Ilad, Jack, Ritter, Steve, Terry
Whether it's the middle of the night or the middle of the day that the blizzard begins to wane is impossible to tell -- the dimmer light through the cloud cover and the howl of snow remains more than enough to see by as the sun continues to resolutely refuse to set. Regardless, it's been a solid eight hours of blizzard by the team's timekeeping mechanisms when at last the blue bowl of the sky returns overhead and the team can leave their cave without risking getting lost ten feet from the shelter's mouth.
Outside, the new snow is not uniformly deep, but has drifted in some spots and blown clear in others, leaving their snowmobiles half covered and the wreckage of the plane almost disappeared. The Canadian Ranger guides have not yet returned, but a happily less garbled message has reported them just leaving Resolute with fresh supplies and gear, due to arrive in two hours' time. It's a peaceful and starkly beautiful world that awaits them. Who's up for a snowball fight?
The last man on watch, Jack ventures out: snow-shod and shotgunned, with sidearm holstered, parka hood up, and goggles in place to allow enhanced eyesight to function without turning rapidly into most-easily-blinded. There is a great deal of trudging inherent in his movement over the snow.
The layers of thermal underwear Terry's wearing feel like individual sheets of ice as she shuffles her way to the entrance of the cave and sticks her head out. A few cautious steps take her outside, following the path Jack has broken through the fresh fallen snow. "Bloody hell," she mutters under her breath, hopping around in place to stretch the cave-induced kinks out. She starts to dig at a pocket.
The howl of the wind across the cave's mouth has made a decent benchmark of the storm's progress, and it is by this that Steve measures its slow and stop. He rises, a little stiff and slightly favouring his left, from his spot by the wall, running down a careful mental checklist of what little he has with him. (He was not exactly /prepared/ to be stranded in the Arctic for better than sixty years, after all.)
"Fucking finally," is Iago's exasperated opinion of the blizzard letting up. At the entrance to the cave, he seems a might reluctant to actually /go outside/. Hey, it's cold out there! Though he is prepared to do so in snowshoes and with both pistol and shotgun holstered on her person, even if he doesn't look wary and ready to use them so much as generally annoyed at the weather still.
The cold has eaten bone deep, undercutting Ilad's studied discipline in ways he has never permitted simple pain to do. His maneuver has brought him close to the fire in the shelter more often than not, or huddled close in on himself, or hanging close to others for warmth. Now as the others begin to filter out into the brilliant whiteness of the chill world, he -- hangs back, taking a deal of time about making certain his gear is in place and equipment in order.
Out of sight but not out of sound, the sharp report of a rifle shot shatters the muffled stillness of the post-storm world. Another sounds, and then another... and in the distance something massive roars with bestial pain and rage.
Terry's head jerks up at the rifle shot, hearing bringing it closer to home and enough to make her hit her knees, if not quite faceplanting in the snow. "What the hell?!" And then the roars, and she looks to the others.
The report of the rifle has Jack hitting the di-- snow, automatic response to get /low/ and out of line of sight overriding things like 'oh boy, that's cold.' "Take cover!" isn't a bellow to match the whatever-just-got-shot (bear? was that a bear?), but it's an order, and it's loud enough to carry.
Iago is still in the cave entrance, so 'take cover' is probably pretty easily done. Anyway, he ducks behind some of the rocky cover, hand on his sidearm, and frowns. "Too much to hope those our our guys, right?"
Well, Ilad is in cover since he is still in the cave; to find new cover outside of it, he would probably have to break orders to find new cover. He moves to take up his own rifle with a low mutter under his breath in a language no one here speaks. Taking it up in hand, he makes sure it is loaded and flares his nostrils in a snort as he glances up and over in Iago's direction. "Our guys," he repeats, "with bullets?"
The rifle shots and wild-animal roar are galvanizing even without orders, and Steve drops back, drops low, and unshoulders a rifle as WWII-era as those carried by yesterday's Rangers, if a little - newer. "I'd say whatever they're hunting is the bigger worry right now," he says, though he sounds steadily calm. "It sounded close." And, you know. Wounded animals.
"Well, they did say they'd shoot bears for us," Iago points out with a glance at Ilad, though it's said a bit grimly. He doesn't really think they are lucky enough for that. "...oh," he simply says to Steve and then /jumps/ at the bears roar. Ok, that /was/ close. Forget his sidearm, Iago scrambles (sadly not very smoothly) to ready his shotgun instead, heavier breaths misting in the air. "Fuck."
