The road smelled of blood and gunpowder. Patches of grass burst from the neglected cement, cracked all about, now covered in blood and bullet casings. Tomás took in the sight. Bodies lay scattered about, still warm, and for the moment still. While he stood ahead of the road, others dressed like him strolled between the bodies. Despite their military grade body armour, rifles, and other gear, to Tomás, they were just well armed civilians. His [url=http://i1178.photobucket.com/albums/x365/kitchend/SCAR%20at%20Range/SCARRange006.jpg]assault rifle[/url] scanned over the street and his comrades ahead. They moved casually, yet also like marionettes. Once a body was within three yards they would raise their primary weapon. Fingers hovering over the trigger, they checked the spike attached under the barrel, and once closed in -- the strike. In one fatal move the spike plunged through the eye and out the back of the skull. A simple, but effective measure so the dead stay dead.

"That's it, LT," Tomás exclaimed, lowering his rifle. 

Raising a hand, the lieutenant gestured for a meeting. At once the squad assembled without question. The eight collected around their squad leader, quietly awaiting her order. Tomás had jogged from the furthest point, but not been the last. That honour was reserved to Corporal Ramos, apparently the only one among them who'd been with the lieutenant during the initial Siege of Evergreen. For Tomás, these were no different from other war stories. Every glory in victory has an atrocity swept under the rug, and he didn't need to see much at the haven to know the siege had more than its fair share. Ramos moved slower and shot less than the rest of them. Not too different from the lieutenant, really, except she insisted on leading by example. First into battle, first to strike, and she took great pride in the first blood. Maybe that's why Tomás was Designated Marksman so often. Given the opportunity he could be a downright brute, but combat wasn't always the best way to go. His brother taught him that. 

"Needless to say, these were not our targets. We have maybe five hours of daylight left. We'll be staying put until Bravo squad's messenger updates us to their progress," the sound of chuckling cut the lieutenant's explanation short. Her rifle slung over his shoulder, she glanced about as if for show, before finally settling her eye on the culprit. "Private Barkley, is something funny?" 

Clearing his throat, the private looked to Tomás at his side and grinned. "Well ma'am, you said 'Bravo squad' and 'progress' in the same sentence. Might be new, but I sure-as-shit know they ain't done one we ain't yet. Practically sit on their asses and let us lead the way, if ya ask me."

Barkley scanned over the squad with a sidewise, puckered smile. He was young, southern, and rough around the edges. Admittedly, this was the sort Tomás saw the most of in the old world's Armed Forces, yet these were also the most annoying. Tomás and those also around the private inched away as the lieutenant made her approach. A less disciplined crew might collectively beam, but such behaviour belonged on reality television. 

"No disrespect, ma'am," Barkley chuckled, this time forced and quick. "Maybe if they had a boss-bitch like you they'd be--"

The lieutenant walked by Barkley before spinning on her heel. In turning, she kicked out the back of the private's nearest knee. He crumbled immediately, arms flailing, only to have the lieutenant catch him with a single hand on middle of his back. That cold, absent look in her eye bore into his, replacing all but a sliver of his humour with fear. However, a sliver was still too much. Before the corner of his mouth could twitch into that asinine puckered smirk, the lieutenant brought her second hand up. She brought down a gloved fist directly onto his nose in one blow. Blood spurt onto his mouth as the punch connected and, at the same time, the lieutenant allowed him to fall. Only when the private hit the ground and coiled did she look back to the squad. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the lieutenant gave a blank expression -- then a smile.

"You will respect your comrades or you will fall. You will respect me, and all the women in this squad, or we will break you. Do you understand?" the lieutenant asked in a strong, sturdy shout.

The squad straightened their backs. "Ma'am yes ma'am!"

"As I was saying before. We will be staying put until word comes in from Bravo. This town may look like shambles, but that doesn't mean nobody's shambling about. Go in pairs and search for scavengers. Look for clues about our targets. Corporal Gellemo, you've got Barkley." 

[center]***[/center]

Just outside of the town Tomás stood watch as Barkley gingerly rubbed the blood from his nose. The two had found a small gas station, like those 'members only' outside of some supermarkets. Salvageable supplies were already gone. Necessities like water and what food you might dare to try went shortly after the world changed, fortunately, there was enough Coke to clear two decades of plumbing -- let alone one broken nose. Bent over a grimy sink, Barkley poured the dark, fizzy drink over his face and winced. The bathroom was barely big enough for one of them with all their gear, so Tomás hung back, facing out toward the station's entrance. Past the racks of long expired or otherwise unappetizing snacks, he could see clear beyond the town's edge. Besides a few stumbling dead-heads in a distance there wasn't much. Tomás eyed the land regardless, interesting or not, as he was trained.

"Ain't nothin' out there," Barkley snorted. Brown and red thick ran down his cheeks, probably into his mouth, but his expression remained a pained scowl. "This's some game, right? Does a show for the team, show'em what's cool n' what ain't, then the muscle finishes the job. Why'm I even cleanin' myself? Just gonna get bloodied up again, ain't?"

Tomás cocked a brow. Before he could reply, he observed Barkley closer than he'd care to prior. The private was thin, and from the scars on his brow and mouth, a scrapper. His pale skin was pockmarked and tattoos appeared without any obvious theme. Judging from all that, not to forget the accent, Tomás went over the statement once more. This was a man who clearly suffered before. Smart ass retorts only worsened by a clear lack of education covered up that Barkley might understand hierarchy all too well. 

"I don't know where you came from, but that's not how it works here. The world might've gone to shit, but this is a military unit all the same. You listen, you observe, and you act. Our job is simple. Simpler since we're a hunting unit -- all we have to do is find our targets. There's quite a bit of latitude here, but the same rules apply. Stupid hurts. You probably got that part, huh?" Tomás explained, daring to smile a bit at the end. "The slate's clean though. Don't make a series of mistakes or they add up, but work to fix and you'll be fine. Just don't lie to us. In their eyes, there's nothing worse."

For a moment the private stared blankly at Tomás. "I need a minute, Gellemo. Thanks."

Without another word, Tomás stepped outside of the mini-convenience station. He thought over his own words and stuck at the last part. [I]Gellemo[/I]. Years lie between the age of personal information beaming to and fro unattended to then, where your name was what you gave. All the same, Tomás had stuck to a name nearly true. [I]Lombard[/I] was a wanted name, to him and the rest the squad. While he might embrace Simon-Pietro with open arms, the others would not. He couldn't imagine any other fate for the brother of their prey either. Tomás Gellemo was a shield just one name away from death. A thin lie, yes, but so near to the truth how could you tell?