"Second time al-Sahra's been chased off." When Jean-Paul speaks, he sounds just a little breathless, although he stands without sign of apparent injury. He is suspiciously light on his feet; it isn't quite right, the line of his legs and the way his weight settles on his feet. "Can't happen a third time."
Prime, or is it Prime? There are a positive network of Jamies spread out at the moment. Anyway, a Madrox is close to Jean-Paul, with all his apparent uninjuredness and his suspicious light-footedness. "Third time may hurt us badly. Can't leave, though."
"No. Can't leave." Jean-Paul glances to the side, low-lashed, in an evaluation of injury that he probably thinks is subtle. He stands quite still, chillaxing after having finished with the 'are you alive, well let me go ahead and tie you up then' checks. "Not entirely, anyway. We don't need the rest of us returning right into their arms."
This Madrox is completely uninjured and through the magic of absorption and re-absorption will probably walk away from this next to unscathed. Unfair, isn't it? His evaluation of Jean-Paul's stance is a little long, a little quietly critical, a little familiar with means and methods of floating, perhaps. "And we've blown up their camp and most of the portal's cover. Work to do. Well. I was sick of the base anyway. Do I need to send you off with Chol and Nightshade?"
"No. I'm fine." It is a mild lie, especially compared to Jean-Paul's earlier whoppers. Harrison won't tell, right? Their little secret? He shifts, moving into an easy glide over the ground toward the perimeter. He doesn't bother to fake footsteps. "Novotny and Harwin are capable enough with surveillance on the approaches. But securing this--." He breaks off with an aborted gesture. His right hand falls to his side. "Anyway, it's beyond them."
Madrox hooks his hands behind his back and strides along. "But not beyond us. Not yet. We'll give them some pause. But unless we're setting up a permanent home in Nicaragua, we can't hold it indefinitely."
"Of course not," Jean-Paul says with a smothered prickle and snap escaping in the grit of his teeth. "We don't need to hold it indefinitely. Just -- long enough."
Madrox slides a glance over. "Long enough. Sure you're all right?"
Jean-Paul turns a gesture down, waving the question away, but the movements are minimal and confined largely to fingers, hand, and wrist. His arm is still. "Bruise," he dismisses. "I don't like the idea of thinning us out even more over here, but I like the idea of them coming back to find Silvio waiting, smiling even less."
"Right," Madrox doubts. And, "We'll just have to hope they come back quickly. Hasn't been so long, has it? Come tomorrow evening, we'll be happily reuinited and go home."
"Not so long," Jean-Paul agrees. He pauses at the far perimeter inside the fence and turns then to look back across the compound. "Friday, Saturday, Sunday. No, not so long. But -- I wonder what it's been for them."
"I don't know," Madrox says, a little subdued. "We'll stay until they return. Even if it's just you and me. I promise."
His smile a crooked twist at the edge of his lips, Jean-Paul asks, "Regret not going yet?"
"Only from the first hour," Madrox says with a mild snort. "I guess we could send a smaller team to El Rama, find Silvio, and beat him up. Why not, right? Only good prevention practice."
"Now /that/ sounds cathartic," Jean-Paul says with some heat.
"Exploding kneecaps not quite enough, huh?" Madrox asks, a little abstract. "Don't know that haring off after them's great tactics, though. We're sitting right on top of what al-Sahra wants, and they'll know it one way or another."
Heat fading with that dash of cold water, Jean-Paul swallows as his gaze turns toward remnants of carnage. "I didn't -- never mind." His right hand shifts, then falls, and he lifts his left instead to rub at his eyebrow. "Yeah. I guess we are. I guess we'll see."
"I know," Madrox says with a little regret. "I hope they come back soon. Little nervous about that third wave myself. Our ambush . . . sieve had too many holes."
"I don't know. How many times can they come back to get kicked?" A quiet, sharp note in his voice, Jean-Paul says, "Hell." He pushes forward. "Let's see what we did manage to catch in our net."
"We could . . . " But whatever it is, Madrox cuts it off. "Indeed. Focus, focus." And so he focuses.
At least not EVERYONE runs away when JP wants to talk.