[b]Marshal // Shi Canyon // 2109 Hours // JT[/b] [i]Helicopter blades spun loudly over the Shi Canyon, kicking up dust and causing the nearby predators to cock their heads in curiosity while the prey simply fled their homes and holes for the flight's duration. The forest-green Extryte Transport Helicopter shined a bright light down the pathway, lighting up the natural pathway made as a variety of bandits were seen in the dark of the canyon. Black and brown was a common theme for the clothing, but one notable feature was the abundance of rifles and large caliber small-arms in use by them. Some looked up, but they were each silenced by a single blow to the head from the outsides of the canyon, snipers on the ridge allowing their silent snipers to sound like the quack of a duck in the distance. The helicopter's cargo door on the left side slid open and a figure stood in the doorway. Clad in his typical dirt-brown duster and matching hat, The Frontiersman watched the bandits below with a grin on his face. He had a well maintained black suit on beneath the duster, some sort of formal attire that seemed out-of-place for his usual job of killing and extracting, which would usually require him to do a lot of evil. On his hip was his onyx-shaded revolver Grimace, and within the pocket of his inner jacket's pocket he carried a strange, ornate dagger - Not too fitting for a cowboy. The man brought a lit cigar up to his cracked lips and grabbed his tri-barrelled shotgun from the seat of the helicopter as the vehicle flew above the enemy base, and with a step forwards, he free-fell out of the aerial vessel. JT landed on his feet with a thud, slamming onto the concrete of the enemy's roof, as his robotic knees absorbed the majority of the impact while the shock gels on the insides of his foot soles absorbed the rest. One of the guards went outside to check the roof, though with a quick shot, a bullet found itself lodged within his throat. The Marshal jumped off the roof and approached the door, swiftly kicking it in with his right leg. The hinges of the door were shattered, and the door flew to the wall opposite it, sandwiching a person between it as the life faded from his eyes. He had just died, due to slamming the back of his head into a wall rather hard. The Techno-Cowboy stepped inside the room a moment later, shooting one of the only four men in the room, forcing his torso to nearly cave in from the bullet. "Gentlemen, did I miss tea time?" JT jokingly asked the people in the room, his rough, thick and deep Texan voice being the root for their scrambling about the place in an attempt to find the firearms around the shack that they called a house. The Marshal shot one in the knees, before holstering his gun and grasping the second by the throat, throwing him into the third to knock the newly-acquired pistol from his hands. The M1911 fell to the floor alongside both bandits, as JT drew his revolver and fired one of the .44 rounds inside, allowing it to easily pass through their heads and kill both with only one shot. The room around JT was a dining room, as it seems JT stumbled in through the back door. Counters laid against one wall while the door to the building's backside was behind JT, and a table rested in the centre of the room, surrounded by five chairs and a pool of blood. A fridge and stove were on the far right while the far left contained a cage, with a blue tarp over it, and quite a bit of whimpers and cries of fear. JT holstered his gun and walked to the cage, gently pulling the tarp from the cage's surface, as a woman was unveiled. Broken and beaten, bruises line her bruised body, which was stained by white and red in a horrid display of abuse and other such things. Her tears swelled her eyes in a bright red shade, much like the wounds that dripped from her body. JT put the tarp back on her, grabbed the cage, and left the house. He headed to exfil, put the cage in the helicopter, and watched the chopper fly off with the rescued woman. JT stood outside the house, enjoying the stains of his cigarette on the dirtied ground beneath him. Oh what a life, that of a Marshal. [/i] ((1: Open. 2: Not here for the invasion, just a small side thing.))