[ january ii log ]

[barrayarmods]

Who: Everyone
What: The end of quarantine, a breath of fresh air, and the first taste of action
When: January 18th - 31st
Where: Barrayaran camp / Cetagandan base
Warnings: TBD


Quick links:
Barrayar: Piotr Vorkosigan / Barrayaran camp / Missions
Cetaganda: Zahal ghem-Zefyst / Cetagandan base / Missions
Special thanks to Ana for last-minute PB hunting!

It's been a little over two weeks since you first arrived on Barrayar. As the month wears on, the weather shifts a little colder, and snowstorms come, dumping over a foot of snow on the ground over the next couple of weeks.

barrayar
So far, the outsiders tent has only been visited by the Countess and the Princess. But on the morning of the 18th, the General Count himself makes an appearance. Piotr Vorkosigan is a lean, hard-faced man, battle-worn and fierce, but despite his reputation as a master strategist and the bane of the Cetagandan existence in the southern half of the continent, he looks to be no older than his early thirties, and he's held the rank of General for nearly a decade. When he comes to speak, the guards make way immediately, and he doesn't waste time mincing words.

"My name is Piotr Vorkosigan. I am the commanding officer of this camp." Hands clasped behind his back in a parade rest, he surveys the outsiders at a glance. "I hope it's been clear to you all that you aren't under arrest here. We had to detain you until we could find out what you were, because you clearly were not our enemy. I'm sure you've heard by now that we're at war, and not on the winning side. This planet -- Barrayar -- was cut off from the rest of galactic society for seven hundred years, until just thirty years ago. Until then we had no plasma weapons, no spaceships, no electricity. We had just barely begun to absorb the changes that had eclipsed us when we were attacked without word or warning by the Cetagandan Empire. Eight planets already conquered, and they sought to strike us while we were vulnerable. They claim to be saving us from ourselves, to bring us the light of civilization, as though we are dogs being taught a new trick."

His lip curls. "Komarr -- the planet that controls the only wormhole entrance to this system -- allowed itself to be bribed by the Cetagandans so that they could get their warships through the other side. They demanded unconditional surrender -- no treaty, no convention -- but we answer to one Emperor only, and our refusal to surrender under any conditions was met with warfare and occupation. Some Counts, traitorous collaborators with no honor, have surrendered, but our Emperor refuses. And Vorkosigan's District is loyal to the Emperor. Our only chance at outside help is through his son, Prince Xav, using his position as ambassador to Beta Colony to try and drum up support and get supplies through the blockade. With ghem patrols on every street of our cities, we've gone to ground to fight on our terms, wherever we can, lest we fail to remind the Cetagandans that this is our planet. They don't know these mountains, this land the way we do -- staying hidden is the only way we survive."

He gestures at the camp with one hand, the worn tents, the campfires, the weapons long-antequated by galactic standards. "If we used any galactic technology, the Cetagandans would be able to trace our location as easily as if we'd sent up a flare, so we are relegated to our own traditional weaponry, to fighting from the shadows. And our location has been compromised before." His face is mostly hard and impassive, but his eyes flash briefly. "A scant month before you arrived. How, we still don't know. But we were forced to split our forces and flee. We're operating at half our usual manpower and supplies, and we can afford to take few risks, so you must understand why we had to be so cautious with you. We still don't have a clue how you wound up here, or why; that's beyond even the imagination of galactic scientists, I think. But I do understand that you had no chance in the matter, none of you, nor have any of you given any reason to suspect you might be a threat to our effort. So, effective today, I am lifting the guard around your tent. You are free to walk the camp as you please -- save for the areas restricted for military use. But as you know, we are short on resources -- manpower included. We have no room for freeloaders or empty hands. If you wish to stay, you'll work like the rest of us. We could always use extra hands around camp." He surveys the outsiders once again with an even sharper eye. "We might be able to use a few extra hands elsewhere, too, if you can prove yourself trustworthy.

"I won't hold anyone in this camp against his will. Anyone who wishes to leave my do so -- but know that there is no protection in a war zone. All of our cities are occupied by the enemy, and their soldiers won't hesitate to shoot any man wandering down from the mountains. If you do want to leave, you'll be escorted by one of our scouts down to the foothills, to as safe a space as possible -- and to make sure you won't be able to trace back your route. We cannot afford to let our location fall into the hands of those face-painted bastards, however remote the chance."

He'll leave it at that, and when he takes leave, so do the guards who have been posted around the outsiders' tent. The detainment is over.

camp
Now that you're free to roam about the camp as you please, except for the restricted military areas, the atmosphere has changed a little. Some of the soldiers still regard the outsiders with wariness or diffidence, particularly those who might not look not quite normal. Barrayarans don't take especially well to the unnatural. But they are ultimately social and outgoing by nature, and they’ll especially gravitate toward other soldierly types, although they're sort of dubious about the women who claim to be warriors or soldiers in their own right. Still, their disposition is tentatively friendly if on the gruff side. Now that you're no longer under quarantine, they might strike up a conversation or invite you to play card or dice games with them, even if just out of curiosity if nothing else. But Barrayarans are stubborn as well: arguments might escalate quickly, and you might find yourself in a confrontation.

Now that you're no longer confined, you eat at the mess at designated mealtimes like everybody else, and you'll find that the soldiers don't eat much better than you were these last couple of weeks. You also get access to the bath tent for the first time since you arrived, if you'd like to take your chances, but bathing in the winter is always risky business. Near the bath tent are the stables, which always have a soldier or two on duty as stablehand. If you need medical attention of any kind, sickbay is the place to go, although don't expect much in the way of bedside manner from the medical officers.

Lower-ranking officers and the little old Dendarii ladies who help with the camp direct you to your jobs, a variety of mostly menial but necessary tasks. The work isn't extraordinarily demanding, and it's hardly slave labor – you're doing no more work than the average soldier here. If you're decent with knives or know anything halfway about cooking they might requisition you for the mess, if you know anything about horses, you'll probably be assigned to the stables, if you're just plain strong they'll set you to chopping firewood, and no one needs any special skills to help with the washing. But no one is assigned to just one job – when something needs doing, they'll find one of you to do it.

Life among the guerrillas is tough – none of them have it easy, and neither do you – but it isn't all bleak and miserable. When it starts to get dark and the winter chill sets in for the night, the off-duty soldiers gather close around the campfires to socialize and swap stories, maybe even share a little wine or maple mead if they've got any. Once in a while a particularly courageous (or drunk) soldier will even start a round of one of Barrayar's many traditional drinking songs, a few of which have had their lyrics adjusted with more contemporary references. However war-worn, wary, and rough they may be, the Barrayarans have an unmistakable sense of family and unity among them.

missions
After Piotr's speech on the 18th, the outsiders will be offered an opportunity: they're short on manpower, but they can't afford to waste time. Their intelligence on Cetagandan security is out of date, and the operations are risky, but if you're willing to stick your neck out for the Barrrayaran cause, it'll start to establish a bond of trust.

