3: Collision

"So did you tell this baboso to go fuck himself, too? Or did he have you stay back so we could have a threesome?"

Miller gave Robin a flat look while Lovell whipped around with a snarl. "What the fuck was that, Private?? You wanna repeat that to my face?"

Robin turned to face him with a lopsided grin, his arms held out to either side. "I can say it again if it gets you off, sir."

Miller groaned and pushed himself off the wooden floor. "Come on, Castro, I'm too tired to listen to this shit."

Lovell snorted while stepping closer to Robin. "No, let him keep running that fucking yap. I'll have him shipped off to the Quarrel Mountains, tell them we got someone to lead the Red offensive against Blue Command." He leaned close enough that his furious breath ruffled Robin's mane. "Then we'll see how quick that fucking attitude changes."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, puta," Robin cajoled, his eyes calm even as his fingers curled into eager fists. It'd been at least a couple of weeks since his last charge of insubordination, the time felt right to upgrade that to assault of a superior officer. "Anything would be better than this boring detail."

"That's fucking it!" Lovell snapped, reaching out to grab the front of Robin's chest plate. "You're done, Castro! Miller, go and--"

The door to the front of the boxcar slid open and interrupted the spittle-infused order. Robin tilted his head to observe the maroon-colored chupa stepping forward while lifting an arm from inside his coat.

Lovell shoved Robin away and twisted around on a paw, his eyes burning. "What the fuck is it now--!!"

Two sharp reports filled the freight car with sound and light as Robin grimaced and flinched away from the hot, wet splatter across his features. He registered a shocked curse from Miller but was sidelined by watching the slow slump of the officer's body, followed by the disturbingly crunchy impact of his head against the floor.

Or at least whatever was left of his head.

"Oh shit, Lovell!" Robin exclaimed before whipping his head toward Miller with an enthusiastic grin. "Verga! I actually remembered his name!"

"Get down, you fucking moron!" Miller shouted, diving for cover as the intruder continued to pull the trigger. Robin glanced back up but then grunted as a bullet clipped his armor prior to a second punching through his bicep to send him half-spinning behind the safety of a crate. "Fuck, my rifle!"

Robin scowled down at his arm, poking around the bullet hole as the initial flare of pain subsided into a throbbing ache. "Son of a bitch, this asshole..." He craned his neck around to peer at the exit wound while their aggressor continued to unload the pistol into their cover. "Didn't need a new scar here..."

"Castro!" Robin prodded a bit more at the stream of blood with a grumble. "Castro!!"

"Whaddya need, man?" Robin called out over the pistol cracks.

"My rifle's out there! You gotta motherfucking gun?!"

Robin opened his maw to answer before pausing as the distinct klik of a dry chamber filled the boxcar. He grinned across at Miller and pushed himself to his metaphorical feet while raising his fists. "I don't need one, gato."

He turned toward their opponent, who cursed and ejected the magazine while shouting an order. "Lay 'em down, redneck!"

Robin began to advance with a curious smirk as the short, beefy, grey chupa from the previous carriage appeared next to the first guy. His piercing blue eyes swept from Robin's arm down to the no-longer-commanding officer on the floor before he grit his teeth. "Put that fuckin' thing away, there's only two of 'em!"

"Fuck you, asshole, either shoot or get the fuck outta the way!" the pistol-wielding chupa snarled as he slapped a new clip into the weapon.

Robin's eyes grew eagerly, but before he could lunge forward, he was yanked backward by a hand clutched into his chest armor. "Ay!"

"We need the rest of the guys, they won't be alone!" Miller hissed, dragging Robin forcefully to the back of the car. Robin tried to jerk free, but he was flung through the open door before he could break away. "Move it!"

Robin grunted as he bounced against the door of the next boxcar, steadying himself just in time for multiple shots to ring out and bury themselves into Miller's lower back. His eyes bulged and he stumbled forward with a gargle, allowing Robin to see the shocked expression of the midget next to the gunman who started to shift his pistol toward Robin.

But the sliding door slammed shut as Miller collapsed into Robin, who caught him on instinct. He could still hear muffled voices through the door despite the deafening whoosh of the rail timbers ripping past beneath them.

"Fuck! Barricade that fucking door, little man! Don't need anyone else interrupting our party!"

"You didn't hafta fuckin' kill 'em..."

Robin could feel Miller's final, ragged breaths washing over his arm, and he prepared to shove the guy to the side to free himself, but the door behind him slid open as multiple soldiers stuck their heads out in confusion.

"Whoa, shit, shit! That was a gun, they got Miller and Castro!"

"Fuck, pull them in, pull them in!!"

Robin cursed as he was grabbed beneath the arms and dragged backward. "Ay, I ain't dyin' yet, get off me!"

"Shut that door and prepare weapons, gentlemen!" Bristol boomed from somewhere behind Robin. "We got intruders that need our attention! Time to earn that paycheck!!"

