Wounds

[Jacques]

The assault team executed the move off the airport brilliantly. Using buses, service vehicles, and emergency vehicles seized from the airport, they left the Firebase crew behind, hidden by the flames and smoke of burning planes and assumed either departed with the evacuation flights or more likely embedded with the assault group convoy.

Legionnaires ran on foot, displaying the benefits of a tireless training regime; even weighed down by their outdated body armour, kit, and weapons, they kept up with the vehicles admirably.

The entire plan hinged on how well executed the next phase went. A surge of rebels had fallen upon them as the planes full of CCD troops and citizens cleared the runway and flew north towards safer territory, leaving the Legionnaires of the assault group to fight their way out and make a break towards the harbour, most specifically the CCD naval port that sat far to the south west.

Unknown to the rebels, the evacuation plans there had gone better then they had hoped; the buildings were rigged to blow, and would be detonated before the insurgents could glean anything of use from the armouries or offices.

They broke through the perimeter fence of King Abdulaziz International Airport and onto Highway 271, crashed through the meridian and plowed through a hastily assembled barricade of burning tires and cars that choked the entrance to Assalam street, avoiding the onramps to the overpass where the convoy would be most easily boxed in.

The lead vehicle, a heavy firetruck, easily smashed an abandoned, burned out bus from the road before slowing down again so as not to outpace the Legionnaires stuck running on foot along side the myriad of random vehicles that had been pressed into service.

Extremists still dotted that part of the city in small groups, far from any site of ongoing fighting and seeking easier prey. Prey found at CCD funded schools or 'foreign' businesses that insulted 'good Muslim' sensibilities. Those groups proved the most pressing threat to the Legionnaire column; they hadn't expended much effort or ammunition in the fighting, as they had blatantly broken away from the 'righteous cause' of their brethren that had been battling at the airport all day.

The lead firetruck was struck suddenly by an RPG launched from the roof of a Fuddruckers restaurant on the corner of a dominant round-about. But their luck held out; the RPG didn't have enough distance to travel before it hit the firetruck, and so didn't arm. The round penetrated the thin metal of the reservoir, and a great wave of fire extinguishing chemicals rushed out across the road. Legionnaires opened fire on the low-walled roof of the restaurant, something that became a prevailing theme as the convoy turned south onto King Abdul Aziz Road.

A major thoroughfare, King Abdul Aziz Road would carry them due south to the naval port, their most logical destination. A token CCD rear-guard continued to fight there, barely holding waves of rebels at bay, obviously awaiting the arrival of the Legionnaires to make good their escape by sea.

Word seemed to spread quickly among the nebulous command structure of the insurgency. They moved en-masse from the abandoned airport and other parts of the city, flocking to crush the last group of organized resistance in the city, a group that had so thoroughly embarrassed them at the airport. Word had spread quickly of the Legionnaire's counter-attack and rescue of the hundreds of innocents trapped there, and holy vengeance was screamed for in the name of their god.

The road south was not as crowded with abandoned vehicles as they had expected; it was only recently that Jacques had managed to t-up with the CCD's Vega representative, and he still struggled to gain access to satellites and the CCD military's radio channels. But despite the clear road ahead of them, the Legion convoy did not move any faster; in fact, they slowed, giving the dismounted men a chance to catch their breath in the short reprieve they were given.

Their travel south was cut short as they arrived at the dark edifice of the Yusr International School. The convoy brought their vehicles in close to the school's perimeter, and eight-man sections of Legionnaires quickly fanned out to secure the area against the rapidly approaching masses of rebel fighters, while other teams fanned out into the school proper searching for students.

And during it all, a group of Legionnaires snuck west into the vehicle yards of Alzamil Heavy Industries LTD. By the time the search parties began leading out some dozens of students hiding in the school, the surrounding area was peppered with the barks and sputters of automatic weapons fire. The flash and smoking trails of RPGs struck the Legion's seized vehicles, and men screamed in pain or barked ferocious orders.

The Legionnaires chose their shots rather then the spray-and-pray of the untrained rebels, but even the untrained masses of attackers got lucky occasionally. Legion men were struck and wounded, or less frequently killed, by enemy fire. The students were panicked, and corralled into the shadow of safety provided by the airport vehicles.

But then things changed, again in the favour of the Legion. Heavy equipment seized from the Alzamil Heavy Industries LTD yard came crashing through the thin concrete wall that surrounded their vehicle compound. A pair of large dozers and a row of thick-sided dumptrucks, from which Legionnaires fired on the rebels with the advantage of height and hard-sided cover.

The rebels were broken and forced back for a time, and the Legionnaires used the fresh respite to load the students and their wounded into the newly seized trucks before continuing south.

Another ambush awaited them; less ambush then chance-meeting, and the Legionnaires were able to fight through mostly thanks to the enemy's lack of preparation.

The road to the naval yards was open to them now, but satellite imagery showed armed crowds moving to cut them off. The movement of the rebels was slow and cumbersome, but they were simply too many to keep ahead of all of them. Thousands of hostile fighters regrouped and swept towards the south-west corner of the city, intent to crush the resistance at the naval port and the venomous thorn that was the Legion convoy.