Piotr orders Captain Aaron Vorbataille and Captain Alexei Vorinnis to organize two recon missions to scope out the base's perimeter security, and two more to infiltrate the base and scope out the power supply. On January 22nd, the first perimeter scouting teams return more or less successfully, but with some unfortunate bonus information: there's a traitor in Piotr's camp. On January 23rd, the second perimeter scouting teams have even better success with gaining intelligence, as well as happening on a Cetagandan field science team. Adrien and Beth's squad does not engage, but another squad chances an attack on the Cetagandan team, and manages to capture one of their scientists.

With the discomfiting knowledge that there is a traitor among them, Captains Vorbataille and Vorinnis choose their infiltration teams for the power supply recon carefully. Lieutenants Dmitri Vorhalas and Boris Vortala are ultimately selected to lead the teams, though there is some heated disagreement between the captains on whether they should be bringing in more personnel at all. The power supply recon mission on January 28th has mixed results: intel gathering was mostly a success, but otherwise it was a failure. Not only were the Cetagandans alerted to their presence, but Lieutenant Erik Grey was KIA, and Lakshmi Bai and Lieutenant Vortala were both taken prisoner. No one in either squad seems to be able to provide an answer as to how or why the alarms were tripped so early. The only upside is that Lieutenant Vorhalas has taken a prisoner: Duv Galeni.

Needless to say, the implications of a traitor being in camp are troubling, but with two prisoners from the Cetagandan side, hopefully they'll be getting some answers.

The unabridged event writeup is here.


cetaganda
Zahal ghem-Zefyst approaches the gathered exotics with a welcoming smile, and a near bounce in his step – face fully painted in a more intricate manner than any of the other soldiers present. Unlike the rest of the Cetagandan soldiers, he's dressed in multiple layers of robes, all in colors matching his face paint to the exact shade. To the casual observer he looks unarmed and relaxed, but those who know what to look for will find that some of the folds of fabric are designed to keep things hidden, especially at the hip. Once he's certain he has the attention of every exotic, he gestures, open armed, as his smile grows.

"Good day. I am General Zahal ghem-Zefyst, commanding officer of this base and all operations, and I would like to first offer my sincere apologies for what has occurred – ending up here from wherever," and here his eyes light upon the most non-human of the group gathered before him, "you originated from must have been a shock. You've been told little of what is going on, but I see no reason why that should continue. You are currently on a planet known as Barrayar – but we," he gestures to himself, his wife, and the assembled soldiers with him, "are from the Cetagandan Empire. Nine planets wide, the Cetagandan Empire has existed for centuries, and flourished for all of them. There is nowhere else in the galactic Nexus that can rival our standards of living, our level of technology, and our way of life.

"This planet," he continues, cheerful voice taking on an edge of scorn and sadness, "has been left in the dark for seven hundred years. You can imagine what befell them without modern technology – society could not handle the strain, and these past eight centuries have been filled with bloodshed and fighting. Only recently has the government become truly centralized, and even then it is a tenuous peace, enforced by more bloodshed. Cetaganda's hope – our hope – is to bring them back into the Nexus as a whole. We wish them no harm, and some of their district Counts have willingly joined us, having seen the value of our cause.

"But the Barrayaran Emperor – Dorca Vorbarra – has resisted us, and there are still some districts where the population refuses to acknowledge the value of galactic technology. Of what it can do for them, of what we can do for them. This fracture between Emperor and Counts, of subjects and their ruling class, is only proof as to how fragile this society is, and how desperately it needs to be guided. We wish to be that guiding hand, and want nothing more but to live side by side with the Barrayarans."

The statement is made with a soft gesture of togetherness, before Zahal continues, smiling again. "Again, I apologize for your quarantine. We know you are here not by choice, and are taking steps towards understanding how you arrived and perhaps, how to send you home again. Until that time, however, you are free to go wherever you wish on base, respecting those areas set aside for military use. Some of you have expressed interest on learning about our culture – if you desire more in-depth information, that will be provided on request. You need not do anything beyond respect the boundaries and continue to be as civil and courteous as you have been. There are all only ten of you, and we have plenty resources to spare.

"Lastly – none of you are required to stay here with us. If you would rather brave the elements and undiscerning Barrayarans, we will escort you out, so long as you leave any technology you acquired here behind. Thank you, all of you." He bows, then, and turns to leave – gesturing the guard to follow him out of the room.

base
Now that you're free to roam about the base. as you please, aside from the restricted areas, the atmosphere has changed a little. It's still heavily military -- they are at war, after all -- but the genteel, almost delicate air hinted at during the exotics' quarantine seems to permeate the entire base, a certain fundamental Cetagandan sensibility. On a military level, everything here is built with function in mind -- but to the Cetagandan eye, form can rule supreme even in utilitarian contexts. Even such ordinarily mundane areas as the mess or the washrooms are dotted with art and designed to please the eye, even if subtly. You couldn't mistake it for anything but a military installation, but it's probably the most beautiful military installation you've ever seen.

The ghem troops are nothing short of civil, same as everyone has been. Some of them are even quite interested in the exotics -- whether seeking camaraderie or merely partaking in a novelty, it may be difficult to gauge, but there's no getting around the fact that anyone who doesn't look quite human, or anyone with an especially aesthetically pleasing form, is getting a little extra attention. However, they are all quite polite, in a way that is clearly cultural rather than circumstantial. The ghem ladies are a bit more elusive and much fewer in number, but they're even more outgoing than the soldiers, and any of the ghem on base might be pleased to share with you any Cetagandan cultural pastimes or teach you about Cetagandan art, although there may be a few polite laughs at the expense of anyone particularly "uncultured". 

Now that you're no longer confined, you eat at the mess at designated mealtimes like everybody else, and you'll find that the artfully prepared fresh cuisine served along equally (somehow) artfully prepared meal rations you've been getting are the standard here. There are no longer any guards posted around the exotics' room, which has been officially dubbed as your living quarters, and you share a communal bathroom with the rest of the hall. There's a common room on each floor where soldiers often go to spend their off-duty hours, with the appropriately recreational accoutrements: the materials for a few kinds of games popular on Cetaganda, a couple of sizeable vid plates for watching holofilms, as well as the supplies for a variety of Cetagandan art forms. There's also an exercise room in each barracks building with about what you'd expect, but probably prettier and more future.

