[color=0054a6][center][h2]Sergeant Ruben Berne, Bravo-Team Office building, Winter 2525[/h2][/center][/color] [color=fff200]"There's not much we can do about a crowd like that unless we start taking pot shots from the windows!"[/color] Jason chimed as he slipped from the gloom of his windowed-perch, trailed pervasively by his room sucking silhouette, drooping from his feet and skirting the fringes of the dusted sills, reticent at the dimming of the sun. Berne's eyes lingered fleetingly at the shadow, at the point where, knee-high, it broke and splintered, spotted with ripples of shimmer in the half-light, animated at the fringe of its twisted form by the rhythmic hum of micro-gears and the hiss of hundreds of cushioned springs. Jason's mechanical adornments had not irked at Ruben's sense before, in ways, such limbs were a marvel, and on Earth were carved and worked into a myriad of divine and captivating forms, bejewelled or enamelled always in exuberant defiance of the reticence appointed of the cripple. But now, in the cauldron-heat of defiance below, and with the cyborg-girl, scarce twenty, scowling now in the corner with her metal-hands clamped to colder and more lethal steel, the leg seemed more profound, more prophetic, than the clump of hardware it had masqueraded as this last year. [color=0054a6][i]Shall I start taking my measurements?[/i][/color] Berne mused, tugging blackened gloves over the back of his hand before slipping it, cradle-like, into the grip of his battle-rifle, the cold of its padded-steel still invading his still-quivering palms. [color=0054a6][i]I am more...lucid now. [/i][/color] He thought, filled still, even after all these years, with the convulsive adrenaline of a fight to come. It was a burden ever soldier reckoned with, Berne had instructed himself, shaving, perhaps two weeks ago, at a window-glass shard he'd clumsy polished with the remains of a sock, to fling yourself at danger when ever sinew demands that you recoil, but it was one for which he was eternally grateful. Feeling the surge of anticipation drumming at every extremity only confirmed the beauty, the immediacy, of his humanity, and, despite himself, he could not help but pity the two cyborgs at his command, such curiosities of nature blown off and lost to them forever. [color=fff200] Calming them down is useless- We need to redirect their attention, is all, without sparking full force violence.[/color] Jason's continued, Berne snapping his head from the shadow to meet all too human eyes, once more. It was oft that Jason slumped beneath his helmet, but any illusions of a shrinking violet were dispatched to the wind by such irises, driving at their fringes and receding at violent turns, brimming with the ennobled flagellation of his youth. It was enviable, Ruben mused, as his helmet cruised over the dome of his skull, masking his jaded eyes and filling them again with the screaming orange of VISR, but how many others his age milled about now, beneath the smoke and pyre, armed with stolen pistols and the same, piercing gaze that would drive them and his team to a head. [color=fff200] You're good at giving speeches, Berne; Hop up on a podium, broadcast a message- Feed them some sob story, get them listening, sympathizing. Doesn't matter how. While you do, send Hanzer and I to grab our Nimbian. We're quick, clanky as we might be- Can get them in to have a little chat with out ambassadors before you even finish bringing the audience to tears."[/color] Ruben scoffed at that, as Jason genuflected in teasing bow. Berne knew his pontification to be more [i]Gilbert and Sullivan[/i] than [i]Mark Antony[/i], pageantry in the recitation stumped the stoicism that fit like a glove to so many ODSTs, and such a tone, all he could summon, could not be welcomed in the broiling-pot that the insurrectionists so clamoured to spill over. [color=fff200]"Keeps them from throwing molotovs at the capital, and unless somebody tries to fire on us while we're walking our new friend into the front doors, it shouldn't require a lick of bloodshed. Most of them are just farmers following the mob mentality, no reason to get violent with them right now. But, as always, Berne- The call's yours. And with fours and Iron on over-watch, it should go off without a hitch. As long as the Rookie can keep up with me." [/color] [color=6ecff6]"Seconded. But I stay with Berne. Something goes wrong, I can't back him up if I'm stuck jacking off up in some sniper roost."