Robin glanced down at the pistol that had been shoved into his hands after enough of the other Reds had finally listened when he said he was fine. He'd never had a preference in guns since his enlistment -- he wasn't all that skillful with any particular variety, nor did he have a desire to be. Pulling a trigger was easy, and usually ended the confrontation too quick. What was the point of a fight if you weren't fighting.

He tucked it into his side holster anyway, then noticed the drying blood smattered across his lower arm. He wiped his wrist idly against his armor before looking up as Zeke pointed at his head. "Holy shit, man, I think you got Miller all over your face!"

Robin reached up to wipe at his muzzle, silence overtaking him for a few brief seconds. Didn't really matter, though. He hadn't known that guy, the blood and viscera coating his fur wasn't personal.

Nothing was personal anymore.

"Nah, it was actually, uh...uhh...ah, verga, I forgot that puta's name again."

"Lovell?!" Zeke cackled at Robin's absent nod of confirmation. "Ha! That asshole had it comin'!" He paused as a rifle chattered, peering at the front of the car with Robin where several of their fellow soldiers were attempting to rush the barricaded door of the next car. "So who're we tryna kill?? Some fuckin' Blues sneak on here?"

"Shit, I dunno, just a couple guys with a gun, but they probably got some friends somewhere else," Robin posited before peering over his shoulder when a pistol rang out from behind him. "Yo, there's one now!"

A vest-wearing chupa continued to fire into the boxcar as he started to pull the rear door shut. Zeke ducked behind a bundle of pallets while Robin simply dropped to a knee. He heard multiple agonized shouts behind him, along with the sound of a body or two thumping to the wooden floor. But amid the confused yelling and scrambling, a pair of rifle shots echoed out to blast two holes into the intruder's chest and forehead.

His pistol clattered into the gap between the cars before his gurgling corpse followed course as the carriage shook gently from the wheels grinding effortlessly through the obstruction.

Bristol lowered his weapon with a grunt, then waved to the small throng around him as several other Reds raised their guns. "Stop that goddamn panic, you knock-kneed assholes!" he growled before shoving a finger toward the still-open door. "We've got enemies on both sides, so we need to buckle down until we hear from the rest of the platoon. Get that door blocked and keep three guns on the front!"

Robin eyed the open door for a moment before joining a few of the others to shove some of the larger boxes and loose bits of metal scrap into place. Behind them, Bristol snapped another order or two before yanking a radio from a side pouch and fully extending the antenna.

"Master Sergeant Bristol, Command ID Five-Two-Alpha-Hotel. Currently leading Commission Winding Serpent and we have been engaged by an unknown force."

Robin would be remiss to not give credit to Bristol. Guy was calmer under fire than a lot of his previous officers. But then again, you didn't get to Master Sergeant by having rich parents like you could with commissioned ranks. And his presence no doubt was one of the few things preventing the rest of the platoon from breaking into complete chaos, despite the growing number of casualties among their ranks.

"This is local Red Command. Copy your last -- do you need support?"

Robin almost appreciated the way Bristol snorted proudly into the radio. "We do not. I'm only reaching out to provide formal notice of the incursion."

"Copy th--" The radio suddenly crackled and Bristol leaned away with a scowl as a high-pitched whine overtook the clamor.

"Command, do you still read?"

The voice that responded was different from before. "Attention, Red Army. This is HADES, Outpost Fifteen. We intercepted your message and have a dropship inbound. Order your men to stand down."

Bristol reared back before clenching the radio hard enough for the frame to creak as he snarled a reply: "We did not request support. We are handling the situation and do not require your assistance."

The voice on the other end was infuriatingly curt. "Your request wasn't necessary. I will repeat one more time: HADES is inbound. Stand down."

An undeniable wave of excitement rolled through Robin's nerves as he again eyed the rear entrance to the boxcar. Now things were really starting to look up.

Bristol spat out an incoherent curse before growling through grit teeth: "This commission has been sanctioned as a Red Army operation. The client hired us to handle this, and we will--"

"HADES insists." The interruption caused Bristol's already-sharp features to become jagged. "Your commission is no longer active, and any validity of a Red Army operation is now pending House review. You will stand down and HADES will assume control of the situation in order to secure the safety of Sirca's citizens. HADES Outpost, out."

Bristol shouted his frustration and the fervor in the train swelled.

"Master Sergeant? Orders?!"

"We're not gonna let those blacked-out motherfuckers take our job, are we??"

Robin strode to the back of the car and shoved part of the barricade aside as Bristol's commanding tone cut through the din. "Everyone hold! We aren't going to just roll over and -- Private! What in Omega's name do you think you are doing?!"

Robin glanced back over a shoulder while gripping into the metal handle. "Gonna go see what's happening up front." And before anyone could stop him, he slung the door open.