You aren't asked to do any work, just politely told to keep away from restricted areas. A couple of ghem officers appointed by Zahal take you in individually for interviews of a sort, a couple of times a week. They're perfectly civil, and the interviews themselves are tame -- the Cetagandans are merely trying to collect some more information to better understand this phenomenon. So while there might be some questions in the personal sphere, they're primarily interested in where you come from. They won't try to force you to answer in any way -- if you sit there in stubborn silence for the hour, they will endure it politely, if in exasperation.

missions
We're using that word loosely, because none of this is official or even remotely organized.

Now that the exotics' room is no longer guarded, curiosity gives rise to temptation. On the night of January 22nd, Ratchet and Kaidan sneak out to the science/medical complex and overhear Zahal and one of his science officers talking about signs of wormhole activity as they try to puzzle out what happened. On the following night, January 23rd, Lapis and Darkstalker make their way near the war rooms and listen in on Zahal and one of his intelligence officers discussing the Barrayaran information leak and confirming that there are 'exotics' among the Barrayarans too. They have also learned that the Barrayarans are planning a raid sometime in the next week.

Things get a little chaotic on January 28th, when security alarms are suddenly tripped and a few curfew-cutting exotics run into outsiders from the other side. The evening is sort of a mixed bag for everyone involved -- Duv is captured by one of the Barrayarans and this time, no one gets back to the barracks without getting caught. On the other hand, Wash and York manage to capture Lieutenant Vortala, for which the soldiers thank them in appreciation as they take him into their custody.

The unabridged event writeup is here.

Comments

BRAVO vs SIGMA

[barrayarmods]

In all the chaos, blinded by the heavy snowfall, outsider and exotic alike run into each other. Team Bravo's trying to make their escape before the base is flooded with Cetagandan troops, but they don't get far from the backup generator before they run smack into Team Sigma. Snow swirling all around them, the wind cold in their ears, now they know for sure: there are more of you on the other side.

[protocol]

[ There has to be something here.

Ever since they were given free rein to move around the Cetagandan base, Wash has been eager to try and search around to find -- something, anything, to learn more, to piece together more information than what they had and what they were given. It's something to focus on, something to ground him while Wash goes over all the information he knows in his mind, wormholes and the possibility of alternate realities, travel across time as much as space. He hasn't really spoken to York about all of it yet, not because he doesn't trust him but because he doubts himself, because there's still that awful voice in that back of his thoughts telling him that maybe he's still in that prison cell muttering himself as the days go by, that maybe he's never left that hospital bed, because York is still dealing with the disorientation and pain from losing Delta, and because, well.

A lot has happened since then. So much has happened. There's so much he did, so much on his own hands, so many things he did wrong.

He'll need to talk to him eventually, but in the meanwhile both of them working together again is something surprisingly familiar and welcome, and it's funny how easily Wash finds himself falling back into old rhythms, just a year or two out for York ( perhaps, if he'd gotten it right in his head ), more than half a decade for him. Wash has changed a lot since then, and York has to notice, but he doesn't say too much about it, and Wash is -- grateful, for that.

Tonight they've snuck out from the exotics' living quarters again. They've started to learn their way around the base, and by day at least the soldiers are more or less happy to answer their more trivial questions, and Wash has already started to learn and map out some of the guard patrols. They'd been hoping to try and learn more about Cetagandan technology, this time round, with the vague lofty goal of maybe one day understanding it enough for York to safely tap into it somehow, but they're not getting anything done tonight. There are more patrols around than usual, and Wash is cursing under his breath, pressed against a wall, one raised hand to signal York behind him to wait as a guard patrol moves through in front of them.

They pass by without noticing them. Wash exhales, shaking his head slightly, making a mental note of their path, lowers his hand, turning back to briefly meet York's eye. He gestures him forward, turning the other way, not quite the way they'd meant to go, but with all these guards around doubling back towards the slightly less guarded mess building might be a good idea. They're about there, ducking into cover, when suddenly there's a loud blaring sound, shouting, bright lights. ]

-- An alarm. [ Not the most helpful observation. Wash curses under his breath, looks back at York. It wasn't them, it couldn't have been them -- there's something else happening, and out here is probably a bad place to be. ]

[traitorous]

[ well, shit.

when the alarm goes off, maine is on his feet and at the door in a second, unnaturally quick for a man of his size. too early. something's wrong. either they were spotted on the way inside the building — or, more inconveniently, the cetagandans found the unconscious bodies of their men at either gate.

the door has to be pried open after maine more or less destroyed the mechanism that controlled the auto-open. he pulls the door away from the frame like he's shoving aside a curtain and not a hundred-some pound piece of steel, briefly poking his head outside to peer around. vortala isn't anywhere in sight, and to the right, near the north gate, cetagandan soldiers pour out of one of the buildings, shouting directions and orders over the roar of the wind. none of them are headed toward the secondary generator building, for now.

he pulls the scarf ( lakshmi's scarf, incidentally ) wrapped around his neck over his mouth and nose to protect his face from the cold, and gestures lakshmi forward with a wave of his hand. she tosses him his sword in steely silence before she ducks past him; maine catches it and follows behind her, the door snapping shut behind them.

though maine hasn't known lakshmi for long, he's spent enough time with her to notice that she takes naturally to the role of leader, almost as if it's a reflex and not some burdensome habit that was reluctantly developed at some point in her life. he assumes she'll take point, if he lets her, and he would let her ( because he isn't a leader, never has been; he's a 7-foot roadblock, expendable muscle designed to slow his enemies down ) if they weren't surrounded by dozens of men wielding guns. he knows he can take several shots and keep going; he doesn't know if she can.

so, he grabs her arm before she can move too far, and points to himself. let me, and then after a one fingered tug on the scarf to pull it away from his mouth so she can read his lips: please. ]

[infailtration]

[ York still isn't feeling his best. He's still suffering from Delta's ejection, and struggling to come to terms with the fact that the AI is truly gone, here, at the least can't be reactivated. But with Ratchet and Gail's help he's focusing better and sleeping again, and so he feels up to sneaking out with Wash tonight. The two of them fall into familiar movements and signs, slip past the guards without much trouble. They're not sure what they're looking for exactly, but it feels good to be out and looking for something, anything, that might give them more information.

When the alarm goes off York presses back against the wall, checking for where the guards will be coming from. He hears shouting but it's far off, they'll still have time to go back around the compound but it'll have to be the opposite way they came. He motions for Wash to let him take the lead, slips past his friend and up to the next corner, peering around.