[/color] Fours concurred, finally returned from the rhythm-ed void of his neurosis. The four-by-four clicking of his shotgun, his rifle, his thudding yet impossibly still cheerfully irreverent footfall had been piteous and grating, both, when Ruben and his now well-trusted medic had first crossed paths, huddled under the flickering lights of an beleaguered infirmary as the mad-doctor hap-haphazardly administered agonising needle-marks to those soldiers unfortunate enough to have been flaked by particularly sadistic innie-opportunists. Pipe-bombs were something Ruben hoped he'd never experience, recalling the shredded limbs devoid of whole-some flesh, the potted skulls still loosely cradling a brain lucid enough to agonise, sights that curled his stomach even to this day, perhaps five years on. Fours, though, fours had displayed no such qualms, patching, without em-pathetically at the ruined skin, before retreating to a corner to rap his knuckles four-fold in the wall. Now, having woken to the clicking of shells nightly, four on the dot, on and off for half a decade, Ruben saw the habit as little more than an enigmatic relaxant, akin to the glass of all-too-gasoline scotch the Sergeant through back in the wake of another placated arena of rebellious uprising. [color=0054a6]Anything to keep him on task.[/color] [color=6ecff6]"Where's Iron tucked away, anyways? Feels better to get some input from our best eyes before we go in on any plans." [/color] Ruben centred his eyes, scoffing, guttural and phlegmy, from behind his muffled helm, before opening his comms for his pronouncement. [color=0054a6]"I've heard from her"[/color] The sergeant grumbled. To hear from his sniper,prone and vacant, no doubt, above, scanning the crowd with an ethereal, unknowable gaze, was a rare commodity it itself. In truth, Ruben knew nothing about her - long since abandoning any attempts at arm-round-the-shoulder chats in the mess-hall, pontificated scalding, as the Rookie had received, or even basic deference of greeting, all bequeathed the same, chilled response. For now, she was herself a commodity, a facilitator of knowledge. And it was always grim pickings. [color=0054a6]"She seems to think the cauldrons about ready to bubble over, and soon, and I don't disagree." [/color] Ruben recalled the light-show with which he had been entranced an hour ago, flares and tifo morphing into vulgarity-packed chants, that flickered profanity across his visor in a hundred hitherto feeble tongues and colours. When he had risen from his perch, sleepless, his irises still burned upon their closing, the sight of a petrol stoked and choking inferno fleeing, directionless from all sides of an upturned truck, coating the ultras and riot-police both in homogenising soot and, in the blind and colour-void struggle, the first of the thrown firsts and winding-ups of clubs had split the crowd further into factions of frenzy. [color=0054a6]"Jason, as much as I'd love to kick-start my fledgling political career with a storied speech, I can't imagine a full-armoured ODST is going to be a paragon of diplomatic virtue!" [/color] Berne wagged a dismissive digit in the in the air before fixing his eyes on Fours and beckoning him forth. [color=0054a6]"It would be...appropriate for us to split up, we are limited in our resources, but I cannot tolerate any injury to our charges. Fours and I will find the ring-leaders..." [/color] Grappling behind him in the gloom, Berne clamped a clumsy hand across the butt of a smoke-launcher, before throwing it at Jason's dangling arms. [color=0054a6]"Your good self, and Kensington over here, will watch the crowd" [/color] Berne commanded, gesturing at his second-in-command to recline himself across the sills once more. Kensington had an impeccable service record, it was true, but if in the song of silence Mira took the alto, K-Ton sung the bass. The man was apt and capable, moulded to the task of an ODST, if perhaps, prone to the chaff of subordination he did not by his extensive service merit, but he held his surrogate authority with a detached and pragmatic air. Berne knew his capable, but silence and militarism rung in his ears as a bleeding cacophony, and fours was far better a travelling companion. Besides, Jason was nothing if not gregarious, the stapled frame of a pair of vermilion tights perpetually above Berne's other-wise pristine bunk on the Prowler spoke to that. K-Ton would enjoy his leave of autonomy, and Jason would enjoy prising him from his shell. [color=0076a3]"Perimeter alarms just got tripped too- someone's in the building."