Simon sat leaned against the truck's back tire absently staring at the tall grass. The swaying, green reeds pulsed under a strangely present-yet-not shadow. Each one stood at a slant, their ends pointing away in a giant circle. He followed the particular patch of grass like it held some message. Distraught and tired and hungry, Simon-Pietro frowned at the mad thought. When his eyes passed over the half opened truck door his mind jolted. A mad idea, but beautifully so. [I]Winni wouldn't want a riddled mind. Wouldn't want a riddled body either... Never mind that.[/I] He slumped onto his side and willed himself to stand. Raising onto all fours, Simon accepted the compromise and dragged himself into rear of the truck. He glanced backward to see the reeds nearly horizontal to the ground. After lying flat on the back seat he shut the door to a finger's width and watched.

The Blackhawk landed and with rifles protruding from the doorless sides. Weapons steadily zeroes on the slavers, seven soldiers hopped onto the ground with solid landings. Two barrels fixed on the thicker, healthiest men while the last scanned on the gaunt few seated in the cage. The seventh gun hovered over the slaves a while, perhaps saw the chains, and lowered their weapon slightly. While the slavers and soldiers stood at odds, the bound lot looked apathetic. Each soldier wore thick, desert camouflaged vests covered with pockets. They wore fatigues, pads on their elbows and knees, dark helmets, some even had thin scarves. Compared to the slavers they looked relatively untouched. 

After a while the taller slaver glanced to his comrades. The shorter met eyes, but Simon saw nothing of the Cajun. Like that the taller slaver dropped prone behind a low rock and fired. His shots were reserved and consistent -- clearly trained, even to Simon's ear. The two soldiers eyeing the taller fired until a blur ran across their line of fire. Rather than offering support, suppression, or anything of use, the short slaver took to a panicked sprint. His thigh burst twice, sending him into a tumble another ten feet. Somehow he'd kept hold of his rifle, but the bolt-action fired only once before his head popped and twitched backward. Meanwhile, the taller slave used the distraction to roll toward better cover. Simon watched him roll as dirt, bits of grass, and blood kicked up. The taller made it to cover by sheer momentum. Cringing, Simon searched for the Cajun through the thin opening. Against his better senses, he eased the door open two fingers more. 

A heavy silence fell until as the soldiers fixed on the cage. The soldiers lowered their rifles, then, suddenly, one snapped himself toward the truck -- and Simon. The barrel flashed and the single clap of the bolt left a hollowness in the brief quiet after. Light peaked through a small hole just at the top of the truck's passenger door. The soldier adjusted his rifle to fire dead center into the door next, but held. "Hands visible! Get outta there! Ten seconds, get outta there or be shot!" a surprisingly high voice shouted.

Simon pushed the passenger door open and, now fully dressed, stepped out. Hands held high, he moved with a deliberate rigidity. He stood taller from his old boots and bulkier from the rest of his gear. His motley hair hid under a boxy cap found within the heap of stolen wares and junk. Between that and long coat, gifted from the 1007th after the Siege, he looked like a proper soldier. Given time and inspiration, Simon almost looked military. 

"I'm a friendly," Simon exclaimed in a cough. When had he last drank? "Listen, I'm One-hundred n' seventh like you!" 

"Deserter gone slaver? You tryna insult us?" another soldier barked, stepping closer and lowering their scarf. "Have ta do better than that."

Hands still over his head, Simon gingerly pointed to the symbols on his shoulders. Keeping pace, he continued, "Like hell! I'm a sergeant under Lieutenant Handley. A sniper. Was moving onto that Washington haven. Scouting. My spotter and I got ambushed by these jackasses and've been separated since. He was out here when you opened fire, my spotter. Where's he?" 

Simon scoured the tall grass and shrubs for any partially hid figures. Lying so blatantly usually came easy, but he right now he couldn't bear their looks. Too many guns, too much armour, and too long since he'd eaten. He felt arms and legs trembling. The lie wasn't bad; real plan, real place, and real officer gave him a solid chance. If they knew him, they'd have shot already. Or maybe they were running a list of every sharpshooter-sergeant under their good buddy, Handley. [I]Christ,[/I] Simon thought to himself, still looking about. Where was that damned Cajun?