He never got the response he wanted, not that it even mattered or cared. The words were said purely to soothe his own frantic mind, with whatever else going on was merely added to the blur of action and the cacophany of lasfire, punctuated by the occasional blast from a frag grenade. He found comfort in the safety of their bunker, the lasfire safely embedding as smouldering craters in the sides, shrapnel appearing to do the same.

Then, as if the Cosmos themselves were wishing to spite the poor Redemption-born Cutman, he watched as the two fulcrums of Eighth Squad up and left in a flurry of concussive blasts. He sat there for a moment, bouncing in his kneeling position before he gripped his rifle, tears welling up in his eyes as smoke drifted in through slits in the bunker, making it difficult to see. 

"Oh, for Terra!" He cursed, crawling over to the bunker door and taking off in a sprint after the other two, not quite as adept at lugging around all his gear at once. More than just once his pre-owned boots wedged their cap in a rock, sending him sprawling with a resounding [i]thwack[/i] that left him winded. Luck seemed to be on his side, though, as he made progress towards the other two. 

The smoke drifting lazily across the hangar simulation, absent of any wind, obscured his vision - what he thought was Octavia and Tigraines turned out to be two frantic Legionnaires. A more seasoned warrior would use this opportunity to get the drop on them, seize the intiative and dictate the tempo - instead, Phrike came to a skidding stop.

For a moment, both parties peered through the smoke.

[i]Lasfire.[/i]

A volley of poorly aimed beams of red light fired where Phrike once was, the Paleman now huddled behind a burnt out wreck of a Taurus, the radiant heat scorching one side of his face. He couldn't stay here long, the animalistic "fight or flight" instinct taking over as he heard them stepping over towards him, one around the left; the other around the right.

He took off in a sprint, startling the one on the right as he booked it past him. Through sheer luck, he avoided the volley of lasfire, until the very last instant. Just as he was about to crest a mound of rubble towards the correct squad, the entire left side of his body light up in extreme agony. He didn't stop, however, even though he was no longer under fire. He had no idea if they were still chasing him.

Falling in line behind Octavia and Tigraines, panting, he gave himself the chance to inspect his wound. A lasblast had scorched his tattered dungarees, fused into his skin from the heat, across his arm. He didn't need to worry about bleeding, the wound had been cauterized, as had the other round on his shoulder and side. He'd be fine.

His lascarbine, however, was not. It had copped two blasts, one that melted the side of the barrel inwards and the other across the front of the receiver, clean through. A tentative pull of the trigger only gave him a resounding whine from the receiver and a futile spark, he ditched the weapon behind himself as they ran, clutching his knife instead as he attempted to keep pace with the other two so as not to be left alone.