There are three people there. Just a few feet from him is a man with his back turned, dressed for the cold with scruffy long hair and a beard that York can see silhouetted in the lights. A Barrayaran, he must be, which means the compound could be under attack. He moves forward fast and quiet, only one step in the snow before he's chopping at the base of the man's skull before he can turn, knocking him out efficiently and catching him as he falls.

The man was carrying a broadsword, a weapon York isn't familiar with -- knives, he knows, but not swords. He draws it and leaves the native man lying in the snow, offering it to Wash if he wants it. Wash shakes his head so York gets a better grip and holds it himself, because it can't hurt to be armed right now. And then they're moving forward again, and York sees light coming from the compound up ahead. Too much light. A door is open and two figures are darting inside. More of them.

Still no guards around this end of the compound. It's up to them, and he's dying to know what the Barrayarans are here looking for. So he and Wash move forward again, dart into place on either side of the door, ready to go in. They don't have guns but obviously the Barrayarans don't either so he isn't too worried about a fight.

He's about to be worried about something else. He and Wash duck in and York calls out to the figures; a man and a woman, moving like they're expecting to be attacked. ]

Stop. Turn around.

[ And then his eyes go wide, and he's only looking at the man. Maine's face atop seven feet of solid muscle, but is it Maine? Or is the the Meta, the creation that killed Carolina and was hunting them all? He doesn't even ask what the other man is doing here, because what are any of them doing here. What he asks, dropping into a fighting stance and raising the sword, is: ]

Who are you?

[ But he's looking just at Maine, all but ignoring Lakshmi. ]

[shri]

[ It's one second when she feels him catch her, hand on her forearm, and a careful searching look on her face. Confused why he's pulling her back when they don't have the time, that all too searching look on his face, the small shaped word of please and she should explain to him why her, why she must always go first, why her blood is half as precious as his, but - they're wasting time and she cannot say she doesn't trust him to do the job and he's insisting. Her hand coming up to his, closing over it and nodding, alright, if he must.

Then the next, it doesn't really matter anymore. The alarm screaming loud in the snow quiet air, the sound of soldiers moving with heavy steps and the clatter of weapons. Her sword is in her hand in seconds, even as she is pushed back, behind him like he's her shield, taking a moment to see what prompted that beyond the obvious. ]

A good question, you first.

[ He's not talking to her, in fact, for the first time since people had gotten into the habit of pointing weapons at her, he doesn't seem to be aiming at her at all. Granted, he doesn't look particular of a sword any more than Maine did and by contrast as she squares her shoulders feet shift under her, the blade coming up and swinging. If it's just him, she could disarm as quickly as she's given leave to. Ready for it. ]

[protocol]

[ When York calls out to the man and the woman up ahead, Wash is wary, uncertain. They don't technically have anything to fear from the Barrayans, but as far as the invading party goes, he and York are probably as good as Cetagandan at this point -- they did just knock out one of them earlier -- and even if they aren't, drawing attention to themselves when they're trying to evade notice just seems like trouble. They're not completely unarmed at least, now that York's helped himself to the Barrayan's broadsword.

At first, Wash is holding back, letting York go on forward when he calls out. He's just keeping a lookout, trying to keep an eye out for anyone that might be approaching, Cetagandan soldiers responding to the alarm or other Barrayans here to support their own. But the tone of York's voice catches his attention, the way he demands to know who they are, and why would that matter, when they don't know anything about --

Then he turns, and sees him.

The recognition is immediate, but it takes a few moments to really sink in. Seeing York had been enough of a shock, and sometimes when he talks to him or sees him Wash still has to take a few moments to remind himself that he's not seeing things, that this is real, that he isn't going fucking insane, that it makes sense to question everything because what's happened is ridiculous but it's still reality he's dealing with, not the echoes of a broken mind. The build of the man in front of him is unmistakable, seven feet of hulking muscle, and then there's his face those familiar eyes, his mouth hidden by a scarf wrapped around his neck where those scars would be, and.

He feels his heart leap into his throat, feels his breath completely still in his chest. The memories come too fast, too quickly, this is what happens when you always remember everything, Maine standing over him in the training room after knocking him over for the fifth time in a row, offering him his hand. Maine staring up at him in slight surprise the one time Wash managed to surprise him, Maine fresh out of medical, clapping a hand over his shoulder, trying to tell him everything was alright but only making some harsh growling sound. Telling himself that Maine was gone, that it wasn't Maine he saw hurling Carolina off a cliff, no, that was the Meta, staring at his own reflection in the Meta's faceplate as he bore down towards him, unable to fight back, telling him he knew, he always knew he would do this, that he just can't believe, he just can't believe.

Exhale, and then suddenly he's back in the present. His mind is reeling, but there's no time to think, because this is probably the fucking Meta, and York is next to him with a broadsword in hand, demanding to know who it is. Maine -- or the Meta, who knows who's there -- isn't alone, but whoever that is can wait. The Meta is the biggest threat.

Wash moves quickly while Maine and whoever he's brought with him are distracted by York pointing a sword at him. The woman has set into a ready stance, but Wash just avoids her completely and moves straight for Maine. He's wielding a sword, what looks like a rapier, and the strangeness of that is something he sets aside for the immediacy of Maine with a weapon and needing to disarm him. He's already within arm's reach, and everything he remembers comes in handy -- Maine has always been stronger, but Wash was always faster than him, could get under his guard if he was just quick enough, if he moved first. One blow to his arm and that has Maine's grip wavering just enough that he can grip the rapier by the hilt, wrenching it out of Maine's hand.

Instead of immediately getting out of Maine's range, though, he stays close, grabs him by the arm, pulling it roughly down, tugging him closer, lifting the blade until he has it pressed to Maine's throat -- it's clear that he doesn't really know how to wield a sword, but he knows the basics enough to do this. Wash doesn't say anything, just ends up staring Maine in the eye with a blade pressed to his throat, knowing full well that he's more than strong enough to break out of his grasp.