He was greeted only with the rush of the night air, and the splatter of the long-gone interloper against the following car. "See?" he called back to the rest of the group. "Nothing else going on back here! Later!" He studied the timbers flashing past and then turned his attention to the side, where he spotted a rusted ladder leading to the roof.

"Private! Get your ass back in here, we don't know if...goddammit!" Robin ignored the sergeant to instead vault onto the ladder and climb to the roof. He could hear the strains of Bristol cursing again before ordering a few soldiers to follow him, but he was already squinting into the gale-force darkness screaming past him as he ducked low and started jogging across the grooved roof.

He had already leaped to the next car by the time he heard someone calling his name from behind. He looked back to see Zeke and two other soldiers scrambling after him, and he merely jerked his head forward while continuing to press ahead.

He figured the two guys who had started this whole deal were still in the car below him, but he also assumed they'd have the carriage locked up by now. Plus...

Robin lifted his head at the exchange of gunfire from a few cars ahead, just audible over the bluster and clatter. He grinned once more and broke into a sprint against the buffeting winds. That sounded way more exciting, anyway.

The panicked screams were right below him and Robin cocked his head while skidding to a stop on his metal legs so he could crouch to a halt next to a gap between two carriages. He peered down to see a chupa reloading a submachine gun while leaning against the outside of the passenger car. Guy wasn't wearing Red armor.

Robin metal fang gleamed in the starlight. Good enough for him.

He gripped the edge of the roof and then swung himself in a tight arc to slip between the two carriages with his curved legs stretched out. His target turned toward the movement, but was far too slow to react beyond a blanched expression and a half-formed shout. The metal prosthetics slammed into the stranger's chest and the impact was enough to knock his head against the auburn window at his back. With his fingers still curled into the overhang, Robin levered himself backward only to fling himself even harder into his target.

The guy's head and chest smashed through the window this time, exploding shattered glass inward as he gargled into unconsciousness. Robin squatted over the limp body in the window frame to peer into the carriage; he was delighted to see four or five of his compatriots engaged in a messy firefight with several chupas in a variety of street clothes. Oh yeah, this was definitely the right car.

He snagged the automatic weapon from his former opponent and examined it briefly before tossing it over his shoulder to disappear into the gloomy underbrush running past them. When he turned his head back around, he realized one of the interlopers had noticed his dramatic entrance. "Shit, behind us! He got Ronnie!" But the gun swinging toward Robin only drove his adrenaline higher, and as the train rounded a curve, Robin used the shifting of the carriage to bolster his fearless lunge from the window.

Robin tackled a skinny chupa in a long coat and the two crashed into a luggage rack as his pistol fired into the ceiling. Robin cocked a fist back and slammed it swiftly into the guy's face. A pair of sharp impacts against his back plate made him grunt while Carlos chided him for tunnel vision. He acknowledged the voice of his friend by grabbing the stunned chupa's coat, rolling to the side with him, then shoving him toward his companions with a powerful flex of his legs.

"I hear you, bossmang," Robin muttered as the trio of enemies stumbled away in a tangled mass. "I hear you." As he jumped to his feet again, he forced himself to check the whole area the way he'd been taught. Two more guys that weren't wearing Red armor exchanging fire with three of his fellow soldiers ducking behind benches at the other end of the car. A few stray passengers yelling in terror, but they'd be fine as long as they kept their heads down.

Robin snagged a backpack from the collection of luggage while throwing himself toward the three shouting chupas. As he crossed the open aisle, he flung the bag toward the next closest enemy and hit him squarely in the face. His target gave a muffled squawk and flailed long enough to give Robin the time to reach the trio still in the midst of attempting to separate from one another.

He grabbed the skull of the first guy and slammed it into the back of a bench seat, receiving a wild punch to the chin from the next chupa while the third dove for a scattered gun. Robin stumbled back a step, but shifted the weight forward as he balanced on one metal leg and thrust the other into the offender's chest. The guy bashed into the wall and shattered a globe light with the back of his head, dropping to his knees with an agonized yelp.

The third opponent closed his fingers around a short-barrel rifle, but Robin hopped toward him and slammed a prosthetic into his wrist. The gun skittered away once more and the chupa started to squeal before the sound was choked by Robin twisting his leg around to catch it around his aggressor's neck. He continued the rotation and slammed the guy's head against the floor with a dull snap, his body going limp as foamy drool leaked from his open maw.

Robin heard his teammates rallying and glanced up to see the chupa he'd distracted leveling an automatic rifle toward him. He didn't wait for the other Reds and instead leaped up to balance on the back of a bench before throwing himself toward the wall of the carriage. The gunman fired and most of the rounds missed, only a couple pinging off his armor and one grazing his ribs as he kicked off the wall and toward a brass pole with his hands outstretched. Hot lead seared through the air around him but his confidence was the only protection he needed.