They continued south, their travel intentionally slowed to assure the enemy would continue to swarm towards them, and, most importantly, away from the airport. And then it was time for the next phase of their plan. The rebels had responded as Jacques had expected; slow and cumbersome, with a momentum that was hard to control and coordinate.

The Landwarriors of the Legionnaires tracked markers Jacques laid out for them based on his view from the CCD satellites. Enemy movement, buildings of interest, and of course their intended route of travel. A route that saw them take a sudden, aggressive turn east onto Hira Street, a path that would lead them towards Al-Salam hospital and the known location of their VIPs.

It was at that turn that the first of the Legion's heroic stands were struck.

-----

Sergant Johnathon Wilks fell back against the hood of an abandoned taxi, gripping his rifle tightly to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. He was exhausted, barely able to take in a breath, and his chest felt as if it were on fire. His squad of eight was down to just the four of them, and one quick glance told him they were in the same state as he.

One of the medics knelt next to him as the trucks rumbled past, crushing abandoned vehicles, rounds ricocheting harmlessly off the thick metal sides, which muffled the panicked yells and frightened screams of the civilians hidden within.

He studied the HUD of his Landwarriors a moment, then grimaced at a sharp stab of pain in his side, realizing the medic was moving with a sense of urgency, readying one of his last applications of QuickClot. Johnathon tuned in to the situation again and looked down, realizing that the heavy armour plate of his vest was cracked, the fabric stained red around a gapping hole. He'd been shot. "Bad, is it?"


The medic nodded grimly, and hesitated from tearing the package open. They shared a moment's understanding, and Johnathon flashed a grim smile. "Keep it, bone-saw."
He waved the medic away and glanced at his men, then jerked his head onwards in the direction of the departing trucks. They understood well, and two moved to catch up at a laboured sprint, rifles up and at the ready as they peppered the flanking rooftops, forcing enemy shooters away from the edges.

The other two men stayed with him; both were too badly hurt to carry on, and a quick scan of his area revealed four others in the same state. "Capitan Hennings. Rear guard. We'll buy you some time."


Riding in the lead-most vehicle, the Capitain studied the map that appeared on his HUD then nodded, "Understood, Sergeant. The Legion dies."


"It does not surrender. God speed, Sir."


The wounded pulled their dog tags and handed them to the medics or stragglers who continued after the convoy, heading towards the distant hospital. Three kilometers had never seemed so far. Then the last vehicle passed, and Johnathon and his men took cover as best they could, weapons leveled down the broad street.

A great mob approached, and the Legion had been lucky so far that no seized military vehicles had appeared among their ranks. It was surely just a matter of time before those began to arrive, but surprise and deception had kept them and their charges one step ahead of the extremists so far.

He took a deep breath, noticing now how...wet...his exhale felt. Eyes narrowed and he began to pick out priority targets in the approaching crowd. They still had a lot to learn; intent to chase hot on the heels of the departing convoy, they rushed to catch up to the fleeing Legion convoy, unaware of the thin line of stragglers that awaited them.

There were always the easy targets...none carried radios; they hadn't the equipment nor means to employ what they may have captured. They had no understanding of how the cryptography worked, and the CCD would have switched channels already. But they did carry weapons of interest, and they did tend to lead from the front...

Targets were marked, and the mob drew closer. Maybe it wasn't right to call them a mob; they were organized to some degree at least, but those leading seemed to be of many minds of how to do so. A thought for another day...well, not for himself. For others. The CCD. The Legion would wipe it's hands clear of this place long before his body had grown cold, God willing.

"Nous sommes des dégourdis, nous sommes des lascars,
Des types pas ordinaires,
Nous avons souvent notre cafard,
Nous sommes des Légionnaires!"


They opened fire, their first barrage flying true. Men carrying RPGs or captured machineguns dropped to the earth. Elder men, those who moved with more certainty then the rest, were more vocal, dropped too. And then the mob returned fire, charging the thin line intent to close the distance and see the infidels destroyed.

They charged, and the thin line of Legionnaires took up their song, flipping from repetition to fully automatic. Short, controlled bursts walked across the rushing crowd, even as they returned fire. The heavier calibre rounds of the insurectionist Kalishnikovs punched worrying holes into the Legionnaires' thin cover.

"Au Tonkin, la Légion immortelle
A Tuyen-Quang illustra notre Drapeau.
Héros de Camerone et frères modèles
Dormez en paix dans vos tombeaux!"


Johnathon dropped an empty magazine from his rifle, and ducked his head lower as he fought out his last and slapped it into place. A glance left and right saw one of his men on their back, no longer moving. Others staggered their fire, reloading in an organized series, and he painfully scurried back to a fresh piece of cover before popping up to resume firing.

"Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin
Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses et les Lorrains.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Ce sont des tireurs au cul.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Ce sont des tireurs au cul!"


The crowd faltered under the hail of fire and began to scatter, but it was too organized. Some took cover, keeping the Legionnaires pinned while others vanished into alleys and side-streets. They had indeed been learning...

"Nos anciens ont su mourir
Pour la gloire de la Légion.
Nous saurons bien tous périr
Suivant la tradition!"