And he just -- stares, his chest already heaving. Searching for something. For anything. He just can't believe, he has to believe, that maybe . . . ]

/yakety sax playing in the bg

[traitorous]

[ there's a fleeting moment where maine is sure that lakshmi is going to argue with him. he braces for it, ready to tell her no, this is his job, she got them in so let him get them out, let him go ahead for his own peace of mind, goddamnit, don't be stubborn, please. but then her hard expression changes, and instead of refusing him, she nods, her hand on his hand in a touch so light and personal that maine almost flinches away from the unfamiliar shock of it.

he doesn't have time to say thank you. a man calls out from behind — stop turn around who are you? — and maybe maine doesn't know the voice of every freelancer by heart, but he sure as hell knows that voice: york. carolina's york. can't see shit on his left york. okay guys let's just play it by the book! york.

what the fuck is york doing on the cetagandan base?

instinct has him turning and pushing lakshmi behind him with the sweep of his arm. good call. york looks pissed. he has a sword in hand that maine is pretty sure belongs to vortala, wherever the hell he is now, and he's buckled down ( legs spread, shoulders bunched forward defensively, blade tip pointed directly at maine ) like he's expecting maine to greet him with a friendly right hook to the face.

maine hardly has a second to mouth what the fuck? at york before the second plot twist comes in the shape of an equally pissed off wash. his sword is wrenched from his hand as wash descends from the shadows; maine reels back, startled, reaching for lakshmi to push her further away from whatever the hell is going on. he doesn't get a chance to do that, either; wash yanks him closer until they're face-to-face, stolen sword at his throat in a scene not unlike maine's initial arrival to barrayar.

the blade digs into his jugular, just shy of piercing skin. one firm push, and maine's got another scar to add to the dozens already there. he breathes out hard, exasperated, eyes on wash's face. he's different, older, has somehow managed to age a decade in the month since maine last saw him aboard the mother of invention.

and apparently he's also grown some massive balls to complement the grey at his temples and crow's-feet around his eyes. maine doesn't pull away from wash or his brandished weapon. he leans into him, closing his free hand around the blade and pushing it sideways, toward his ear and onto a carotid artery.

he speaks, in a low rumble that only wash has ever been able to easily decipher, for the first time in weeks: ]

If you're gonna threaten me, Wash, you better be goddamned sure you're doing it right.

[ his grip tightens. blood rolls down the edge of the blade, sluicing over the hilt and dripping onto the snowy ground. back off. ]

[shri]

[ If she didn't know any better, she'd think these men Knights the way this escalated beyond words so quickly. One second being called back, caught out in the open like this with the soldiers rushing in and the alarm screaming and there are horses running in her throat, canon fire in her head with the need to move,move,move. They don't have time for this - they need to deal with this man and quickly to get out. Maybe subdue him - whoever he was. Didn't look too good on one side of his face, blind side him. If she could get around him while he was focused on Maine - throw her blade, a waste, but even up the set, straight through his still good eye and -

-- Then Maine is crashed into, his hand blindly reaching to get her further way and she's having words with him when this is done. Hypocritical words, truth be told, about putting himself in her way like he has a responsibility to do so. Not that she needs it, a life-time running from everything, it's a seconds reaction to get herself out even if it sends her messily scrambling. Easy enough to get out of the way in a sharp pulled back movement as her mind catches up.

Which is firstly, did he just speak? She doesn't think she's heard him do that. Or - no, speech is too generous for that sound, too much and too less. He growls, like a demon and not a man. No wonder he doesn't bother to try it often. He hasn't tried with her, he just writes, into the snow, with the bits of charcoal from the fire, or mouths them slowly to her so she can understand. But that hiss and grate she doesn't know and it probably doesn't matter right now, save for the momentary surprise of it all. Something else that takes up her mind whilst she gets her footing back again.

Disregarded, instead, she does the only thing that comes as easy and she doesn't have to think about, she yanks for the new-comer. Whoever he is, he looks like somehow his world had ended. Darts around and it's to get a handle on the back of his shirt. Boots crunching in the snow, movements fast and without hesitation. The blade swinging up, easier to slice his throat, to be sure, end this as quickly as possible. But withholds it for now, because Maine elected to speak to him, whatever that meant. Didn't like the sort that would hesitate with words if there wasn't a damn good reason. Which granted, it seemed a warning growl if she ever heard one. ( Thinks again that if this were her home, she might shoot him on surety he was more likely a lycan than a man. )

Her fingers twist, yanking him back at the angle where she's considerably shorter than all of them, but something she's used to, using it as leverage. It's not painful, but it's hardly comfortable. Yank down hard enough, and she'll happily send him tumbling into the blasted snow. ]

Unhand him, now --

[ Too easy, to throw herself into this, give him a second, if she can, to give Maine time to get out. ]

[infailtration]

[ Wash rushes into the room on his bad side and York wishes again for Delta, to tell him about these things, to run probabilities for him. But he's on his own in his head now, it's up to him to figure this out. Wash has Maine by the throat in an instant, and Maine actually speaking gives him pause. He doesn't understand it, but it sounded like a warning. The Meta wouldn't give a warning, wouldn't stay down or reposition the blade like that. Wouldn't move to protect his companion. It has to be Maine. It has to be. He would have lost his AI coming here as well, if he's from a time where he even had Sigma. Maybe he's going through the same thing. York's considering lowering the sword when the woman blurs into motion, going for Wash, and then York's heart is in his throat. No. Don't hurt him.

He curses softly and rushes into the fray, dropping the Barrayaran's sword and grabbing the woman from behind. Anything to get her off of Wash, and he's not willing to have a blade he's not used to that close to his friends. It's a gamble but he manages to get her off safely, pinning her arms to her side so she can't swing her sword at any of them. Only when Wash is safe does he breathe again, shakily. His hold is tight but not painful, and she'll be able to feel his chest heaving at her back. ]

Stop. Stop. Everybody just calm down and we'll figure this out. [ He's one to talk -- he can hear his heartbeat pounding hummingbird fast in his ears. Maine's not one to listen to him and it's been too long since he was any kind of leader but someone has to get a handle on this situation. And fast, the Cetagandan guards are certainly on their way. ] Wash, let him go. It's Maine. Isn't it? That you, buddy?

[ He sounds hopeful even to his own hearing, over the blaring of the alarm. And while Wash is making up his mind he lowers his head to speak into the woman's ear. ] We're not going to hurt you. Or him. Can I let you go?

[protocol]

[ Even before Maine starts to not-quite-speak, Wash already knows he's wrong.

It's immediately familiar, the hand over the blade, the way he angles it up to press against the side of his throat, where Wash would've known to place it if he was really threatening someone, if he had really been ready to kill, right against the vulnerable carotid artery. One of the first few days at Freelancer, when everyone was still a stranger, when Wash was still putting on a practiced overeager and sheepish smile to all these new people who haven't had the chance to really get to know him yet. Most people were in the mess, but Wash was training, thought he was alone, and then there was Maine, tossing him a knife. He'd tried to laugh him off, to say he won't be any match for him, but Maine wasn't having it, and -- Wash was holding back, he always held back. Maine knew that, too, and Wash remembers blood from Maine's fingers trickling down over the blade as he gripped it, as he directed it under his ear. He hasn't heard that voice in almost a decade, but he remembers it clear as day, telling him that he should do this right, because it's not like you don't know how to, is it.