His fingers closed around the pole and his body began to twist around it. He brought his legs up to hook his prosthetics into the vertical support, repositioning to leave his hands free through his blurring spin. His momentum built as he arced around, arms held out so he could grab the shoulders of the chupa still struggling to stand after his collision with the lamp. Robin met the other guy's confused gawk with a slight grin as he hauled the chupa off his feet. His opponent flailed through the air and had just enough time to let out a shocked shriek before Robin launched him like an improvised missile toward the rifleman.

They crashed into a bench on the opposite side of the train car, releasing twinned shouts of dismay while Robin gripped the pole again and unhooked his legs so he could land neatly in the aisle. His blood surged with excitement, and he was halfway through charging the last guy before skidding to a stop as a volley of bullets from his fellow soldiers mowed him down instead. "Nice of you guys to help out!" he cajoled while casting an eye over the chupa he'd tossed into the other. They were both still breathing, but neither were of interest to him anymore. "Where can I find more of these bastards??"

"Castro! Where the fuck is everyone else?" Duke called out as the other Reds strode toward him. "I think these fuckers are with a hoop..."

"No shit?" Robin scratched at his muzzle while idly kicking the bullet-riddled corpse. He and his friends had experienced a few run-ins with Sirca's criminal underground -- hoops loved dragging their sharp claws through the soil of Omegrad's slums, promising renewed life in exchange for fresh blood. "Explains why these babosos fight like assholes..." He tipped his head slightly to the other soldiers while walking past them, but then halted when a passenger waved an arm and whisper-yelled from between two of the bench seats.

"Is...is it safe to come out??"

Robin gave her a quizzical look before shrugging bemusedly. "Hell if I know, lady! I don't even work here." He pushed past his teammates and Duke snapped after him.

"Hey, dumbass, where the fuck are you going? What are our orders?!"

He shrugged a second time. "Dunno. What's-his-name is dead. And the other what's-his-name was bitchin' at someone on the radio, think he mighta sent a few guys to follow me, too." A toothy grin spread over his features. "I'm just here for the workout, chica, and I'm ready for another set..." He proceeded toward the rear door of the carriage while the small group of Reds argued loudly between themselves for a moment.

"Shit! Fuck it, fine -- you two stay here, watch for our guys or any more of these fuckers," Duke ordered. The pair of soldiers didn't seem to care that she had no rank over them, content to nod and drop to kneeling positions with their guns pointed to the front. "Zeke, you're with me and...hey, Castro!"

Robin was already halfway through the connecting passage, drawn onward by the sound of shouting and panicked screeches.

"Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up or I set this off now!"

Robin shoved the doors wide and peered into a dining car where four hoopsters were wielding a mixture of guns and knives as several passengers and employees were crouching and whimpering. Robin could see one of the intruders was clutching some kind of wrapped cylinder...maybe an explosive?

Didn't matter to Robin.

One of the hoopsters noticed him in the doorway and he barked a warning as Robin dashed across the threshold and directly toward the closest target, ignoring the three bullets that pounded into his chest armor and the additional round that pierced through his shoulder. He twisted on one leg and swung the other in a blur of metal to kick the pistol out of his attacker's grip. The other chupa hissed in surprise and barely managed to block the haymaker as Robin closed the distance and began firing several more punches.

Duke slid through the door in a kneel next, firing two quick shots to down a different hoopster while Zeke stomped in after her with a cackle.

"I been waitin' for an excuse to fire this fine lady up!" he yowled excitedly as he pulled some kind of heavy machine gun off his back and yanked back on the bolt.

The remaining hoopsters dove for cover as the passengers' distressed cries grew louder. But Robin only heard the thud of his pulse as he grinned and blocked a sharp jab, then shifted his body to the side when the carriage rocked from a curve in the tracks. His opponent stumbled forward and tripped over Robin's prosthetic while Duke snarled from her own cover: "Is this fucking exciting enough for you now, you crazy asshole!?!"

"Almost!" Robin declared before he grabbed a coffee pot to fling it across the car at one of the hoopsters peeking out for a shot. "Let's fucking go!"

Samael stared into the box, crowbar still in hand. It was just a bunch of...

"Rocks??"

"Meteorites, little man!" Rolland called back. "Probably older than the Predecessors!"

"The fuck's a meatier-right?" Samael mumbled while scratching his forehead with the prybar. "Looks like rocks."

"God, you really are a fucking moron -- they're space rocks! Worth a shit-load to certain people." Rolland tapped another crate. "There's probably cash in a couple of these, too."

Samael scowled. "These ain't even purdy rocks like the ones back home..." He shook his head and then looked up as Rolland whistled for his attention.

"This is already more than we can get on the trucks -- fuck the second car, let's blow this one and call the drivers in!"

"There's a whole lotta angry Reds behind us!" Samael warned, and Rolland gave him an exasperated groan.

"Yeah, no shit, that's why we're gonna blow that car first, then this one a few klicks later, got it??"

Samael held up his hands in surrender. "Yeah, yeah, a'right -- who's got the fuckin' bombs?"