His last magazine ran dry and he tore his bayonet free before dropping it as his side. His breath was harder to draw, and his vision was blurring dangerously. So this was what it felt like to die, was it? He remembered the civilians loaded in the trucks at his back, and glared at the Huns to his front. If this was what it felt like to die, then it was a wonder any feared it. He'd never been more alive. Another of his men fell, hit as he fell back to another parked vehicle, and was hit again and again as he tried to crawl onward.

"Au cours de nos campagnes lointaines,
Affrontant la fièvre et le feu,
Oublions avec nos peines,
La mort qui nous oublie si peu.
Nous la Légion!"


Their song was lost in the roar of fire now, sung by too few throats. But another pipped up over their radios, and with it came a fresh wave of resolve. The CEO was watching.

"Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin
Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses et les Lorrains.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Ce sont des tireurs au cul.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Pour les Belges y en a plus.
Ce sont des tireurs au cul!"


Fire erupted from behind now; they weren't surprised by it. Those that had fled into the side streets had circled, through back alleys and compound yards, and now bore down on the remaining Legionnaires with a poisoning fury. Another of his men died in that sudden hail, and John stood defiantly, pistol and bayonet in hand as those Holy Soldiers fell upon him.

Pistol barked and a bearded man's face turned red and dark as he dropped to the earth. Again, and another staggered as a round caught him in the shoulder. Johnathon fired again, dropping the wounded man to the earth, tripping a third over the body. Then they were on him. Bayonet slashed, embedding deep into the throat of another man, and a Kalishnikov fell heavily on his extended arm. Bone snapped and his bayonet was lost as his limb fell uselessly to his side. The club-wielder died next, another two rounds into his chest.

More. Too many. They swarmed his men, even as they died to bayonet and rifle fire, and their rifles, devoid of ammunition or forgotten as such in their anger, fell upon his men like crude iron clubs. They were pulled to the ground, tackled from their feet, too wounded and exhausted to resist any longer, and they died. They tackled Johnathon to the earth, and his chest exploded in pain. His pistol was dropped, knocked free, but somehow he pulled his arm free and grabbed at his vest. A grenade, his last, found it's way to his hand, and he rolled to his knees, throwing his assailant free.

A yell of pain as another kicked him in the ribs, another rifle splintered his shoulder blade. "Ad unum!"
he yelled through gritted teeth, barely heard over the victorious cries of the crowd. A weapon fired, and his leg gave free as a round punched through his hip, and he rolled to his back to glare up at his attackers, a red-toothed, defiant grin meeting them as he thrust the grenade into the air above his head.

"Ad unum."
spoke a voice quietly in his radio. A voice thick with pride and sorrow. The grenade detonated.

-----

The thin line at their backs faltered the advance of the rebels after the Legionnaire convoy. They picked up the pace, using every second their brothers could buy them to close upon the hospital, and were met by surprisingly little resistance as they neared and surrounded the hospital.

Satellite imagery showed a group of enemy fighters fleeing the area, moving as if they expected to be chased. Likely an enemy commander and his bodyguard had been sited at the hospital. It made sense; the building held a commanding position at a central location of the city, and had radios in the forms of ambulances and hand-helds used by paramedics. Those had been seeded out to some bands of rebel fighters to aid in their otherwise lacking means of communication.

Again teams of Legionnaires fanned out into the surrounding area, setting up a thin perimeter to hold the rapidly approaching waves of rebels at bay while other teams stormed the hospital proper, only to learn that not all the enemy fighters had fled.

There was a firefight in the foyer; the Legionnaires had entered with some hopes of sparing the building from violence, but a group of wounded enemy fighters had found the strength for one last stand. Two Legionnaires died in the entryway before those few rebels were done away with.

Of course, that led to a panic in the hospital, as Legionnaires thundered in. All the teams were tasked to the same priority; the VIPs, Michael and Torri, but they also sought out any who sought to escape the nightmare that DV had been plunged into.

There were too many wounded for them to evacuate, and thus far the hospital appeared to have been treated as neutral ground; civilians as well as rebels received treatment, although with the enemy commander having fled the area, that was likely to change when the Legionnaires departed. But there was little they could do; they simply hadn't the time or resources to evacuate entirely or secure indefinitely.

Making use of HUD and tracking signals on Michael and Torri, a team of eight Legionnaires quickly closed on their position. The Legion men were relieved that their two VIPs were both moving (a sign they were alive) and together, and they quickly found the abandoned ward the pair had stopped in.

Sounds of weapons fire outside the hospital quickly spiked as the rebels drew nearer and ran into the perimeter the Legionnaires had established. Aided by satellite imagery, they were able to position themselves to maximum effect, unlike the rebels who approached like an unchecked tide which quickly broke on the Legion rifles.

The enemy halted at first, and broke contact, falling back out of sight of the Legion guns. They began to surge and swell, as groups began to catch up to their brethren around the hospital. Hundreds turned to thousands as the Legion scoured the hospital, evacuating all who desired to flee under the dubious safety the Legionnaires could offer.

A senior caporale of the Legion led the charge through the swinging ward doors into the room Michael and Torri had taken shelter. Their weapons were held at the ready and they came in expecting to find the pair in the unwanted company of the rebels, that they were held prisoner.

"Légion Première! We're here to get you out of here."

