[center][h2][color=#FF7800]Boraro[/color]
Souk Semmarine, Marrakesh, Morocco
1410 Local Time[/h2][/center][hr][color=#FF7800]”On the way.”[/color] Ebrima replied calmly as soon as Purna’s first request came through, taking a second to get his bearings before setting off toward the cafe. The Cameroonian reloaded both his rifle and shotgun along the way, a fresh drum of slugs and magazine of armor piercing 5.56 rounds ready to clean house. Well, figuratively. Literally speaking, he and Purna were about to send the cafe’s cleaning lady to therapy. Clearing a gap between buildings wide enough to comfortably fit a truck with hardly any effort, he rolled with the momentum to carry as much speed as he could to get over the wider gap between his current roof and the one with the Cafe. He had an idea. An evil idea, one might say, until the presence and need for the anti armor equipment the bad guys carried threw the thought of using his thermobarics out of the window. Stunners would have to do, he thought, once again swapping out mags and moving through the cafe until he had an angle on the men on the balcony in final stages of preparations. Five to twelve, indeed. [color=#FF7800]”Am here. Grenades, then follow.”[/color] He let Purna know before pulling the trigger.

Four stun grenades sailed across the room, exploding in mid air between the Artemis anti tank team. Lightning arced through the air, writhing blue fingers reaching for metal and men alike and filling the air with cries and the smell of ozone, preceded by loud cracks.

The thing about exosuits was that they were made, at least in large part, of metal.

The thing about [i]competently designed[/i] exosuits was that they acted as a lightning rod, protecting the wearer from such hazards. The targets cried out more in violent surprise rather than pain, the men stumbling as a result of that and the massive kick their exos just got; a few thousand volts being to the electronic brains of their armor what a pint of Diplomatico would be to a human one and causing the lucky Artemis operatives to have their armor spazz out for a moment or the less fortunate ones’ to shut down entirely.

One tried to return fire, his suit’s mobility unaffected enough to let him turn around and raise his weapon immediately. But with any augmented vision modes temporarily or permanently disabled, he couldn’t see much as he peered into the shaded cafe from the sunny balcony. Until the muzzle flash, and then he could truly see nothing.

The Origin barked, the slugs shredding armor and mincing meat, target selection driven solely by how coordinated they were in their movements. Ebrima didn’t know where Purna was, but he must’ve been there unless the man on the other side of the balcony decided to die spontaneously. Another one seemingly threw himself from the balcony mere moments later. It was over almost sooner than it started, and Raven did not take prisoners.

[color=#FF7800]”I hope you know how to use these.”[/color] He said to Purna as they stood over the prepared AT weapons, Boraro recognizing a late evolution of the Israeli Spike-SR launchers. Shalev sold these and their sister variants like candy, able to source ‘the good, home-grown stuff’ with ease that stumped Ebrima even after months of working with him, but that also meant they were always around for Ebrima and the others to learn to work with. Hefting one on his shoulder and picking a target, he called it out to the Nepali cutthroat next to him. [color=#FF7800]”Be ready to run, they won’t let us be.”[/color] He cautioned - likely unnecessarily - and fired, throwing the disposable launcher away and immediately reaching for another one, the first two BTRs doing their best impression of Roman Candles before the pair could reload.