"Jerry. But since none of our guys have made it back here, yet..." Rolland gave Samael a pointed look, and the rebel pursed his lips. "Get moving, midget."

"Awww, fuck..." He sighed and looped the crowbar into one of his supply packs. "On it," he grumbled before he turned on a heel and jogged to the door, hoping he wouldn't be shot the minute he poked his head through.

Samael eased the door open, then exhaled in relief when he saw only the rear of the next car. He hopped the gap and yanked on the handle...then blinked in confusion when the door moved just a few centimeters. He tilted his head and gave it another firm jerk, and this time heard something clanking on the other side. The rebel stood on his tiptoes to peer through the window, then blinked as the wide-eyed face of a woman in a sundress stared back, her hand clutching the broom that had been hastily shoved between the inside handle and the door.

"Ma'am!!" Samael hollered over the noise. "Ma'am, please let me in!" She shook her head rapidly and Samael pouted before clutching the edge of the window with both hands and pushing the end of his muzzle into the glass. "Mah momma sez I ain't s'posed to be out here! There's all kindsa scary guys!!"

Her head whipped back and forth swiftly again and she jabbed a finger toward him while shouting back: "You're one of the scary guys!"

"Aww, c'mon, I ain't all that scary!" he yelled before scowling and then shifting to the edge of the carriage platform. "Shit, shit, shit," he mumbled before he took a deep breath and climbed onto the guard rail, then eased himself around the corner to start traversing the side of the car. He did his best to ignore the branches that whipped past at lightning speed, clutching to the decorative rails that he prayed were not actually just for decoration.

He edged along the carriage until a shriek from inside caused him to peek through the nearest window. One of the hoopsters had stumbled into the beverage car, one hand pressed to a deep crimson patch on his chest as the other waved a short-barrel shotgun threateningly. "Who told those Red Army fucks where we were?!" he demanded, eyes wide while the tip of the weapon twitched between the nearest passengers. "Tell me!!"

"Aw, hell..." Samael grit his teeth, then positioned himself over the window so he could swing back and kick through the glass with a wince as his body followed. He felt the jagged edges scrape through his chest and arms, but he ignored it in favor of guiding himself into a flying double-kick toward the hoopster's chest.

The other chupa managed half a yelp of surprise before Samael flexed his legs and shoved off his torso with all his strength to send the guy crashing into an empty table. Samael landed heavily on his back, groaning from the impact as the nearby passengers scattered with a chorus of shouts and screams. The rebel stared up at the ceiling for a moment to catch his breath before sighing and rolling over to get to his feet once more, shaking some loose glass from his torso while waving an apologetic hand to the dazed hoopster. "Sorry, hon..." He checked himself for anything more than a shallow cut before squinting to the back of the carriage where his informal gatekeeper was still staring wild-eyed at him. "Toldja I ain't all that scary!" he called out. His eyes caught a bottle of poppy wine sitting on the bar top and he snatched it up as he jogged to the other end of the car.

"That made you even more scary!" her voice cried out after a moment, and Samael squinted over his shoulder.

"Rude." He huffed and then glanced through the window at the next passage, tightening his grip on the wine bottle as the chatter of a very large, very automatic rifle punctuated the rising tide of panicked wailing. "Goddammit!" He tipped his muzzle to yell over a shoulder blindly: "Y'all keep yer damn heads down! I'll be back in a few!"

Samael slipped from the carriage while jostling the oversized bottle violently, taking only a quick moment to check through the next window before flinging the door wide. He did his best to ignore the two or three bloody bodies splayed out around him, focusing instead on the Red soldier laughing maniacally while firing a massive machine gun in uncontrolled bursts. Most of the interior lighting had been destroyed, leaving the carriage to be illuminated only with the eerie celestial glow from Stigma's dark landscape.

He caught a glimpse of two hoopsters taking cover behind the chef station as a third knelt in a nearby booth, brown fluid dripping from his dazed features. The rebel hurriedly dove behind a different booth, wincing as a spray of lead thudded into the other side and then poking his head up to holler: "Hey, fellers! Who the fuck is Jerry?!"

One of the hoopsters crouched by the food nook whipped his head around to Samael before jerking his head toward the booths. "Jerry's the dumb fuck covered in coff-eeeoh fuck!" he squawked as another peal from the machine gun ripped just over his head.

Samael peered across the aisle where Jerry still hadn't joined the rest of them on Sirca, likely suffering the after-effects of some kind of head injury. He spotted a couple of cylindrical objects laying near the coffee-drenched chupa, nodding to himself and then grimacing back in the direction of the Red soldiers. "Gimme some fuckin' cover!" Samael called out as he gave the bottle another firm shake.