[Torri]

Where Michael took her was strangely quiet. This part of the hospital was a GI ward, meant to provide procedures on an outpatient basis. It would typically be closed during nights and weekends, but it seemed what nurses staffed the desk had left in a hurry. Torri noted more than one GI chart locked in the air.

Michael chose to take her to what was otherwise a prep room, where a nurse would take preliminary genetic tests or place an i.v..

Torri was glad for the table. Glad to be out of Michael's arms. When he turned to close the door, and as such, seal them in, she shivered despite herself. The gaze that accompanied his questions frightened her.

She clenched her jaw, defiant of her own feelings, and pain immediately stabbed her face. Through the wince, she grumbled a crude answer. "No, I'll be fine."
But as she slid from the table, the floor wobbled. Just a headache. She put a hand to her head. Half her face was bruised. The swelling puffed around one eye.

She gestured at one of the cabinets while she took herself to a sink and mirror. "Can you check and see if there's a Diagnostic BioReader in there?"
She grabbed a pair of gloves and started poking around at the inside of her mouth. "And a coagulant-kit."
She had no guess whether or not Michael knew what she was talking about, but he was a smart lad, he'd figure it out. And it kept him busy. She didn't like the way he was looking at her.

"GOD DAMN IT!"
She spit the curse on a hiss, then spit a real spray of red into the sink. With it clattered a molar.

She fumbled for gauze to stuff into the hole. With it came the bitter flavor of coagulation factor-laced cotton. A GI ward was hardly a dentists office, but some medical equipment was universal the world over. She otherwise waved her way through disorderly shit stocking the cabinet. Tongue depressors spilled out. Cotton and gauze rained. Tiny tools, syringes, swabs. Whatever she was searching for, she didn't find it.

Thankfully, Michael offered what would suffice as a Dx reader. Her Wallet had the technology integrated, but, "they took my wallet. Little good it'll do them."
She said, flat, but when she met Michael's gaze, she wished she'd stayed silent instead.

She popped a disk out of the side of the Reader and swirled her own saliva on what looked like a fine mesh screen. Seconds after it popped back inside, Torri was studying the results.

"I have a mild concussion,"
she said with a sigh and dropped the Reader on the table she was now leaning against. But rather than studying pages of positive biomarkers, she was studying Michael. The seconds passed. "You can't heal me, but you were dying the last I saw you."
But her gaze lifted to the door before he could answer. Someone was coming.

She tensed, but was ready to face whatever barged in.

[Michael Vellas]

Michael did not interfere when Dr. Weston struggled to her feet with obvious effort. Her assessment that she was 'fine' seemed forced, but he did not object. She was the doctor, after all.

As such, he complied with her request without a word. She seemed intent on her own search, and even though he had only a vague idea of what a BioReader was, he assumed it was not vital to her condition if she asked him to find it. A coagulant kit he at least understood, although he hoped the staff at the hospital had the sense to put the names of the damn things on the packaging.

Not long after he had started his search, his attention was drawn back to the woman as she yelled out in frustration or pain. Michael turned - unnaturally calm considering the situation, but the screams of caution were rebuffed by the security of the power and life - and his brows rose as a splatter of blood and what seemed to be tooth clanked in the sink. She seemed intent on her work with gauze so he left her be, resuming his search.

It did not take long to find something that looked sufficiently suitable for a BioReader, although in truth he could not tell the difference, but it stood to reason that any device in a ward would be of medical grade.

He remained silent as he handed the pad to her, intent on monitoring the situation outside. With the Dr. injured, he did not risk drawing any more attention to them with the power, so he used his enhanced hearing and prepared to spin death.

Dr. Weston eyed him with a strange look which he returned with a steady gaze. What did she see in his eyes? He had rescued her, surely she did not think he would go to the effort simply to kill her now. Was it fear of the unknown, curiosity, apprehension? It was hard to even grasp the concept of emotion within the bubble of cold determination and beacon-lit power.

No matter. He did not expect understanding, nor sympathy. The fact that she had seen his power and not attempted to kill him was more than enough.

His gaze became fixed and distant as Dr. Weston spoke. His reply was an idle affirmative to her condition but he did not answer the second question.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway towards them. As they approached the door, he began to spin a web of destruction but held himself, changing Fire to a wall of Air that covered both himself and Dr. Weston as the doors banged open.

Lucky for the new arrivals, their deaths had been prevented by a split second as Michael noticed the uniform.

He released the wall of Air and nodded to the soldiers. So, the Legion had been sent. Apparently to rescue them. It was something of a surprise, but he did not question it.

"My thanks. What is the situation, soldier?"
he said in a soft but commanding tone. He swept his gaze past all of the soldiers. Whoever was in change would answer his question. "Al-Hasan prepares for war, has it begun?"



Edited by Michael Vellas, Jun 4 2014, 09:39 AM.

[Torri]

Torri's released the edge of the table, though her handprint remained in the cushion. She'd held on tightly, though only after the blood seeped back through her fingers did she realize how much so.

She didn't recognize the uniforms like Michael, and it took Torri a few convoluted moments to place their announced identity with a meaning of any substance. Michael, however, was clearly quicker, and she marveled once more at his change of health.

