The moment the crew set off on their own respective chores, McDowell kicked open the door and immediately gave the raiders a big, fat, juicy target to shoot at, like a Brahmin in a chainlink fence pen. “AD VICTORIAM, MOTHERFUCKERS!” he screamed loudly into the void that was the uncultured, barbaric group of raiders ahead of him, and he instantly made way towards them. Gunfire pinged off him left and right, the varied assortment of small arms fire not doing any damage to him. If there were any that questioned the value of a good set of power armour, they would be changing their mind pretty quick after McDowell showed them what's what.

With a large, wide swing from right to left, he easily smacked one of the raiders armed with a fireaxe in the side. A crunch followed, and with the assistance of the rockets attached to the hammer, the raider was reduced to being little more than a ragdoll, flying to the left and into a large truck. The hollow thud of the container on the truck betrayed that it was empty, but the damage was done, the man stumbled for a few seconds trying to remain upright, but ultimately the combination of broken ribs.. arms.. broken everything was too much for him, and he simply fell down.

The next victim was not much better off as McDowell brought the hammer back overhead and stepped forwards, bringing the sledge down onto the man, narrowly missing the top of his head but hitting the mans shoulder with ease. Or, well, whatever was left of it. Another crunch, this time far more sickening than the relatively minor one before. The arm was easily dislocated, but did not sever -- the hammer was far too blunt for that -- so it sort of jangled around. That would be a problem, but it was one of the more minor ones for the man, as the brute force of the hammer, Gregory's strength, and the rocket boost [i]on[/i] the hammer was more than enough to cause enough downward force to break the man's spine. He fell down, but not with the attempts to stumble around like the previous target had -- instead, he just sort of slumped backwards, and laid there, empty eyes looking into the dreadful grey sky above.

He was clearly not dead. Not yet. And in any other situation, Gregory would have planted his steel-clad power-boot deep into the mans skull, but there was no time to perform gestures of good will on the battlefield when you considered that there were at least a dozen more guys and gals, waiting to get the same treatment. 

So, he left the man there, forging onwards, and the man was resigned to praying that his brothers in arms would win. Or else, there was a big fat chance he'd spend the rest of his days there, paralyzed, staring at the sky, hoping to die of dehydration sooner rather than later. A bad way to go.

The heavy footsteps echoed in the area, and made a pretty big target out of him, and while Gregory was more than capable of holding his own against a larger force for long enough to buy time for the others, that did not mean he suddenly became omniscient. Several shots rang out from [i]somewhere,[/i] and several raiders dropped dead close to Gregory, including one that was behind him, coming from the direction of the horribly paralyzed man he had left behind. Gregory immediately opened comms, and began speaking. “Good looking out, thanks, who- RAAAAAAAAGH!” The message was quickly interrupted by an enraged Gregory smacking down yet another raider that had tried to get a bit too close with a cattleprod, grabbing him with his left arm and throwing him to the side. The comms remained open for a few seconds longer, and Gregory's "battle sounds" were sure to be heard by anyone before the comms shut down again.

Right as he was about to smack down [i]yet another[/i] fool, Gregory heard the crack of the whip fly by overhead. Whatever calibre was large enough to be heard from inside power armour when it flew by was large enough to be a danger, and Gregory knew there was only one gun on the field right now that could possibly be that big. He looked left and right, and momentarily contemplated getting into cover, but there were still raiders everywhere trying to shoot at him, and frankly speaking, being next to a fusion-powered deathmobile that could blow up from a few bullets, especially from a .50, would be a bad idea. No, being in the open was probably better.

There wasn't much time to contemplate this hilariously bad decision -- if there was ever a place to get shot by a .50 it was probably right in the open -- because the next set of targets presented themselves, seemingly brave enough to face off against this knight-sergeant in shining Brotherhood of Steel armour. Well, either that or huffed up on jet. 

Gregory lunged forwards and began swinging his sledgehammer wildly, sporadic enough that even he himself didn't know where the next strike would end up going, let alone the enemy -- no, blocking these attacks was near impossible, and if they managed to do so somehow, the rockets would certainly make it clear that blocking a rocketpowered sledgehammer was a bad idea any day of the week. 

One of these hits connected, and a bloody spray of red covered the field and any nearby victims, and suddenly, just like that, the mans head was gone. “Go back where you came from, subhuman scum!” Gregory roared, barely audible over the sounds of gunfire left and right. He reached out for the last remaining raider that was in range of his hulking figure, and held him by the throat, the gauntlet of the power armour squeezing into his throat.

By some divine intervention, the man [i]could've[/i] been saved as a sudden inexplicable yell from behind Gregory caused him to turn around with the man in his hands and all, heaving him high into the air. Exactly then another gunshot rang out, and for some inexplicable reason, the poor victim's innards suddenly splattered outwards all over Knight-Sergeant McDowell's armour, covering him in bits of organ and a shower of blood. Gregory held the body up a few more seconds, confused as to what had happened, before throwing the body down with a disgusted “ugh,” the realization that the raider had just been blue-on-blue'd by the sniper with the .50 cal seemingly not even setting in.

The battle carried on for moments longer, as the quest to kill the sniper seemingly had come to an end. While Gregory himself was not privy to the arrival of Chowder, the arrival of a literal horde of feral ghouls on the horizon certainly did not escape his eyes. “Fucking hell,” he mouthed to himself, “GHOULS?” He took a brief moment to look around at the battlefield, only barely catching the tail end of paladin Moss throwing down a vertibird signal grenade. The fact that the raiders were now turning to the horizon and focusing on the ghouls also did not escape him, and if there was ever a time to drive out these sadistic fucks and kill some radiated rotskins in the process, [i]and[/i] clear the landing site, this was it. 

Comms went open again. [b]“AD VICTORIAAAAAAAAAAM!”[/b] Comms closed. It seemed that, while Gregory's vocabulary might have been somewhat limited, at the very least he commanded a commendable degree of skill over the Brotherhood of Steel's Latin usage.  

With a sledgehammer heaved high into the sky, he began marching off towards the army of ghouls coming down into the warehouse parking lot, hammering down a few raiders that were unlucky enough to get in his way while they scurried to flee or tried to set up a defensive position against the rotting bags of flesh. [b][color=red]WARNING. POWER LEVELS CRITICAL.[/color][/b] Ah crap. Not now. 

Slowly, Gregory slowed down to a near crawl, and instead was resigned to walking at a pace that was only slightly faster than if he'd get out and actually crawl. The consideration to get out certainly didn't cross his mind, though, because well, he was strong enough to keep going, even if the power armour was less like [i]power[/i] armour and more like, well, just armour. The brunt of the weight of the armour now rested on his back, and he'd carry it if he had to.

Luckily, the mobility would not be a huge problem. The feral ghouls were a lot more predictable than assorted raiders, and would essentially run straight at him, allowing him to batter them down as they came. The brute force of the rockethammer was more than enough to dismember or decapitate them from time to time, since their skin had basically become nonexistent. 

With his efforts, the parking lot landing site slowly became more empty as raiders fled the scene, and the ghouls were prevented from even getting to the landing site, instead chasing down straggling raiders or facing off against them. The most unlucky ghouls of all were faced with the slow, but determined Knight-Sergeant, who would put a swift end to their irradiated, dirty, sub-subhuman misery.