"Fuck!" he heard one of the hoopsters shout before a harried burst of blind-firing caused the Reds to leap for cover. Samael whispered a request to the spirits, then sprung to his feet and vaulted the booth to charge recklessly down the aisle. He counted three Reds: the whackjob with the machine gun, the lady he'd seen go past in the beverage car, and the guy with the metal legs. His primary target was Whackjob as he cocked his arm back, closed one eye, then let the poppy wine bottle soar.

It arced gracefully through the air, twisting with uncanny precision across the length of the car like a crazy-guy-seeking rocket --

Lady lifted her rifle in a flash, and Samael blanched at the calm expression of a skilled hunter an instant before her weapon barked in a successful bid to ruin the perfect throw. But only Samael was prepared for the deafening explosion that resulted from the impact of bullet and bottle, wincing and rolling to the side to avoid the sudden release of pressure that launched shattered glass and foamy alcohol in every direction.

She snarled and held up her gun to defend herself, while Whackjob stared stupidly before catching multiple shards in his face and upper body. A feral shriek flew from his jaws and he flailed backward, his monstrous weapon tumbling to the floor to be kicked across the carriage by a wild leg spasm. Samael dug his claws into the carpet to turn himself around in an attempt to snatch up the machine gun, but Lady had already recovered. The rebel saw himself in her sights and he squeaked while throwing himself onto his back so her far-too-skillful shot only grazed his chest. "Holy shit!"

She gave her own curse when her rifle's receiver locked back, making her empty magazine apparent to the entire car. In a flash, the third hoopster lunged out from behind the service counter and scooped up the machine gun. Samael's eyes widened at the frigid calm in the chupa's expression, and he reached out a hand with a half-formed protest as the hoopster yanked back on the bolt and leveled the weapon.

Shadow enveloped the car a moment before the gun spat a cruel volley of blinding fire. The tunnel they'd entered did nothing to mask the terrified screams, however, or the rapid flashes that illuminated his cruelly blank features.

"Fuck, fuck, that's enough, that's enough!" Samael shouted hoarsely over the sound of gurgling cries, seconds before the train burst back into the night air to again fill the cabin with a ghostly pallor.

The machine gun clacked loudly as its wielder hissed a few choice words, then threw the spent weapon aside in favor of drawing his own pistol. Samael clenched his teeth and barely stopped himself from tackling the guy, opting to stick his head out in time to witness a pair of metal legs disappearing through the window. A trail of blood followed the escaping Red, who left behind his less-fortunate teammates. Samael's eyes flicked to the gruesome display, and he grimaced.

The bodies of Whackjob and Lady lay contorted at the front of the car, riddled with impact wounds. A few unlucky passengers were sprawled over tables and booths, no doubt attempting to escape in the too-short seconds of cease-fire only to find themselves within the imprecise zone of decimation. Samael's teeth clenched as the guilty blade in his gut stabbed deeper than usual.

It felt like minutes before the muted clattering of the train trickled back into the car, a disharmonious pairing to the soft whimpering and sobbing that soon followed. Samael had to swallow his bile, but couldn't restrain himself from approaching the carriage's executioner. "The fuck were you thinking?!"

The icy gaze that met him was a brutal reminder of where Andee's aspirations undoubtedly led. "You and Rolland find the shit?"

His lack of an answer was worse than any haughty retort. Samael again looked at the carnage before setting his jaw and meeting the hoopster's eyes evenly. "...Yeah. Sent me to get the bombs."

Executioner smiled thinly and gestured with the pistol. "Then get the bombs. We'll look for the rest of our guys and meet you two."

Samael shifted on his paws, then nodded. "A'right. Ain't sure how many more Reds there are, so maybe we should --"

"Maybe you should take the bombs like you were sent to do, redneck, and leave the grunts to us," the hoopster interrupted before holstering his pistol and glancing at his more-coherent compatriot. "Get Jerry on his feet. We got work to do."

Samael frowned but knew any further protest would only get him in more shit with Miss Sov and Andee. He jogged back to where Jerry was struggling to stand amid the train's gentle rocking, muttering a half-honest wish for good luck, then scooping up the explosives to clutch to his chest as he headed back the way he'd come.

The passengers in the beverage car flinched when he re-entered the cabin, one of them venturing nervously: "Is it...safe?"

"Hell no, y'all just...just stay here 'n keep yer heads down 'n...pray," Samael replied with a strained expression, shaking his head as his paws pounded down the aisle. "Hopefully this train ain't carryin' us all the way to Valhalla..."

"Fire in the hole!"

Samael braced himself against the nearest crate, distracted momentarily by a thought of how much Andee would have loved blowing apart a goddamn train. Little fucker's smile could always brighten Samael's darkest days...even if Andee was the reason he was here in the first place.

Samael had been surprised by Rolland volunteering to place the bomb at the back end, where in theory at least half a platoon of Reds was hunkered down in the next car. There was no longer anyone attempting to break through the barricaded door, however, so it'd only taken him a minute or so to place, prime it, and--

The thunderous blast shook the boxcar violently as Samael covered his face with one arm to protect it from the loose bits of wood and scrap metal that peppered across them. Rolland gave a low chuckle and Samael squinted through the haze, watching the formerly-attached cars slowly drift away. At least it meant the soldiers who hadn't come across the roof could live to regret another day.

