--------- [b]Eve[/b] --------- Eve and Kris continued to rush through the forest with Alpha, eventually coming to a large open road. “Drake, we need an evac now!” “Negative on that evac Eve, I’ll swing back around in a ‘sec. Just hang in there, and don’t let ‘em split you up.” Drake responded as the Arrowhead roared into the distance. Eve swore under her breath and and cast a shield into the ground, the solid energy ripping through the asphalt and stretching to nearly five feet high. It would act as a body shield and as a roadblock, if the NTR decided to use any ground-based vehicles. --------- [b]Winchester[/b] --------- Winchester’s muscles tensed beneath his armor, his flesh pressing against the cold second skin he had become so used to. He flexed his jaw subconsciously, his teeth making a sound like grinding stone. He slipped his helmet onto the rest of his armor, his vision filling with false colors and flashing lights. There was no music this time. No growling vocals or shredding guitars. Only Winchester and his thoughts. Today was going to be a good day. He took a step forward, then another, then another as he made his way out of the Woods and towards the familiar sounds of battle. Even basic bodily functions seemed to escape Winchester in those moments, his mind elsewhere entirely. He was excavating his past self. He needed to if he wanted to win this battle. He felt phantom pains and translucent sensations fill him once more. Today was going to be a good day. He remembered The Pits. He remembered the blood-soaked sands beneath him, and an equally bloody sky above his head. He remembered roaring crowds and belligerent combatants. He remembered why he fought. For his family. He fought just so he could get by. But he remembered a moment that would come to define him forever more. Moments where the snapping of bone and the yielding of flesh to steel was tantalizing to the senses. Today was going to be a good day. Winchester remembered now. He felt all restraint and connection leave him in one instant. He felt his blood boil within his veins and a slurry of chemicals flood his cranium. Winchester remembered why he fought. Not for money, not for power, not for recognition or glory. He heard a memory beckon him. He remembered his father’s question: Why do you fight? Winchester stared at the advancing forces with a smile on his face, as he readied an automatic rifle in his hands. Winchester answered his question: “WHY THE HELL NOT?!” Today was a good day. ---------- [b]Drake[/b] -------- A supersonic boom echoed throughout Dojoville, like a prodigal thunderclap sent by an angry god, followed by the booming roar of thrusters. As if it were a lightning bolt streaming towards the ground, the Arrowhead leapt out of FTL, its engines whining and its guns blazing. Drake pulled back hard on the throttle and pitched the ship up slightly, allowing its point-defense emplacements to open fire on the various NTR sniper positions. Without a proper targeting solution, the shots were largely inaccurate, but the sheer quantity of bullets--like a solid wall of tungsten--made cover a necessity. He strafed over towards the charred ruins of Alpha’s Sparrowhawk with his directional thrusters, continuing to bombard all NTR ground forces with the combined fire of several point-defense turrets. He opened the rear cargo hatch of the ship, and let several large crates fall to the ground, forming some semblance of makeshift cover, one of which deployed a medium-sized bubble shield around Alpha’s position, and the two others of which contained weapons crates, full of Silver Dollar coilguns and random handheld explosives. Drake then sealed up and flew off in the direction of the bombers, another plan formulating in the back of his mind. For now, he was gone. As adrenaline streamed through his veins, he grunted out a reply to Eve, G-forces pinning him to his seat. “Negative on that evac Eve, I’ll swing back around in a ‘sec. Just hang in there, and don’t let ‘em split you up.” --------- [b]Sawyer[/b] --------- Mud, strewn foliage and the far-away crackling roars of gunfire preceded the man as he sat perched upon the rock overlooking the grassy, rolling plains on the perimeter of the Dojoville, within the stasis bubble that kept away the furious blizzards of Tatakai. A knife was clenched between his teeth, biting into the tied hilt of the lengthy weapon, and upon the pained moaning of his comrade the hulking figure dropped from the boulder. War paint encircled his eyes, concealing weary bags after sleepless nights posted in the battlefield. A simple war-dress clothed him, a tattered, flowing cloth native to the Paladins of Prillion. He walked from the shrouding trees of the forest, unarmed, clad with only a simple knife, and sprinted into the ensuing battle.