[/color] Kensington implored, red flashing at his wrist casting his twitching face in a hazardous wash, even as his voice drowned amidst static and radio-chatter. This was grim news. The labour of the insertion had been draining, blood now pooled and steamed-off in clumps at Ruben's eyes, weeping as testament to his half sleep. With this encroachment, a crumbled and unassuming building against a smattering of lower-hanging fruit, came the foreboding gloom of the rebel's foreknowledge. [color=0054a6][i]Have they evolved?[/i][/color] Ruben thought, shuddering as he motioned to the stairwell, where the rookie twitched, a diminished predator, eager for the chance to discharge the weapon she had so delicately loaded with those cold, whirring hands. [color=0054a6][i]Do they spy on us as much as we do on them?[/i][/color] [color=f26522][b]"...Recommend deploy CS gas to disperse the crowds, then proceed to target building..."[/b][/color] A command crackled into vibrancy from amidst the static ether before its voice dipped and receded again into the throng of shouts and the ringing of footfall on the marbled floors below. [color=0054a6]"Right, safety's off, suppressors on..." [/color] Ruben barked, placing a hand on the Rookie's wire-mesh of a shoulder and pulling her back. [color=0054a6]"Luciel, I want you to run upstairs. Use the DMR to spot for Iron, if we fail, she'll need all the help she can get." [/color] Placing one foot on the stairs, Ruben whirled his armoured frame, clinking and shimmering in the evening-sun, to raise one final imperative digit in the Rookie's direction. [color=0054a6]"Contempt." [/color] He Implored, eyes shivering and rapid with intensity. [color=0054a6]"Is not justified." [/color] Turning with a gush of cooling wind, he squared his rifle to his sights, and softly descended. [color=f6989d]"Permission to fire?"[/color] Implored Iron, ethereally clear where everyone else had been crackled and piece-meal, her fingers no doubt drumming on her pristine trigger. They were close, he knew, perhaps only a metre of concrete separated sniper from commander, but all the same the clarity of her metallic twangs led credence to her name, and chilled at Ruben's weight-worn spine. [color=0054a6]"Not just yet, please." [/color] Ruben whispered at the comms, the bottom of the first flight of stairs already screaming into view. [color=0054a6]"If the crowd hear a sniper, our goose is cooked. Fours and I will try to deal with them more discretely. You just sit tight and watch for trouble makers. I'm sending Hanzer to help you, don't get twitchy when she arrives." [/color] Ruben glanced at his clock, the orange hum still driving whips of care-free steam from his snow-addled helm. [b][color=f26522]19:32[/color][/b], read the glow, stinging at Ruben's sleep-crusted eye-sockets. Time on missions was implacable, fluid, to him it had been decades since touch down, and yet minutes since the sun had last triumphed over the horizon. All he had was this one, excruciating pulse-light to keep him tethered to the present. [color=0054a6]"K-Ton, Stick, keep pointing those smokes at the crowd. If Fours and I go down, go up to the roof and find a way out from there. It'll be all up to you. Other than that, sit tight. We'll be back once we've dealt with the wire-trip. Good luck, everyone. And K-Ton, remember to radio this in." [/color] Sighing defiantly once more, Ruben threw his comm-link into a leathery pouch strapped to his thigh. [color=0054a6]"No more chatter, Fours." [/color] He glanced back at his medic, steadying his weapon and rounding the stair case with a deft and graceful verve, keeping the balls of his feet prised precariously from each footfall. [color=0054a6]"It's just you and me, now...[/color]