Of course Wash knew. Of course Wash knew where to aim a knife, of course he knew where the damn carotid artery was, knows to aim between the collar bones for the subclavian arteries, knows to jam a knife right under someone's chin -- but he'd always been holding back. Always careful, always controlled, because when that control slips he ends up on top of someone beating their fucking face in until his knuckles bleed, always been careful not to let people know what kind of person he really was -- and from the beginning, there's only been one person who's ever known better.

Maine.

He does hear that growling, the familiar harsh rumbling that he parses perfectly just by looking at Maine without even thinking about it, hears York talking too, sees movement out of the corner of his eyes, but he's just -- unmoving, frozen to the spot, feels nothing but the cold air rushing around them, even the ringing siren of the alarm somehow muted and faded. He's looking at Maine's face, his actual fucking face, not his own reflection in a faceplate, the Meta never took off his helmet, the Meta never really looked him in the eye, the Meta was barely human, not anymore, just a hollow shell to broken pieces trying desperately to claw themselves back together. This is the first time he's looked Maine in the eye in almost ten years, and he's -- just like he remembers him, at Freelancer. Not older. Definitely not a decade older. This isn't just Maine, it has to be Maine from -- from before --

His heart sticks in his throat. ]

I -- [ He falls back immediately, knuckles white around the hilt of the rapier. ] -- Maine.

[ This is Maine from before. The scars are there on his throat, some of the fabric of that scarf falling back into place around his neck as he steps back, still not quite hiding the familiar marks completely. The memories rush back too quickly, a blur, Maine waving him over with a growl to ask him to help relay a message to North about how he noticed North's aim slipping in that last mission, don't think he didn't. Maine thinking he was alone near the lockers, frustrated, holding a hand to his throat, looking up to see Wash in the mirror. Carolina and York, talking, waving Wash over, hey rookie, do you think Maine would work well with an AI, we think it might help. Maine some time after surgery, holding his head in his hands, he's fine, he's sure, he's sure don't fucking push it.

The alarm is still ringing. Wash staggers slightly but keeps himself from losing his balance, turns around. York is still saying something, that you, buddy, and yeah, okay, York figured it out already, that's good. Wash only barely registers that York is dealing with someone else entirely, notes that he's murmuring into her ear, he's probably taking care of it, whatever it is, and he turns back to Maine, forces himself to look at him in the eye again even despite that horrible awful pang that twists through his chest. There's shouting in the distance, barely audible over the alarm. ]

There's no time. [ He turns the sword in his hand, holding it out to Maine, gripping it by the base of the blade to offer the hilt to him. ] I'll find a way to you.

We'll cover you -- both of you. Go.

[traitorous]

[ they're out of time.

maine's already considering the logistics of his and lakshmi's escape, working possible scenarios in his head: can he take out both wash and york before the guards come, and can he do it without seriously harming either of them? can he also do it without dragging lakshmi into the potential crossfire? maybe. probably. wash looks disoriented enough that maine is sure he could subdue him in a couple seconds. one second to send him toppling forward with a hard yank on the sword, another second to hit him square in the jaw and lay him flat on the ground.

after that it's just a matter of dealing with york, and york's got an exploitable left side. probably doesn't have delta to compensate for that weakness, either. a little kick of snow to his face, and he's momentarily fucked.

it's dirty and messy and totally unfair but playing fair is what gets people killed. maine doesn't have the patience to take on a small army of very armed, very unfamiliar soldiers without a proper way to defend himself or any prior intel into what the cetagandans are actually capable of. the covenant and the insurrectionists were easy because maine knew their tactics, their weapons, their habits, their ships, their fucking high school textbook histories. all maine knows about the cetagandans is what the barrayans told him, and the barrayans don't say a whole lot.

there are shouts in the distance, the stompstompstomp of many boots crunching through heavy snow. maine breathes in and out and rocks forward onto his toes, every muscle in his body rippling in warning as he gears up for an attack, like the ocean before a hurricane. his hand slides higher on the sword, smearing blood on the blade, and all at once he's shifting his weight back to his heels, gripping the sword tighter, pulling, two goddamned seconds zach come on —

— then wash abruptly draws away, tells him to go as he hands him back his weapon, and for a moment maine almost punches him anyway.

instead he plants an open palm on the center of wash's chest and shoves him hard, away from a sloppy gunshot that was surely meant for maine's head and not wash's right shoulder. too late for wash's bullshit niceties and gallant courtesies. the cetagandans are here. ]

Don't do me any favors, rookie. [ spoken with a pointed shove of the rapier into wash's hand. keep it, since you like threatening his life with it so much. ] Watch your own fucking six.

[ he doesn't know why york and wash are with the cetagandans and not the barrayans ( doesn't matter; why are any of them on this god forsaken planet in the first place, is the better question ), but this is where they're safest. he needs to get back to the barrayan encampment, regroup with carolina, figure out where to go next. wash and york can take care of themselves, just like they always have.

right now his only responsibility is to lakshmi. he turns toward her, jerking his chin sharply upward. time to bail. ]

[shri]

[ York's weight is solid against her back as he pulls her in - damn, forgotten about him in the rush that was trying to get Maine free so they didn't waste more time. Arms trapped in her by her side, but give her a minute, his attention will slip since they way they're all talking - like they knew him?

The way Maine responds like he knew them too.

What a novelty, she's not the one fending for her life from acquaintances. Seems she's going to pay for it, regardless. Not especially glad for being held, and when York murmurs so low and quiet that he isn't going to hurt her, she wants to prove that she knows that - one swift kick up and back ought to do that. But since they're all apparently friends here, her gaze up at him is nothing other than a promise that if he doesn't let go of her soon, he'll pay for it dearly.

Even so, she doesn't move until Maine tells her it's sorted. Clear as she can be that she'll only be listening to one person here after all that. Shoves off York - and reaches for the blade he threw away, half sticking up in the fresh fallen snow that coats everything in a white bright even in this dark. The metal is freezing against her palm, thank the Gods for her gloves. ]

Friends of yours? [ It's barked, she doesn't really expect an answer as she falls into step with him at his side. Holding the blade up. ] Next time, pick a weapon you won't be so quickly disarmed of. [ A huff, a half step closer, voice low as she passes him the secondary blade. Just a plain longsword, but sturdier. ] When we get back, we're beginning training, immediately, with something suitable to you.