Michael trusted them, apparently, but Torri was of another mind. "Who sent you?"
She asked of the soldier, brows drawn down low. After the day she'd had, she was unwilling to just wander out of the hospital with just anyone.

[Jacques]

The Legionnaires came through the door ready for trouble but finding none. Just their VIPs, Michael and Torri, looking a bit worse for wear. Torri especially. Michael's posture was written off as nothing to be concerned about by the Legionnaires; none had the foggiest how close they had come to dying.

Two men immediately doubled back out into the hallway to watch for any trouble there, while four others moved deeper into the ward to see if there was anyone left in the area needing help, or if there were any hostiles lingering in the area.

Two stayed with Michael and Torri, one providing over-watch, while the Caporal pulled an archaic (mid-20's) sat-phone from a dump pouch on his hip. He quickly thumbed the right number, and held it out to Michael, "Last I heard, Sir, the Middle East is in flames. They caught you fools with your pants down somehow."


He glanced at Torri and grinned proudly, "The CEO did, Ma'am. On request of your Custody of Defense boys. Now we have to move, Ma'am, Sir. Satellites show a lot of these damnded infidels moving this way. Thousands of them."


The situation outside was looking grim, as the numbers of insurgents in the area was rapidly climbing. The thin defensive line the Legionnaires had set was, so far, holding them at bay with only the occasional exchange of fire. It seemed neither group wanted to fight around the hospital, but once they started moving that would change fast.

The sat phone rang once before being answered by a man with a french accent. The background was filled with the sounds of raging fires. Their weapons were silent though; hidden as they were amid the flames and fires, their presence was still unknown to the enemy. Something else that would change once the assault group had moved away from the hospital.

"Monsieur Vellas. I am told yourself and the lovely mademoiselle Weston are currently in the company of my Legionnaires? Should you wish to see a new sunrise, I request you give them your full cooperation. This is a Légion Première operation."
His tone was distracted but pleasant; he had little doubt that Michael would cooperate, but it needed to be said. His plans were already on thin ice thanks to the delay caused by the late arriving Vega operative and his delayed and incomplete access to satellites.

"Some of your men insisted on accompanying my assault group to your location. They are currently my men, until such time as this operation has been completed. Your Vegas, however, should begin to pull back to wherever they wish to go. I doubt they will be able to provide much assistance from here on out. Mademoiselle Weston shall task herself to oversea the wounded civilians and the medical staff that are accompanying you from the hospital, in the motorcade. My medics are spread thin."


For a civilian, he was very demanding of official government personnel, especially considering they were on the CCD's turf, but he had no interest in arguing. The Caporal and his partner both pulled SIG Sauer pistols from their drop holsters and held the weapons out to Torri and Michael, handles first.

[Michael Vellas]

In flames?

Well, it had only been a matter of time. Perhaps the situation would even work in the Custody's favour. If their Generals acted swiftly enough they could put down the ill-fated rebellion.

A thought which gave him pause as he took the comm. device. The Custody sent mercenaries to rescue them? What of Hasan? With a team of Legionnaires, he had the power to destroy the threat at his fingertips...

Michael was drawn back to the phone by a familiar voice. He listened as the Legionnaires waited for orders. The sensation was strange, although the thought was almost foreign in his mind. He was in the middle of a war-zone, in the heart of the enemy's lands and he felt no fear, no excitement. Only disappointment and cold fury at the foolishness.

As the CEO finished his update, Michael took the pistol from the Legionnaire with some distaste, although only his casual handling of the weapon showed any sign of his thoughts. He did not even stop to disengage the safety. It was a fine enough weapon, in good condition, but he had never liked guns in their simplistic destructive nature.

"Do whatever you feel is necessary,"
he replied over the receiver. "Tell the Vega team to rendezvous at the extraction point, I'm afraid I have no other means of communication. I should also mention, you and your men have wandered into the lair of the beast. Al-Hasan is in this hospital."
His head turned to regard Dr. Weston's puffy face. "You have my men and I at your disposal, but I do not command Dr. Weston. She is injured herself, you will have to ask her directly."
Michael nodded to the wary woman and handed her the device before turning back to the Legionnaire at his side. "Nous oublions avec nos peines la mort qui nous oublie si peu nous, la Légion."



Edited by Michael Vellas, Jun 5 2014, 09:45 AM.

[Torri]

Torri's brows rose in surprise. Officer trained, yes, but military strategist, she was not. Yet the entire Dominance in flames made her blink her fair share of times. Had she heard right? The CoD sent mercenaries after who? Her and Michael? The commander, with his particular skillset, perhaps warranted a rescue mission, but Torri knew all too keenly how many Custody officials were in Mecca, and she was but one lowly physician. Perhaps her rescue was only by virtue of association with Michael? She doubted it, but very few individuals knew the nature of her work in The Facility. Is this mission Ascendancy-sanctions? She shuddered to wonder.

Either way, she was content to leave in the Legion's company, but the phone interrupted their departure. The voice was unrecognizable to her, however she could pin point a french accent a hundred kilometers away. By the tone his cool command alone, was certainly a powerful individual within the Legion. If he were the CEO himself, she could not guess. Surely CEO's didn't participate in strategic organization of their units?

