[b]5-8-2039
288km W of Xanathan Outpost Lamda-5 (Somewhere in former Angola)[/b]

[i]"Danse!"[/i]

The image; a singeing cascade of sparks that swam to him through the stupor of  trauma. There was a sound, layered deep beneath the muted thumping of his own erratic heartbeat. The form of Corporal Danse struggled as he attempted to rise, his movements impeded by an unknown weight. His gaze scanned down, past the tactical rig and plate carrier from which protruded the better half of a five-inch long steel projectile. Bloodied and unsteady hands tried to free it from the armor, but it would not yield. The adrenaline that surged through his body was beginning to falter, and with its ebb came pain's flow. 

[i]"Danse!"[/i]

Bile rose in his throat as his eyes fixed on the exposed tissue and bone of his legs. The splintered end of his right fibula was barely held in place by the straps of the kevlar panels that had failed to protect him. He fought the urge to vomit into his own wounds, even as the pain began to peak. Using one of his arms as a fulchrum, Danse strove to pull himself upwards enough to free the drop pouch secured to his war belt. Successfully retrieving an autoinjector, Danse immediately pressed it against his jugular and bellowed as a cocktail of combat enhancers and receptor-inhibitors flooded his system. 

With the sudden flush of chemicals pumping through him, recognition gripped Danse as he yelled in response, [i]"What the fuck was that?"[/i] He tightened the straps on his damaged leg's armor, fashioning a makeshift torniquet and splint. It was then that he realized his orientation wasn't quite what it had been before he awoke in this condition. Danse found himself with his back propped up by the vehicle's ceiling; the dust within the cabin was beginning to settle as he hobbled towards the voice. 

Passing the containment cell that housed that mutant bastard, Danse peered inside but was unable to make out much through haze. There was a large crater directly across from him, something having torn through the APC's foot-thick composite armor with relative ease. Reaching the control console, he began hailing all XSF frequencies only to be met with static on each channel. 

[i]"Danse..." [/i]

The voice called out to him, hardly above a whisper, but he was relatively sure he was alone. He peered down the cabin's length, searching for any sign of his squad. It was then that he noticed the cell's door was cracked open. Danse drew his service pistol and approached it cautiously; he pulled the door open and waited for the air to clear somewhat before looking in. 

[i]"D-"[/i]

He looked down at the crumpled form of Specialist Wyckers struggling to hold closed the split across his abdomen. Thick blood oozed between the folds of his arms and his chest rose and fell in a crude imitation of breathing. A gurgle rose from Wyckers as he attempted to call out once more, only for the resounding echo of a gunshot to reverberate throughout the compartment.

Keeping his weapon drawn, Danse attempted to leave through the rear door but was unable to force them open. He turned and exited through the blast point, gritting his teeth as he slowly shifted weight onto his injured leg. The rest of his squad were laid out in the road in several stages of dismemberment, some still deluding themselves into thinking they were counted amongst the living. 

The rest of the convoy was nowhere to be seen, he noted. Glancing at the state of his leg and weighing the odds of survival alone; Danse injected himself with a second and most likely lethal dose and pulled himself onto the top, or bottom, of the vehicle to gain some height. In the wake of hyper-awareness, he could hear a battle raging in the distance. Against the night sky he saw several pillars of smoke rising; and there close-by... Movement!

[b]Earlier that night...[/b]

Reclined against the massive bole of a baobab, Mshale carefully studied the path Aya had spent much of her concentration creating since old Assad had come up with this plan months ago. It was devious of the old lion, creating the most efficient and therefore cheap route for Xanathan and their dogs to take. So pleased was the commander with the plan that, for the fist time in months, Mshale saw her smile and completely break away from looking into the Kichaka Siri. 

Peering through the baobab's boughs at the moon, Mshale inhaled the sweet perfume of its fruit. Tempted, he gave in and with the flicker of a thought one of the fruits flew into an outstretched palm. A crack appeared across its shell and half of it was flung away. 

Mshale tossed a pulp-covered seed into his mouth and adopted a meditative pose. He began to concentrate and collect his might into precise points along the road; an intense application of his willpower over the next hours would yield blasts far beyond what Xanathan was prepared for. He smiled, savoring the flavor. Mshale would enjoy tonight very much.