywhere, he slung his pack onto the ground and quickly stuffed the thing into his pack, shoving it before zipping it back up. The muscled mercenary slung it back over his shoulders and approached Cho.

"Sure, pal. I'll let you go," He said, menace in his voice. Quintus reached down and gripped the man by his unbroken arm, lifting him up and holding him at arm's length with one hand. "Right after we collect. Seems only fair after all the trouble you've caused."

He felt the heat on his back, and glanced back once again at the burning truck. They needed to get the cog out of the clock, so to speak. He motioned for Molly to head over to his position, mostly because it was out of the soon-to-be explosion's blast radius, but also to speak. "Let's get out of here. Hey Mal, if I find you a car, can you drive it without having it catch on fire? Or get caught by the lawful authorities? Tall order, I know."

He scanned the street and the accompanying parking lots, looking for a vehicle that could fit five people and some equipment. It didn't have to be comfortable, just workable.

Watching the bot surrender to Quintus’s pack, Silas can’t help a stab of guilt. It was easy enough to drown in the thrill of pursuit, but this thing—and it is a thing, he reminds himself—pulls pity straight to the surface. Especially with the way it goes limp. If he hadn’t seen it take a bullet, he’d think that leg would snap. Malnourished. Calcium-deficient. Not that robots drink fucking milk. Get it together.

He tunes back into the moment at hand, vaguely grateful he missed whatever the others were bantering about while he studied Cho. The tail end is concerning enough. A money pot, indeed. Given its successful capture, he doubts there will be any contention over his call not to shoot the bot, but… well, if it isn’t valuable, that was a stupid decision. Could’ve jeopardized the bounty. All for what, a few extra creds? Somehow that’s still more reasonable than the truth. He thought he’d wrung out his last dregs of empathy a long damn time ago. Not something you can really afford as a doctor. Doctor. Ha. Like he has a degree.

Collapsing his medkit, Silas samples the truck smoke. Doesn’t smell as bad as your average smog, to be honest. Just close enough to a campfire to excuse its strength. Strength that’ll wrench security over here in no time. Waving the miasma from his face, he huffs a laugh at Quintus’s request. “I’m sure our star pilot can handle it,” Silas says dryly. The noodle truck spits an ember in protest.

As said pilot makes her way over, Silas stands and nods at Quintus’s pack. “Want me to carry that for you? Sleeping Beauty here will be plenty to lug around as is.” He scans the haze. “That is, if we can find someplace to lug him to.”

Molly nodded her head, eager as ever to be left out of such tawdry tasks as 'lifting' and 'carrying' and 'doing any real work' as Quintus liked to put it. Behind here there was a dull wumph and a fireball as a vat of sesame oil ruptured and burst into flames, raising a lazy, low intensity, fireball from the burning noodle truck.

"If you find me a car I promise to drive it in a way that no lawful authorities will be ABLE to catch it," Molly replied, the emphasis making the answer a little less reassuring than the words alone might have coveyed.

"Hey, hey!" Molly called to her ur-bot tapping the boxy unit on the LCD display as it continued to make katana poses with the surviving chopsticks.

"Spot any vehicles on the way in?" she asked. The ur-bot rotated and thrust out both it's hands with a magician's flourish to indicate the burning wreck.

"If you don't stop being such a wise ass I'll have Buzz Killington shot YOU in the leg," she threatened. The ur-bot beeped in a sulky tone and began a scan of the area.

Quintus shrugged, tilting his head for a split second in a classic 'suit yourself' gesture. He tossed his pack over to Silas in a gentle, underhanded throw so as not to damage to Ur-bot further. After that, he turned and scanned the accompanying street. Luckily there was a noticeable lack of traffic from the accident and the truck on fire, so there was little to get in the way of his eyesight. He pointed at a slim, dark blue groundcar, four wheels and compactly built with an oddly avian design.

"There. Let's go."

Ijin, you look out on the city from your perch. Its structure unfolds before you: a pair of expressways form its borders to the north and east, funneling ground and air traffic to other parts of the city-moon in a steady pulse that looks slower than it actually is. Smaller vessels, carrying traffic into the sector, branch off from those arteries, and from them spread the capillary side-streets and alleyways snake into every nook and cranny.

It's one of those that you're in now. You take a minute to try and find the quickest route back to the landing pad where the Cerberus is waiting. Hm--what if they double back towards you?