[ And that is apparently, all she has to say about - everything that just happened. Clear more than anything, what's between them, is between them. If she has questions, a battlefield isn't the place for them. ]

[protocol]

[ God, it really is him.

Wash isn't sure what he's expecting to hear, what he's waiting for, but there's the rush of air of a missed shot hurtling past and Maine shoving him aside from it, his expression hard and steely, impatient. Maine just shoves the hilt of the rapier back into his hand, and Wash is trying hard to focus, to bring himself back into the present, but it's hard to stop the memories from bubbling to the surface in his thoughts when Maine answers him. Don't do me any favors, Maine's voice, low and gravelly over comms, brushing past him and bumping his armored shoulder against Wash's own after he'd pulled some covvie Mainee was grappling with off of him and shot him in the face. Don't do me any favors, that harsh raspy growling, Maine glowering at him after Wash had offered for him to choose a weapon first for some sparring session. Don't do me any favors, snapped and snarled, Maine sitting in his bunk with his head in his hands, still getting used to Sigma, Wash coming by to check on him when he didn't see him in the morning for training, when he wasn't in the mess later, either.

Watch your own fucking six.

He turns. There's no one here yet, but the sirens are still blaring and there's the telltale sound of distant shouting, of footsteps scrunching through the snow -- that one soldier had gone for backup, and they're almost here. The woman's pulled away from out of York's grasp, passing Maine another sword, asking him if they're friends of his. Wash looks back at York, and he'd clearly gotten ahold of her after she was trying to protect Maine from him, god, Wash, get a fucking hold of yourself, but there's a moment when he glances down at the rapier in his hand, tightening his grip over the hilt, and maybe, just maybe, actually smiles.

It's gone a second later. There's no time. He gestures to Maine, to his companion, to York -- there's no need to explain, he's sure Maine understands that they know the Cetagandan base a whole lot better than they do and following his lead will be their best bet to get to safety, and as much as Maine might not be pleased to take any kind of orders or instructions from him right now he'll have little choice in the matter. ]

This way. [ An immediate, rough growl, Maine squaring up his shoulders, already ready to protest, and something Wash entirely expects. Maine wouldn't want him helping, wouldn't want York helping, either, he can do it on his own -- and he doesn't want them putting themselves in unecessary danger, but Wash just looks him straight in the eye, his jaw set. ] No. I'm with you. We both are.

This way.

[ Maine growls again, but he nods, and Wash is already turning, gesturing at them again. First York, and now there's Maine. There may be more of them here, and after everything Wash has done, after everything that's gone wrong . . . Not this time. He won't lose them again, not if he can fucking help it.

He leads them around the mess building, and Wash is running through the mental map he's built of the base in his mind, where the soldiers were most likely to search, how they're probably combing the place. He's never gotten a count of how many soldiers there really are here, but there's probably to many for them to be able to make a clean escape, but if it comes down to it, between him and York, even armed with swords they should be able to take down a good number and help cover their escape.

They're moving quickly through the snow when there's a loud shout -- they'd managed to avoid the soldiers that were heading in their direction before, but the base is swarming, now, full of guards on the look out for the invaders. Someone's spotted them, some distance away, just emerging from around a corner. He shouts for backup, waving people over, and Wash glances back at him just quickly enough to spot him lifting his arms, one of those Cetagandan weapons in his hands, taking aim. Wash might not know who this woman is, but she's with Maine, and that's more than enough reason for him to immediately turn once he realizes who the soldier is aiming for, shoving her roughly out of the way just barely in time.

The shot's sloppy, ends up hitting a nearby wall, but the backup's already pouring in, other Cetagandan soldiers rushing forward, more shouting. Wash looks around at Maine, and then back at York, meeting his eye. There's too many, and with how they're armed, if they have to fight, then. ]

[infailtration]

[ York isn't as optimistic as Wash on their chances for getting Maine and his companion out of dodge. As stealthy as they might manage to be, there's going to come a time when they just have to run for it and the Cetagandans have guns. Extremely effective guns, from what he's heard... he hasn't actually been allowed near the armory, none of them have. If even one of them had a weapon like that they could lay down cover fire and potentially all get away but right now, as things were, three of them armed with swords and York barehanded? This wasn't going to be easy.

He brings up the rear as they run, hears soldiers giving chase behind them, can pick up the orders being shouted somewhere in the distance. They're about to be surrounded. He skids in the snow when guards pop around the corner, and the next thing he knows Wash is shoving the woman at him out of the way of a long shot one of the guards is aiming at her. Shit. The only direction for them to go is out into the snow, completely uncovered.

What happens next is a blur. A soldier aims for Maine, who's close on York's left. He darts in front of his friend but he isn't the only one -- the woman is launching herself at the Cetagandan guards. It's brave but stupid, York thinks... the safest move right now is to give themselves up. Either way there's a risk they'd be killed but it's a certain one if they keep fighting. Maybe if he could cause some kind of distraction -- but if he goes the other way to try and cause one that'd leave Maine and his friend with only Wash to cover them. He turns to Wash and Maine, who looks like he's going to dive in after the woman, and mutters, ]

Run.

[ Then York dives into the fray instead, hoping he can get ahold of a weapon or just block the guards' fire from her. Her gambit paid off and together they manage to take down a few soldiers just by being in close quarters unexpectedly but then a shot rings out above the alarms and screaming, and hits the blade of her sword, unsteadying her and causing her to loosen her hold. Wash has joined them in the fight but there are now three soldiers that York can see aiming for her, center mass, with their unknown weapons. She has no armor, no shields, and he thinks fast, ducking between her and certain death. He knocks her sword into the snow and grabs that arm, twisting it behind her. It has to look real so he makes it real, a grip she can't just break out of. One leg sweeps forward to bring her to her knees. She snarls at him, at the apparent betrayal, and he ignores it and shouts to the soldiers. ]

Stop, I've got her! She's down!

[ He hears heavy footsteps trailing off and hopes it's Maine getting away. He doesn't dare take his eyes off the soldiers to check, fully expecting to be taken into custody with her for this, for injuring the guards. To be questioned as to where his loyalties lie. ]

[shri]

[ When she shuts her eyes later, she'll count watching Maine's face as the last thing she sees before it goes to pieces so damn quickly. Isn't that always the way? Flicking between him and Wash and the half made plan to get out of there. Apparently they've got company now. That'll be a thrilling thing to explain to Count Piotr on the return. Already forming how she'll need to say it, even if it's none of her business, but if they were offering to stand by their side through this, then she could do the same -

Washington shoves her. Feels his hands harsh into her shoulder, feels the shot hit the ground as it goes whizzing over her head. The rest, the rest comes without forethought or even consideration after she's shoved hard and the otherwise silent, snowy night is ripped apart by gunfire and the shouts of soldiers. Churning the ground muddy under their footfalls. A lifetime fighting outgunned means it comes naturally at least; swords to the best of the British Empire and their armaments. Then less than that again to the finest guns that Tesla could give the Black Coats as they came charging down the slums of Whitechapel. Barricades and broken bottles to hurl at them until she could get her hands on something worthwhile to put into theirs.