Jack manages not to flail -- too badly, given that he's in snow, with snowshoes, and unslinging a shotgun, and -- that is defintely a bear. "Hell," he says, for the umpteenth time, followed also by, "shit," and, oh, good, Terry's taken over his title. "Take it /down/," is maybe a little bit more strangled and less decisively order-like. The animal conservationists must /love/ him.
It's a rampaging polar bear. The animal conservationists can deal.
Ilad glances down at his rifle with something almost wry about the quirk to his mouth. "And me without a hunting license," he says. He lowers the rifle, carefully setting it down, and pulls out his pistol instead. With his off-hand free, he tugs out his lighter and snaps it once, open-closed. He does not ignite anything ... yet, but there is that light in his eyes that suggests -- you know, he is thinking about doing something stupid. Most of you have seen it before.
Rearing bears are more than a little terrifying. Rearing bears are also conveniently exposing their very large bear chests. It is the latter that Steve takes advantage of, drawing a steadying breath as he draws a bead on the animal, aiming for a decisively more vital area than whoever had been shooting at it before. His rifle cracks, and he tries not to grimace at the thought of just how few shots he has left.
Iago has now definitely seen bears. He probably would rather have now, though. With a bit of a yelp -- holy crap these things are so much bigger when they are right there, aren't they? -- he lifts his shotgun, braces and fires at the bear.
Jack scrambles back as the bear roars and rears, and follows his own orders as, butt-planted, he braces and fires off a shotgun round at the bear. Then does some more backwards scrambling, because holy shit have you /seen/ bears?
With size and momentum and adrenaline, the bear crashes forward for a few more strides and another roar despite the triple impact of shotgun, rifle and shotgun, before his strides become uncoordinated, legs tangling over themselves as he staggers down the slope before there's a gurgling moan and the bear simply slides, dead weight and with a blood trail streaking behind it. For a moment, there is silence again.
Ilad flicks his lighter again, and lowers his pistol in the silence. His eyes narrow behind his protective eyewear as he emerges into the chill white from the mouth of the cave. His breath steams.
After a bried glance at the bear, Terry trains her field glasses on the horizon back in the direction the shot sounded like it came from.
"Well," Steve murmurs as he checks and reloads his rifle, gaze still half-fixed on the snowy plane from whence the bear came, "that was bracing."
Oh God, it is still moving forward. Iago starts a scramble away from the bear, until it finally staggers and dies, and he comes to a stop himself, breathing heavily in the silence. "We, uh,...we probably still have incoming," he says quietly after a moment, gaze still fixed on the bear.
Through her binoculars, Terry sees a man in all-white winter gear army-crawling along the upper edge of the slope, head covered and a rifle in hand. He's probably not alone. Nice little half-valley they're in, huh?
Jack finally tears his gaze away from the bear, shotgun still at the ready and breath coming heavy-hard to follow its trail of blood and disturbed snow from whence it came. "Regroup," he says, not that they've really-- spread out that much, and he's really the only one stuck out there in front, "back at the cave--" this time there is definitely more scramble than trudge.
"We do," Terry says, modulating her voice to just carry to the others. "Top o' the hill. Movement." She gestures in the appropriate direction.
Steve glances back into the cave proper, brow knitting slightly in calculation. "How many?" he asks, quiet.
It doesn't take much movement for Iago to regroup. "Not our friends, huh?" He asks, but with a weariness of already knowing the answer.
There's only one where Terry first looked. If she or anyone else does a sweep, two more men, likewise white clad, are getting into crossfire positions at right angles to the first along the crest of the hill. A pair of snowmobile engines, previously silent after having snuck closer in the storm's aural cover, can be heard approaching from the open side of the valley. The first man on the hill lobs something overhead to roll down the slope: it can be identified as a radio. (Assuming nobody panics and yells about grenades.)
Let's say that they do. "One," Jack says, then corrects himself to, "three," and then just shouts, wordless, and dodge-ducks for cover. /Thrown things are bad/.
"One," Terry answers, but she does sweep, almost passing over the other pair, but attracted back by Jack's correction, she finds them and points for the other's benefits. Duck she does as well, but after a moment with no bang, she pokes her head back up again. "What--?"