The Dx pad in her hands was worthless for such information, assuming the insurgents had the forethought to cut public wifi access, the tech was low on battery anyway.

Whomever the voice on the phone was, he thought he could order them around like his own people? Torri exchanged glances with Michael, but she held her tongue, and only partly because it bloody hurt to open her mouth.

Still, the anonymous voice had the right idea. She'd see to anyone that needed aid, of course. No matter their allegiance. The convention of war should protect physicians, but by the edema bulging around her eye, she knew all too well what Hasan's men thought of civilized warfare.

Michael's french cut off her agreement. He speaks french? Her brows furrowed tight, confused, but she again refrained from comment.

"Commander Vellas seems to think I am a porcelain doll,"
she thought of him carrying her up here. Torri fixed him with a look that what with the bruising and ugly swelling was probably more comical than not. "I'll treat anyone that needs attention, sir."
It was what she was trained to do, after all. She wished to god her words weren't mumbled by the gauze stuffed in her jaw.

In the interim minutes before they left, Torri directed those in their presence to collect a number of medical supplies. A Med-grade Wallet would be the priority, but nothing like that was going to be laying around a nurse's desk. She'd have to do her best to triage without one.

Wound care, devices, syringes, gloves.. lots of gloves, a white coat if someone could find one, perhaps in the doctor's dictation room down the hall; she was still wearing nothing but her uniform's underclothing, which was modest in the sense of covering skin, but hugged her body tightly. Something to transport it all in. Saline, forceps, needles, scalpels, tape, quick-clot, and a number of other supplies she anticipated would be needed.

Finally, and perhaps most important, she needed someone to bust into the controlled substances dispensing station. "It'll be behind the nurses' station. Completely locked down. Its fireproof for shit's sakes. And since I'm not registered at this hospital, there's no way for me to open it."
She looked between the soldiers and Michael, "But believe me, I do not want to treat wounded men without drugs on hand. If you can get it open, I'll take what I need."



Meantime, she went to rummage around for a proper case to use as transport.


Edited by Torri, Jun 5 2014, 02:00 PM.

[Jacques]

"If you do not intend to use that, sir, tell me now."
The senior Caporal noticed Michael's distaste of the weapon, but also noted his familiar handling of it. He knew his way around weapons, but probably had no interest in taking a life...a privilege they could not entertain in the current situation. If he wasn't going to use it, they'd find a hand that would.

Michael's words were met with an approving nod by the Caporal and a few of the men. He was a curious one, to know so much of the Foreign Legion.

He looked at Dr Weston then nodded curtly and keyed the mic on his headset, "Sapper to my loc-stat ASAP. Breach of high-value case."


The news of the rebel leader's presence was met with a casual shrug; he was not their target, and in all likelyhood, he was at the center of the armed mob that had been making it's way from the hospital before their arrival. The commander of these sorts of groups ruled on charisma less then tactical skill; they had no place on the front line.

Jacques had limited contact with the Vegas at best; only through the one that had deigned to grace him with their presence, and with their presence the CCD electronic assets he had made a key part of the contract. And even then, there was a portion of the city he simply could not get a clear view of. They were up to something and didn't want him to know about it, which only further jeopardized the mission.

"I expect nothing less of you, Dr Weston. My medics are at your disposal."
With that Jacques cut the connection over the sat-phone, leaving them in the command of the senior Caporal of the section that had 'rescued' them. He seemed amused that she hadn't recognized his voice; it would be an interesting, if hopefully very fleeting, 'reunion' when she reached his fire-base.

It only took a few minutes for two more Legionnaires to find their way over, and once directed the pair moved over to the indicated cabinet and produced a plasma torch from their pack. "Allah willing, we shall have this open shortly ma'am. She is...temperamental."
One of the two sapper's patted the torch lovingly, then bent to the task. Two other Legionnaires pulled the dump pouches from their leg rigs, and within minutes the cabinet had been neatly cut open, and the alarm system had been fed a quick blast from the torch.

Task complete, the pair deferred to Torri as to what to toss into the sacks, and along with most of her other desired supplies (a white coat had been produced from a staff locker room near the nurse's station), they were on the move again.

The hospital had quickly been turned into organized chaos, with patients and some staff deciding to go with the Legion escort rather then remain in the city. Some patients sadly had to be left behind whether they wished to come or not; their conditions and wounds too severe to survive the move back to the extraction point.

The sounds of weapons fire outside was growing less sporadic as enemy numbers grew alarmingly and began to apply pressure to the Legion perimeter. The occasional round could be heard, and sometimes seen as a rain of sparks, as they struck the hard metal siding of the seized dump-trucks. What few ambulances that remained at the hospital were also taken, although most were likely used by the insurgents as command posts, utilizing the radios mounted within.

Those radios would be of little use to them though, as the radio to which they were all synch'd was destroyed by a Legionnaire's shotgun, much to the anger of the hospital staff that had decided to stay. The Legionnaires didn't much enjoy it, but the mission took priority, and disabling the enemy's command and control capabilities far outweighed the distaste of damaging hospital equipment.

Both Michael and Torri were ushered outside along with staff and patients and loaded into the backs of the trucks or ambulances accordingly. She would have her work cut out for her trying to run a triage in a moving convoy, but Jacques was trusting that she could find a way. Medics ran on foot or sat themselves one to a truck where their numbers allowed.