"Alright, we wait a klick or two, then blow the front," Rolland instructed before he lifted the microphone to his radio. "Drivers, we'll be ready for extraction soon. Get your asses on an intercept with the tracks!" He eyed Samael, then held out the small remote. "Can you handle this?"

Samael nodded and accepted the detonator, turning it over in his grip with a small frown. "Jus' tell me when," he replied morosely.

His dejection must have noticeable, since Rolland clapped him on the shoulder and offered the first metal-filled smile that didn't threaten to steer his morality through turbulent seas. "Look, little man, we're almost done. Got nothin' but good shit to tell Sov about your performance." The smirk that followed dipped once more into colder waters as Samael attempted to maintain his fierce hold on the tiller. "Other than that weak trigger finger."

Samael squared his jaw as Rolland reached for the handle of the boxcar's side door. "Ain't gotta put a bullet in everyone's head to get a job done..."

Rolland flashed a toothy grin, raising his voice to be heard over the whine of approaching engines. "But it sure makes things a lot quieter when you do!" he yelled ironically before slinging the door open to greet the --

"Dropship!?" Samael sputtered as a glaring white spotlight illuminated them both, realizing far too late that the incoming whine belonged not to a convoy of trucks but a HADES gunship. "Cover!!" Samael yelped as they both twisted out of the doorway a moment before a hailstorm of bullets screamed through the entrance to slam into the opposite wall.

"Motherfucker, what the fuck is HADES doing here?!" Rolland shouted over the cacophony of turbines and chain-gun fire, fixing Samael with a murderous glare.

The rebel threw his arms up from his scrunched-up spot against the crate, wincing from the occasional ricocheted lead that bounced back toward them. "I didn't fuckin' call 'em!!" The volley of automatic fire ceased as the pilot swerved away to avoid a thicket of trees and underbrush.

Rolland growled and poked his head into the open doorway before dashing over to Samael and shoving the smaller chupa aside so they could both duck behind the crate. "Well we sure as fuck ain't gonna be unloading shit with that thing out there!"

Samael grimaced and shifted his gaze down before widening his eyes. "Oh shit, I got it! We'll use the --"

"Yo, gatito!" Rolland and Samael whipped their heads around as one to see a figure standing at the front of the boxcar, holding out one arm with a confident smirk. "You lookin' for this??"

It was the same soldier he'd encountered twice now, his twin metal legs practically a neon sign amid his crimson-armored teammates. Samael's eyes bulged further as he realized the Red was gripping the partially-dissembled explosive from the junction to the next carriage. "Hey! That ain't yours!"

Rolland's arm extended in front of Samael, his pistol at the ready. But Samael hissed a protest and shoved at his wrist as Rolland pulled the trigger, sending the shot wide. The soldier stared at Samael for a second before spinning around with a peculiar grin to dash back into the previous carriage, the bomb still tucked under an arm.

Samael's reflexes caught Rolland's arm before it could fully point the gun at his own head, glaring fearlessly up at the hoopster's infuriated expression. "The fuck was that?!?"

"We need that fuckin' bomb to deal with our new friends!" Samael yelled over the open door, his fingers digging into Rolland's wrist while the other hand lifted in a partial show of apology. "Ain't gonna do us no good if the guy holdin' it gets shot off the train!"

Rolland's eyes narrowed. But he relaxed his arm after a moment, then jerked it out of Samael's grip. "Then go. Fucking. Get it."

Samael nodded and stepped back from the hoopster, who glowered for a second or two before holstering his pistol and shoving a finger in the direction of the fleeing soldier. The rebel grunted and turned to chase him while shouting over a shoulder: "I'll be right back -- don't get fuckin' shot, asshole!"

He barely heard Rolland's dismissive snort as he sprinted back to the beverage car, allowing his own nerves to lose tension as he focused on the task at hand. He could worry about Sov's man not double-tapping him after they got off this fucking train.

Samael burst into the beverage car to more wailing from the passengers, this time no doubt due to the clash between the Red soldier and the same hoopster Samael had knocked into a daze from his window-assisted ingress. The hoopster was throwing enraged punches that the Red ducked and weaved around effortlessly, even if he allowed the occasional blow to glance off his shoulder or bicep. His curved prosthetic legs shuffled and bounced smoothly, showing some kind of martial training that likely hadn't come from Basic.

Samael frowned and began to run down the aisle, catching the soldier's attention and eliciting a small grin on his features. The same metal fang glinted a moment before the Red turned his attention back to the hoopster in time to take a harried punch to the gut, doubling over with a wheeze. Samael cursed as the wobbly hoopster stumbled and dazedly drew a knife to raise it above his head, but the soldier suddenly glanced up with the same half-smile and then slung a vicious uppercut with the momentum of his body behind it. His fist caught the hoopster directly in the maw with an audible crack, sending the gargling chupa into the air with a spray of blood and loosened teeth.