Up until then, the rules had always been simple, which: never bring a knife to a gun fight, but never let an enemy use his range if he has it and you don't. To that, she doesn't waste the time, charges to crash into the nearest soldier as soon as she gets her feet under her. It's ugly, harsh spat war cries as she rams into the nearest man with her shoulder. Might be more effect if she could feel the blackwater - but it isn't coming, that strength, the violent quiet that made them monstrous as the things they fought, doesn't come up into her limbs.

It's like knowing she's already lost this war in the same breath as she started fighting it. She's a woman again, she's a woman alone fighting an Empire.

It doesn't mean a damn thing, it never had, and now isn't the time to consider what that means, even as she tries to get back to Maine's side as she grabs another soldier by the arm, wrenches it back so they go down with a sharp cry and a quickly slit throat. One second where she's alone and the next she's reaching for Maine in the transcendent breaths, taking a fistful of his jacket and her scarf to yank him to face her. Close, exhaled words between them and brief, they have seconds before someone hits them, sitting targets that they are - ] Get out of here, as soon as you can - and tell Miles where I am. We're no good both captured.

[ She shoves him hard away from her. Half a step and she feels a yank and she swings in a circle, wider, forcing the man that thought to sneak up behind her to use the gun he's holding to block the blow that would have shattered his skull instead of shooting her. Doesn't look back from then, can't afford to, there are more and more of them. Ants out of cracked ground, maggots teaming on a corpse. Her blood and heart beat so loud in her ears as she kicks hard into the closest man's chest to send sprawling backwards, her head snapped up, readying to follow him down in a broad stroke of blade to the flesh that his armour exposed. A swing that will cut him across the belly, he'll bleed like a stuck boar. All bright red like his fellows on the white, white ground and in the morning he'll be nothing but another body along with the others. Unseeing, in the heat of it, that she's surrounded and that she'll be just the same, soon enough.

The blow doesn't land, and she feels herself wrench with the force redirected as York grabs her arm, yanks her down and under. Hitting her knees to the cold ground in a wave of rage that washes up. Betrayed, shouldn't have trusted him, shouldn't trust him with Maine, should have just shot them down where they stood - this is what she got, always the way, isn't it? -

She looks up and takes gulping breaths of freezing air into her burning lungs. A mess of hair over her face, blood hot and red mattered into it, tacky against her skin. Sweat that stings as it cools in the frigid wind. Sees for herself, just what he's saved her from by shouting that 'she's down'. A dozen or more, armed and ready to shoot whoever is in their base. Blackwater wouldn't help her with that.

Maybe she should thank him, and maybe later, she will.

Right now, her face scrunches, better dead than a damsel, better going out with blade in hand than being captured, but if she's captured and where-ever Vortala has gone - then they won't be looking at anyone else, will they? Makes a show of it, a wounded animal fights harder and so does she, ugly undignified noises and words worse than a sailor on his first week back dockside spewing out of her. ]

- whore son's bastards. Go to hell - [ He twists, she yanks, pulling hard. Setting her jaw, clenched and harsh. Looking, desperately between the soldiers' faces for Maine, for the other of his friend that she lost sight of in the fight. Doesn't see him so clearly with the sting of sweat in her eyes and the burning off adrenaline. Looks for the slash of gold that is her scarf he's wearing. Good, it had been her favourite, she will want it back, and if the enemy has it, she might not be to take it with her then, so better he give it back when she sees him again.

Because she will, she can promise that in arrogance and desperation, she will because she must but the only chance of that, is if he tells someone she's here. Another shove up, more desperate, that they keep their gaze on her and York, whatever she has to do to get their attention, looking up over her shoulder, back up at York and it's to draw deliberate attention. ] I am so pleased to know Cetagandan hospitality lives up to its reputation, here I thought they were exaggerating being spineless dogs that don't know how to fight honourably.

[ Drawls it out ugly and mean, good at that. Pitching to be insulting to anyone near enough to hear her. ]

SORRY ABOUT THE LACK OF ICONS YET

[for_art]

[ good god, what a clusterfuck.

the ghem-general -- or anyone above them in the chain of command -- isn't really going to be all that happy about the exotics getting out or the barrayarans getting in, but at least these exotics seemed to have done well, capturing this woman. the barrayarans aren't generally given to women soldiers -- but they are getting desperate, aren't they?

she's got about the level of refinement as a barrayaran, with all that cussing, but one of them -- presumably the senior officer among the bunch -- hits her at this close range with the stunner. at least she'll be less trouble now. as for the sneaky exotics...

the senior officer waves away half the soldiers around him with snarled orders into his wristcom for medic and to the soldiers around him go get him and get to the main generator. a few soldiers take off after main, but they're too late, he's fast, and their shots hit dead air. he doesn't look too pleased with wash and york, but the other soldiers don't haul them up the way you might expect a prisoner -- it's more like helping up, if not very cordially, considering the circumstances. a lot of feathers have been ruffled. the senior officer jerks his head at two soldiers who take custody of lakshmi, hauling her up with arms under her shoulders. ]

Catch up to ghem-Yenaro and take her to holding. He's got another one. And you two -- [ there are four dead on the ground, and other soldiers injured. the alarms are still blaring, there's still chaos everywhere. the senior officer nods at another couple of his guards. ] You'll be escorted back to your barracks, medbay if you need so. We found another guerrilla unconscious, and not by stunner fire -- your work as well, I take it?

[ he's not pleased, exactly, but it does make him a little less fucking annoyed about all this. ]

MAINE

[for_honor]

[ as maine dashes away from the conflict by the grace of lakshmi's conflict, blasts of stunner and nerve disruptor fire just barely missing him -- mercifully, because even a huge brute like maine would be laid low by nerve disruptor fire -- lieutentant grey comes running toward him, breathless and urgent. they're not far from the gate now, their stealth utterly compromised. they are fucked. ]

Come on, hurry, we don't have much time before they overtake the gate --

[ he's doubling back around for maine to follow, speaking even as he moves at a dead run. ]