It's a good thing it isn't actually a grenade, because Iago's reaction is to stare for a moment before doing as some others do and ducking. He uncovers his head and peeks around a bit after Terry. "Uh. Well," he murmurs, watching Ilad's progress.
Steve startles at the thrown object, then baffles. What. As Ilad trudges out, he aligns the barrel of his gun to provide cover, if necessary.
Despite the tinny quality of radio transmissions, it's still a familiarly raspy Australian accent (for some) that greets Ilad from the radio as he approaches it. The shooters hold their fire. "You have someone we want," is rasped, the breathing woes of one Hugh Ponting not at all helped by the frigid and dry arctic air. "And we have you well surrounded."
Terry startles and glances at the others, taking a few seconds for the voice to click into place. "Shite," she breathes, crawling out from behind her bit of rock to reposition herself closer. "The cameras were theirs." Again, thank you, Captain Obvious. "They were tracking him? /How/?"
"The same way you were, I'd imagine," Steve says, though his brow knits in concern as he glances, sidelong and very brief, away from his vigil.
Ilad crouches before the radio, looking up the slope through his protective eyewear as he hunkers in the snow to collect the radio. He lifts it experimentally, hunting for controls, and then presses to talk, in the traditional fashion. Very slightly, he smiles, the delay in his response to the crackling of the radio coming as only a hiss of silence along its frequency. Then he says, "Hold, please." Rising, he starts a shuffle backward toward the others. He holsters the gun as he moves, switching the radio to his right hand, and tucks his hand back into his pocket to reclaim his lighter. He says, in a voice tight with the itch for action, "They'll never see to shoot us between Prestige and me."
Jack says, "/Hell/," with a little more emphasis this time, and it's followed by a, "no," decisive. He looks at Steve, frowning deeply before he shakes his head, sharp. "They're the ones who opened the last--," he flicks another glance to their Captain, self-edits to, "--ones. Who knows how long they've been--" and then Ilad is proposing action. "Do it," Jack pronounces, "do what you have to to get us the hell out of here, and to keep them from getting our--" he hasn't recruitment postered yet, so, "new friend."
Iago is not one of those to whom the voice on the radio is especially familiar, but he raises his brows at Terry for her reaction. "Great," he mutters darkly under his breath, then glances over to Ilad. "Yeah," he says, "I think there's something I can do about visibility."
Steve considers for a long moment, then shakes his head. "If it's me they want, then it stands to reason it's my choice. I'll go. It will buy you some time to set up whatever it is you're planning on doing."
"There's no guarantee they will not be opening fire on us the moment you get clear," Terry argues, flicking at look at Iago and Ilad out of the corner of her eye. They can give them a little more time first hammering out terms.
Turning at an angle to make it distinctly more difficult to see, Ilad snaps open his lighter and smiles. The spark ignites in the flicker of a tiny teardrop of yellow fire. "I prefer to avoid hostage rescue whenever possible, Captain," he says, as a thin tendril of yellow-fire climbs into the air above the snow, blocked from immediate view by al-Sahra. He does not let it play with his hand because he is wearing a glove. "What we need is to cover and get out of here." He stabs the radio and says, "Why don't you provide us with an exchange? You come down here."
"There's no guarantee--," Jack begins, then breaks off with a nod to Terry as she says exactly what he was thinking. "We've dealt with them before -- with him, in particular, before. We've no reason to trust that as soon as they have you," he nods to Steve, "they won't just take us out. Now," he turns to Ilad, and there is something briefly gleeful in the grin he flashes his fellow agent, then sobers. "You sound like a man with a plan." This is good.
"There's never a guarantee." The flicker of flame draws Steve's gaze briefly, though he does not give himself time to boggle - he returns his attention firmly, perhaps over-firmly, to the men on the rim, to seeking out any other source of movement. "Fifty yards to the nearest," he murmurs. "Give or take."
"And have it be my turn to be the hostage getting rescued?" Hugh queries, with an edge of something dry in his voice that's undercut by a hacking cough. "No thanks, mate." Above, one of the shooters tracks his aim lazily over Ilad, while the one fifty yards away is intrigued by Terry. Hi bb.
Terry holds her hand out for the radio, in case Ilad needs to free up his hands. You know. She moves a few steps out, trying to spread the targets a bit.
Jack edges out a little bit, too. He's a better target than someone who'll be laid up by it longer, after all.