The hoopster crashed back into the same broken table from Samael's earlier flying kick, his head lolling limply to the side with a river of crimson-stained drool running down his broken jaw. As Samael rushed the soldier, the Red's grin grew even wider. He tossed the bomb from one hand to the other with a flourish before dashing for the next car. "Let me see them stubby legs move, puta!"

"Shit, c'mon, man!" Samael growled, leaning into his run and ripping open the sliding door to leap across the gap and into the next car before the door could shut. The Red glanced over his shoulder and Samael swear the guy looked delighted, his teeth still gleaming excitedly as he nimbly hopped one of the blood-covered booths. Samael's eyes flicked to the compact cooking area, barely dodging around a cowering passenger and bleating a hurried apology. He slammed into the stove and clutched into a frying pan before scrambling over the countertop, landing in a sloppy roll and then jumping back to his feet to fling the pan toward the back of the fleeing soldier.

The iron cookware bashed into the Red's spine, and the soldier snarled sharply as he stumbled forward and then landed heavily on his chest a few feet from his slaughtered teammates. Samael tasted immediate regret, biting his lip even as he jogged toward the sprawled Red. "I'm sorry about yer friends, hon, I ain't--"

"Oooh, minute these things start back up..." the soldier interrupted with a throaty chuckle, using his muscular arms to flip himself over so he could stare up at Samael. "You and me, gatito." Samael frowned and reached past him to snatch up the explosive, his gaze briefly flicking once more to the other disfigured Reds before he took a quick breath and stepped back.

"Just...just stay down. We're gonna be outta here soon," Samael muttered. "Ain't no one else gotta die."

"Shit, this is the most fun I've had in a while," the soldier snapped back around a crooked grin, his eyes locked on Samael. "Who wants to die quiet, anyway??"

Samael chewed his tongue again, then forced himself to ignore the gnawing instincts to instead return to his mission. He couldn't help looking over his shoulder as he turned to make the umpteenth trip through the last two passenger cars to return to the boxcar.

Snarling turbines jerked him back to reality, his eyes bulging as he threw himself into the freight car an instant before the HADES gunship opened fire. "Fuck!" he yelped, nearly tripping over his paws and colliding with Rolland, who had pried open several of the crates and was once again crouching safely behind the largest.

The hoopster opened his muzzle for what was likely an acidic comment, but Samael had no time for his bullshit as the deafening hail of bullets pinging off the boxcar became his only objective. His eyes burned and he shoved a hand against Rolland's chest to force him against the crate before his fingers slid down to grasp the pistol shoved in Rolland's holster. And the moment the gunship paused its stream of hellfire, the rebel twisted out into the open side door with the explosive cocked back near his head.

He squinted in the blinding spotlight and trusted his arm as he flung the bomb with a defiant shout. The borrowed pistol swung into both hands, and he inhaled slowly while blocking out every other sensation. The train rocked beneath him, the wind howled past outside, the chain-gun barrel slowly spun back up to speed, but Samael saw only the volatile bundle arcing sluggishly toward a wing of the gunship. He breathed out through a steel-set muzzle while pulling the trigger three times in rapid succession.

One of the rounds hit true and a blast of heat and light buffeted the freight car, knocking Samael from his state of concentration, as well as onto his ass. He grunted and bounced once before slamming back-first into the opposite wall. The concussive force rocked the boxcar hard enough to topple a crate toward him, and he gasped with widened eyes before flinging himself to the side to avoid being crushed by the numerous rocks and sealed, metal boxes.

"Geezus," Rolland hissed, staring around his own cover to watch the dropship twist away as a gout of fire and smoke spiraled into the night sky from one of its turbines. "Holy shit, redneck..."

Samael remained where he lay, panting for breath and making a half-hearted effort to fling the pistol across the boxcar for Rolland to recover. "Can we...get off...this fuckin' train already!?"

Rolland plucked up his handgun from the floor and tucked it back into its holster, offering Samael a bemused smirk. He held up the radio once more while gazing out through the side of the boxcar to watch the gunship smash somewhere into the Stigman brushlands. "If you boys saw that little light show, means the coast is clear again. We're the last car still attached to the train -- gonna have to unload on the go. Get to us now."

Samael sighed and rubbed at his face, deciding it was better to remain flopped on his back as Rolland barked orders into the radio for the rest of the hoopsters to get back to the boxcar.

...The surviving members, anyway.

He didn't want to think about the casualties. Civilians, Red soldiers, Hula Club members...all lives snuffed out for some stupid space rocks.

They weren't even pretty.

Red vs Blue © Rooster Teeth. Halo © 343 Industries. Concept by Myshu, assisted by The Department of Chupapology.