Well, good news and bad news. Good news is, you do in fact see a way out for your comrades if they double back for a couple of blocks. It's not the quickest route, but if they're careful it should keep them away from the approaching cops. Bad news is, the fuzz is going to reach the rest of the crew before you can get to them, and what's more, you can see the radio signature of a patrol car headed your way, drawn in by the recent gunfire. You're going to have to make your own way back, and you had best get going now.

Quintus, the ur-bot squirms a bit as you shove it into your pack; it's not trying to fight you, there's just no graceful wait to be shoved into a bag. By contract, Cho-Tyrek is perhaps a bit less squirmy than you might want. He can just about hold his head up, but you're supporting most of his weight as you make your way to the groundcar.

Silas, as you turn in place looking for the best way out, you hear a shout from above. A figure leans out of a window, three stories above--a young man, pointing an accusing finger at you.

"Hey! Hey you! You fucking killed that guy!"

You're not sure what instinct spurred him to confront you, but his anger is clear even at this distance.

"They killed that guy and shot that kid! I saw it!"

Lights flicker on in a couple other windows; blinds are cracked. In the open window, a large hand reaches out, grabs the young man by the collar, and hauls him back inside; he shouts something you can't make out, then the window is slammed shut.

Molly, the ground car that Quintus has located for you is a nice one. Really nice, actually. It's no pleasure yacht, but it's definitely a vehicle worthy of your skills. And hey, the spare key is hidden right underneath the driver's door--sloppy, but good for you.

It's not until you start trying to get the vehicle up to speed that you realize it's the valet key, and that until you can figure something out, this sleek performance car is going to be about as fast as the noodle van you just demolished.

"Sniper here. I've scoped out a safe route home for you. Sending it your way now, Spoons." Ijin spoke over the comms once more while utilizing a thought command to send the details of the route he'd discovered over to Molly. "Don't wait for me. They've sent a patrol car my way. I'll have to shake them off and make my own way back. Have a safe drive home. Sniper going dark." Ijin's helmet communicator shut off a moment later, having recognized that last sentence as the voice command to hang up.

Even if his Gweld's psychology didn't keep him in a perpetual state of calm, Ijin still wouldn't have worried about the car on his trail. Once he had properly concealed the more eye catching pieces of his equipment, the Gweldite appeared to the world like just another law abiding citizen. After taking a moment to ensure just that, Ijin began the trek from his sniper's perch to the streets below. Having taken care on his way up to leave an easy, inconspicuous way back down, the xeno sniper expected to find himself back on the ground and just another face in the crowd without much delay if any at all.

"Well transport is sorted," Quintus declared, "if you can just pick the lock and get it...." A red masonry smashed through the passenger side window in a spray of cerama-crys that tinkled musically as it fell. Quintus spun to see Molly distainfully wiping the brick dust off on the legs of her flight suit. Molly smiled and flashed a 'what can you do' smile.

"Sometimes life outpaces metaphor," he observed dryly.

"Yeah yeah," Molly replied, reaching through the broken window to unlock the door and then climbing across into the drivers seat. RU-0k began chirping as Ijin feed began cascading across his screen. Molly grabbed one of his appendages and thrust it into the control board. The ur-bot squawked in irritating but began to power the vehicle on with a soft thrumb.

"All aboard!" Molly called out to her two companions as she began to fiddle with the seat adjustor to make it more comfortable.

Quintus was satisfied to let Molly do her thing. It was his motto, generally. She was going to do it anyway, so might as well step back and keep the flames off your sleeve. Her thrown brick was quick and efficient, though he vaguely suspected if she ever accidentally hit him he'd "accidentally" toss her out of a 4 story window, even if she was fun to drink with.

Didn't matter now, they now had a ride. Quintus walked up to the passenger side as the civilian bravely but stupidly poked out of his piece of shit hole he called an apartment and started shouting. Quintus just glanced at him for the briefest moment, before raising his fist, back still to the civvie, and lifted his middle finger.

With that, he kicked the trunk open, grabbed Cho-Tyrek by the scruff of his collar and the back of his shirt, and slung him in there. He slammed the trunk shut, unslung his rifle again and took shotgun. In a hostile CZ he would have shattered the window with his elbow and fixed his rifle on the sill and made himself comfortable, but they still needed a modicum of civility if they didn't want to be chased throughout the entire planet, so he simply switched the safety off, cracked the tinted windows, and waited for Molly to revv it up.

"Are seat belts securely fastened?" Molly asked facetiously.

"Somehow, I don't think it'll matter." Quintus said back, matching her satirical, cheery tone.