"Yes, sir," Ilad tells Jack, like a good sergeant blithely wresting control of the situation from his commanding officer. He presses the radio button again and asks with a very dry smile in his voice that does not quite touch his mouth: "Concerned your men won't try to retrieve you?" Thumb off the button, he takes a deep breath, and holds it. He releases it only as he hands off the radio to Terry. Then he turns in a fluid motion and blows at the thin wisp of flame rising above his hand. Suddenly, it is no longer difficult to distinguish. It blows out in a wide sweep in a sudden blast of range, neatly evading his teammates to blossom in blue-white pillars that stretch to the great width of a wall of flame that he blasts into the snow. Its tongues reach blue and white into the blue sky, sending up billowing clouds of steam from the sudden hiss of snow some liquefied, some evaporated in the sudden and bizarre heat.
Steve takes the sudden wtf WALL OF FIRE as a signal. He squeezes off a shot, aimed up at the nearest of the surrounding sharpshooters, in hopes that he's still /there/ through the obscuring fire and steam.
Cursing comes from the men on the hill as their visibility disappears in a giant plume of steam and FIRE, and one yells, although whether it's from a flash burn or a gunshot is anyone's guess. Two, however, still return fire. One shot goes wide, shattering a chip off one of the black rocks. The other grazes at Jack, unaimed and wild.
A wall of fire is a pretty good signal. As well as a good distraction. Hopefully for the moment the folks with al-Sahra's eyes are on that and not the team, because God willing, Iago is trying to make them all vanish into the snow. At least, where people once were he gives the impression that only snow and rock remain. Most of his focus, though, is on keeping himself unseen as he heads as quickly and quietly as possible for the 12 o'clock position, pistol in hand and ready.
Another shot is fired from the three o'clock sniper position, aimed at Terry but going wide and wild as her scream disorients him. The nine o'clock position fires equally blindly, a more rapid pace designed to try and keep their quarry ducking despite the continued cloud blocking his view.
Unaimed and wild plus parka means that Jack's hiss is as much surprise as it is pain, a yelp swallowed up by the roar of the fire and Terry's scream. "Then we should press our advantage while we've still got it," Jack answers Ilad, voice tight. With the wall of flame still a-flaming, he sets his teeth and scrambles slightly farther away from the cave mouth in an attempt to get a better angle on the shooters -- any of the shooters, although with Terry aiming probably not the one at three (or nine). He butt-plants behind some rock, and fires his shotgun.
Twelve o'clock has a face full of flash burn and is not likely to put up much of a fight. Are eyeballs supposed to be that pale pearly cooked colour?
Unaimed and wild plus parka means that Jack's hiss is as much surprise as it is pain, a yelp swallowed up by the roar of the fire and Terry's scream. "Then we should press our advantage while we've still got it," Jack answers Ilad, voice tight. With the wall of flame still a-flaming, he sets his teeth and scrambles slightly farther away from the cave mouth in an attempt to get a better angle on the shooters -- any of the shooters, although with Terry aiming probably not the one at three (or nine). He butt-plants behind some rock, and fires his shotgun.
Steve continues to scramble through the rocky terain, keeping low as he is able to avoid stray fire from the partially-flambed shooters.
Dark and quick-moving dots against the blank snow of the tundra, two more snowmobiles race inwards. They are not the guides. Weaving in and out, both around rocky outcrops and to avoid being an easy target, they close on the team's position with their riders in the same white gear as the shooters, and carrying a similar level of arms. Which of them is Hugh is rendered impossible to tell thanks to the parkas and the masks.
Steve takes a moment or two to measure the trajectory of the snowmobiles. Shooting is not the best option, given erratic course and swift speed and unfamiliarity with where one might, say, foul the engine. Instead, he opts to find a sheltered outcrop along the projected inward course behind which to crouch in waiting until one of the vehicles gets near.
One snowmobile stands off, waiting in reserve or perhaps to oversee, for the rider lifts a pair of binoculars. The other weaves closer and closer, giving Steve a good look at the automatic weapon -- unfamiliar modern design, but an assault rifle's an assault rifle -- that the rider has up and ready to begin strafing the group with as soon as he's in range. It passes reasonably close to the Cap's rock.
It takes up too much of Ilad's concentration, keeping up that much in the way of fireworks and tracking as much of the action as he can from behind his own distraction -- which is not much. His head turns, this way or that, with a low hiss of breath escaping ragged from his throat-- but in these circumstances, he mostly must just trust in his team to get it done, and never mind seeing them do it.