"We are leaving in five! East to checkpoint 2-5! Sat feed shows the way is clear, but not for long! Stay in the vehicles, keep your heads down pray our luck holds out!"
The caporal was with the men on foot, and he helped Michael and Torri climb into the open bed of the dump truck, "CCD VTOLs should be touching down in thirty to get us all out of this forsaken place!"


The next phase of the plan relied heavily on the CCD extraction team arriving on time, and with ample aircraft to pull the rest of the civilians, VIPs, and Legionnaires out. They would be under fire the whole way, but there was little other choice. It was a risky gambit, but the only one left to them.

[Michael Vellas]

Michael hesitated a moment, staring at the gun in his hand. "No need to worry," he said eventually as he disengaged the safety and cocked it with a careful hand.

The ensuing orderly evacuation he followed without complaint or comment. Dr. Weston appeared in her element sorting through the medical supplies and ordering the Legionnaire's around as if they were her own.

For all intents and purposes, Michael was nothing but a bystander. He was helped into one of the Legion's trucks and although he seated himself in a position that gave him the best view of his surroundings he sat just as all the others, awaiting arrival.

In the shell of his own mind he struggled. As time went on his resolution dimmed and tension slowly faded into the recesses of his mind. Everything proceeded with a professional calm that left him...hollow.

He had come face to face with the man who had ravaged a Dominion and left it in flames, and now he was ushered away like a errant child.

Of course it is precisely what he would have done himself in Mr. Danjou's position, but logic was cold and comfort-less.

So he wrapped himself in the thrill of power, waiting.

[Torri]

Torri took the pistol without thought. In a flash she memorized the weapon, acclimated herself to the model, and secured it on her person. Physicians never carried unless in an active warzone, and even then, they were usually at a field hospital isolated enough from the front lines to be given hot firepower. The Geneva Convention forbid firing upon combat medics and physicians, where she was only allowed to fire in protection of herself or her sick. To fire offensively voided any protection of Convention, but given the treatment tonight, Torri was fucking ready to carry. Her reaction to the pistol, unlike Michael's, was certainly one of gratitude. After expressing her thanks, she set to work gathering her things.

Minutes later, the sounds of a plasma gun made Torri looked over her shoulder. The light could be harmful to the eyes, so she didn't watch for long, but the process used by the Legion men was met with an approving nod on her behalf. She quickly went back to assessing her supplies while they ripped apart metal like paper foil.

Sixth generation opioids, early generation anti-inflammatories; she grabbed a wide array of pain-killers; practically all that was stocked in this station. It would be connected to a central dispenser located somewhere in the hospital, one that orchestrated the complex restocking of one of a thousand different tiny vials, but the main cache was inaccessible without digital allowance. That meant Torri pilfered pretty much everything that was kept on hand at the nurses station. Anti-virals, anti-biotics, anti-everything; the broadest spectrum of action went into the bag she was going to carry. Without a Med-level Wallet reader, there'd be no genetic analysis of wound-care infection, so she'd make due with throwing everything she had at whomever was unlucky enough to need her attention this night.

A few minutes later she signaled she was as ready as she'd ever be. A shoulder bag hung across her body; a backpack was slung on her back. But to save time, she put aside one small vial in the pocket of the found white-coat. Once they were moving, and there was nothing else to do, she'd give herself the medication. She dallied on the decision right up to the point of swallowing the pill; whether or not to save it for a patient in greater need of pain relief than herself, but in the end, she knew she had to take care of herself to keep her mind sharp over the next few hours. If she succumbed to the rot of a slow ache, all her patients would suffer, not just herself.

Laden down as she was, she nimbly climbed into the construction truck. The rumble down the road was echoed on both sides by the sounds of detonating ammunition, and low-hanging clouds reflected brief pockets of light glowing suddenly here and there around them. Michael was quiet, as was Torri, and there was very little she could do but sit and wait.

She didn't wait long. At one crossroads they stopped to pick up passengers. The Legion men tried to coordinate the wounded to be sent to the truck she was riding in, but there was a mixup at one point, and Torri decided it would be quicker for her to move between trucks than to bear the burden of wounded moving around too much.

So with a small escort for cover, she darted through the night from one truck, across the danger of an open road, and all but leaped into the back of another truck bed. Where she quickly went to work.

For the rest of the journey, the flash of ammunition was peripheral. The echoing ricochet of gunfire was white noise. She had three men piled against one another, all three shot clean through, and one sprayed with shrapnel to boot. If this were a field hospital, she'd be scanning that last one with a handheld PET, but in the black of the Mecca inner sanctum, she had nothing but her own two eyes to gauge his condition.

His two brothers tried to tell her to tend to him first - Conrad she learned his name was. Of course, if Torri would see to each in their own time, but gravest wounds had priority. If she'd deemed Conrad able to wait, she'd have no problem telling his brothers exactly who they were ordering around. As it was, Conrad was bleeding from a gash that stretched eye to lip. His foot was likely off with his boot somewhere on the side of the road, and his lower jaw was stripped of all skin from whatever blast he'd shielded his two brothers from.

