[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/Y6tHX9N.png[/img][/center]

[center][b]Jamie Alycia Reyes[/b][/center]

[center][b]Location: Survivor Processing[/b][/center]

Jamie ducked low and covered her head the moment she saw the big guy up top produce some grenades; a deep pang of shame hit her hard, when she realized that it seemed she'd sooner protect herself, than Kahleen. She reached around with closed eyes, frantically trying to grip the familiar slenderness of her girlfriend's wrists.

"Babe?" she cried out, "ba-"

The deafening roar of an automatic military-grade assault rifle blotted out everything; the weapon's rage bouncing from wall to wall, creating a perfect storm of ear shattering thunder. Ears ringing, she opened her eyes and looked around. 

A scruffy, tall and lanky looking man held a smoking rifle - courtesy of the soldier who'd got himself knocked off the catwalk. He motioned at the still body of their former guard, suggesting that he might be able to get the door open for them. But she wasn't interested in the shooter, or the guard, and so she turned her head left and right looking for something more precious than dear life itself. 

[i]Oh God please let her be okay![/i]

Kahleen stood up from the chaos, a knife partially obscured in the palm of her hand. Jamie was on her feet in an instant, and ran across to her. 

"Thank God you're okay," she said, throwing her arms around Kahleen. "Don't do that again, I thought I'd lost you!" Over Kahleen's shoulder, Jamie saw the door to the room opening slowly, its heavy frame creaking slightly, and what looked like a rifle muzzle poking through the gap.

Her eyes went wide, "the door!"

[hr]

[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/wBT3Luo.png[/img][/center]

[center][b]Corporal Steven Baxter, United States Marine Corps.[/b][/center]

[center][b]Location: Outside Survivor Processing[/b][/center]

Steven dropped the radio to the floor, having heard the entire exchange through PFC Corville's mic. His orders dictated that he was to go in there, and do the job himself; shoot all the civilians, make sure they couldn't pose a threat. Difficult orders, no doubt, but he'd had to shoot innocent people before.

He'd done it in Washington, he'd done it in New York, and he'd do it here too. 

But things had changed for the young Corporal in the last few minutes; a bloodied combat knife lay at his feet, alongside the body of PFC Rickinson. An hour ago, the two men had been best friends, and a few minutes ago, sworn enemies. Now Rickinson was dead, and Corporal Baxter had to carry his fallen friend's torch of insanity. 

Suddenly the idea of killing loads of people seemed like not just the right thing to do, but the really, really awesome thing to do. His mouth watered at the thought of a bunch of people, running and screaming, begging him for their lives. How funny that would be!

He reached for the bolt that locked the door to Survivor Processing, and pulled it back, and then leaned gently against the thick metal. It creaked slightly, and he pushed the muzzle of his [b]M4A1 Assault Rifle[/b] through the breach. He lined the sights up with the first person that came into view, and smiled gleefully as his finger found the trigger.

"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE'S JOHNNNNNNNNNNNY!!!!!!!!" He screamed. 

The survivors would have less than a second to react. To them, this meant diving for cover or spraying Baxter's position in the hopes of hitting him.