[center][h1]PARTYCRASHER - THE SHITSHOW[/h1][/center]
Happy with the assassination of the mech pilot, Stafford righted himself and gave his person a brisk dusk off. He released a slight grunt as he stowed his rifle. Old age had treated the man well, but the wear of combat inevitably would take a toll. He engaged his suit to a brisk, yet comfortable pace as Queen called for the squad to rally for extraction.

He was skirting past the ship's fore on his way back to the DPV when he was made aware of the incoming blast, whilst desperately trying to disengage his suit without breaking his legs, he slowed in time to be caught in the first stage of the high explosive blast. Knocking him back just far enough away to not be pulled into the second more lethal stage of the explosion. He landed painfully on his large rifle, and a gruesome crack sounded below him. Unknown if the sound emanated from himself or his prized rifle. A secondary bolt of pain from his lightly armoured calf shot up through his person. After the short patter of spall from the ship against his visor he looked down, spying a gnarly hunk of rusted hull poking out of his leg.

His hand made its way to his belt, where he drew a pen-sized autoinjector from a pouch and dosed himself with expert precision. The ringing in his ears sounded, disorientating him. He searched for cover, not knowing fully what was going on. He spied a cavity under the main deck interior, presumably a ballast. He dragged himself over and took account for him person, drawing a revolver with one hand and unslinging the rifle with the other. He started by applying a thick sterile bandage over his suit, wrapping it carefully around the violently red piece of earthen metal. As the powerful stimulants he had injected himself with began to wear off, Stafford's vision began to dim and he felt his body go limp as he blacked out. For the short amount of time he was out, by the time he had awoken he was surrounded by the din of combat. Sadly it looked like he had missed the majority of the fight, but he was just in time to pick off a few straggling opfors with his heavy revolver, the heavy pop of the weapon being dulled by his apparently damaged hearing.

The injured man spied the incoming extraction and propped himself up against the hull of the ship. He placed the butt of the rifle securely into the ground and propped the folded bipod under his arm; he was using it as a makeshift crutch, ensuring no sensitive parts were bashed or the barrel was dug into the ground in the process. He limped his way over to the dropship, giving a disgruntled nod to the team lead as he emerged from his covered position.
[center][h1]HQ[/h1][/center]
Gloomily the elder emerged from his chamber, his crutch shouldered with grim experience. In the end, the mystery crunch in the battlefield did originate, from his wrist in fact. Fortunately, his dominant hand was left intact, but his right hand could not have the same said about it. His left had been through the wringer. With the wound cleared and cleaned, the extent of damage was revealed. Fortunately no major damage to the bone. But that was the only good news. It was a deep, ragged injury that would leave him crutch bound for longer than he would've wished. 

[@FourtyTwo]
He morosely entered the rec room, silently pouring himself a glass of port. He sat himself vaguely towards the back of the room gazing out at the sunset panorama as Skye fiddled away her quaint highland tune. He took a moment took recount his mission. In his eyes a failure on his part, the successes tainted by his lackluster performance after his injury. He was deeply disappointed in himself for letting his team down. As the beautiful melody came to an end he wearily began, [color=gold]"I let you and the team down out there, I should've been able to help more. I'm sorry, old friend."[/color]