"Hold that light steady!"
she yelled at the medic at her side.
"Sorry Mademoiselle doctor, the road is rough."
He replied with that damn french accent.

She glared at him. The silvered handle of forceps glinted in the tiny beam of light. Their tip held a tiny crescent of steel from which dangled the faintest line of a suture, thin as fishing wire, thinner, actually. "That's what your fucking cerebellum is for, sergeant, Its called compensation. Now fucking compensate!"


The patient moaned under her, and Torri went back to sewing the gape of his eyesocket together. She'd already glued the ophthalmic artery back in place. Being the first branch off the internal carotid, if she hadn't, he'd have bled out from the wound in minutes. That artery supplied sixty percent of all blood to the head. Suffice to say, it gushed like a waterfall when severed.

She finished the final knot that closed up the hole in his skull. It was an ugly line of black stitches, one that would scar horribly because of the crude manner in which she'd closed it up, but she was hurrying, lacking a microscope, and doing this in the back of an open bed truck by flashlight beam. She pat Conrad on the shoulder. "Scars are manly, Conrad. The ladies will love it, you can be a pirate for Halloween."
He made no sign that he heard her behind the drug-induced quiet that kept him still, but either way, she kept her attitude bright for him. "Let's check out that jaw, now."


"Doctor!"
The medic gasped and Torri looked over her shoulder. The first man of the other two who'd "only" been shot slumped sideways, suddenly unconscious.

Torri cursed under her breath. Together she and the medic crawled to him. Tough to do without risking their heads to being exposed on the road.

His buddy was trying to rouse him. "I don't know what happened! He just fell!"
Torri told him to get out of their way. He quickly complied.

She snatched the medic's flashlight to do her own examination while he was stretched him out. The truck was full of riders as it was, so people had to squish together. She hated the close quarters, but it was only a passing thought. A quick test of vitals. Fingers on his throat: heart beat low. Her ear to his nose: breathing shallow. She'd wager his blood pressure was bottomed-out; Mars probably had a higher blood O2 than this kid.

She grabbed his dog tags for a name and leaned close to him, "Adrian! Soldier! Signal if you can hear me!"
Nothing. He'd been shot in the lower leg, lateral to the vessels running between the tibia and fibula. He shouldn't be in this state. When she found her glove came away from his chest way too wet, she inwardly cringed.

She thrust the flashlight between her teeth and ignored the accompanying flash of pain needed to keep her jaw locked down tight. Hands freed, she ripped open the front of his shirt and found the undershirt completely soaked through. "FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
She dropped the flashlight and thrust it at the medic. He already had a pair of scissors ready to trade, ones she used to cut open the t-shirt.

Adrian's chest was a mess of blood. Torri swore at the dumb kid under her breath. He'd lied about his injury and with the more gruesome soldier to tend, she'd passed over doing a full examination, trusting to his assessment of himself. She knew better than that.

She barked a dangerous look at his buddy who had appropriately backed off but was watching in horror. "Did you know about this?!"
She yelled, but the soldier frantically denied such knowledge.

"His pulse is fading, doctor. Down to twenty."
the medic told her; the information disseminated somewhere in the back of her brain. She was wiping the wound away with gauze, trying to clean up the mess to see the real damage. Something, maybe a big wedge of shrapnel was jammed in his ribs. "Unknown chest penetration injury. Depth unknown. Damage unknown."
She spoke calmly like there were dictation software set up overhead recording her every note.

It must have barely nicked something major and at that last road bump, moved just enough to pierce through a coronary; maybe the vena cava; maybe the hepatic vein. She had no way to tell. If he'd said something to her earlier, she might have saved him! But he was slipping through her fingers even as she worked. "Respirations at deux, doctor!"
The medic added and it took a second for her brain to filter the fucking french number. Two breaths a minute! He was practically on his last gasps of air. She ignored her own desperation and willed her hands to move faster.

"Hydroscopic quick clot, sergeant! Not the standard shit!"
She held out her hand and it was immediately filled with a canister.

"This is the only one we have."
He reminded her, but Torri's retort was quick.
"This kid wanted us to see his buddy before him and I'm not going to let him die because of his fucking honor. Now give me the H-QC and don't question my orders again, sergeant."
She grit her teeth, ignored the medic's reaction, and shoved the needle into the wound right down the shaft of the shrapnel. She dared not pull the metal out; he was going to have to live with an extra skewer through his chest than normal. Human kebob.

With one hand on his pulse and her other on the can, her thumb hit the button and the canister deployed its contents. Yellow rivulets of goo, that were molecularly far more complex than the term implied, bubbled out from the now-filled wound. Before she even pulled the needle his pulse strengthened. Who knew how long he'd been bleeding internally.

Torri's shoulders slumped. The can was spent, and she pretty much threw it over the side of the truck. No point littering up her work space.

She was studying his face. "Give him three units of amenadine and clean up the entry wound as best you can. Then stay at his side, I don't want him so much as fluttering an eyelash until we see something of a field hospital Who knows what that thing is rubbing up against in there."
The medic set to work as she said, and she slid down to tend to the more mundane gunshot wound on his leg.

As she did, she spared a glance for the second of the three men just in case he'd decided to be a hero also.