It is probably not considered ~sportsman-like~ conduct to sneak up on a guy who's just had his face flash burned and then pop a tranq round in him, but this is what Iago goes to do. He moves until he's close enough to shoot and then does so with a pfft. In case someone gets smart and decides to shoot at the gun noise, he drops to the ground after.
Butt-planted behind cover is great; butt-planted behind cover behind a wall of flame is not so much: after his first blast from the shotgun, /through/ (at?) the wall of flame, Jack realizes the trouble inherent in this plan. "Chol!" is still arctic-air harsh, but hopefully it carries over the roar of the flames and the approaching snowmobiles and the /everything/, "drop the wall," and then amends to, "We need a line of sight!" so, hopefully, they don't /all/ end up exposed.
Steve doesn't spend much time paying attention to the design of the assault rifle. What good is that when he can instead adjust his position, tense, and pounce like a rather overgrown cat at the heavily-armed mouse zooming past his perch?
"You must be /joking/," Ilad mutters in disbelief. But he does it anyway, because in the heat, you follow orders even if you think they are retarded. He closes one gloved hand in a fist, focusing on parting the flame until he is holding in place two distinct walls with a narrow channel of air between. Flickers of fire lick at it, puffs of steam and unaccustomed heat haze make it wobbly, but there you go. Look. A hole in the wall to shoot through.
Well, 12's condition is anti-climactic. He is tranqed. There's a sigh as he passes out, freed temporarily from the pain of the burns. It's probably not the best thing in the world to have the red and weeping skin of his face planted in freezing snow, but he's hardly conscious enough to complain.
Terry kneels again and pulls her pistol, taking enough time to squeeze off a few shots through the flame-hole before going back to crawling around behind it's cover. The edge wavers and she takes the corner extra wide, inhaling and narrowing the focus of her scream. She sweeps it up the ridge and follows hard on her voice's heels.
Jack blinks a moment, as the wall of fire -- parts, rather than falling, and so the next blast of his shotgun may as well still be through the wall of flames. Ka-blam.
The snowmobile rocks and rolls, but clearly Steve predates that era -- it doesn't go over. On the upside, neither does it crash into a rock, and neither man is dislodged. Try again?
Meanwhile, Terry has just managed to shoot someone with a pistol, through a gap in a wall of flame the width of Ilad's player's spacebar. Three goes down with a grunt and one last shot that shatters another rock outcropping. Congratulations, Agent Cassidy, you are awesome.
The wall of flame is starting to -- shrink a little. Both of them, actually. The gap between them grows a little, and there seems to be a greater proportion of steam to fire. Ilad stares intently at it, wetting dry lips in the blast of heat from his own work. Is he actually sweating? At this temperature? Surely not.
Jack's shot goes wide, but a shotgun has enough cone-of-effect to it that rock chips fly near where Nine is holed up and huddled behind an outcrop on the suddenly bare hillside. Some molten pellets ping at him too. A shot comes back through the flames, but goes wide in turn.
Steve's arm tightens, muscles tensing to pinch the snowmobiler's breathing, in case he's getting further ideas with that rifle. As the vehicle passes nearby (unnervingly nearby) another rocky outcrop, he shifts his weight hard, not to tip the snowmobile this time, but to throw the driver from it.
Terry crawls up the slope to find... her man down. She has to stop and stare in disbelief at him for a couple seconds before turning to look for the next position. That would be twelve. Hi Iago!
Sorry, person at 12. Iago makes sure that your faceplant still means you can /breathe/, before he takes a look around from his crouched position. The person at three goes down and he can't help but pause a moment all impressed-like (that defied the odds like whoa). Moment is there and gone, and he starts slinking towards the person still up at 9. You team people can see Iago, please don't shoot him, ok?
Hi Steve, you can haz snowmobile naow. In fact, you can -really- have that snowmobile. The goon riding it goes flying, with what may or may not be a classic movie scream, and impacts a rock with a thud and a crack of breaking leg bone audible even over the motor and the fire and the shooting. The engine roars and the machine speeds as it loses two hundred pounds of rider weight. Where would you like to go today?
Out on the fringes with his binoculars, Hugh reaches down to unship his own gun as he sees the snowmobile's fate.
Terry spies Iago taking off toward nine, and instead turns back to her man, squatting to check his injuries. She kicks his weapon out of his reach, then retraces her steps, heading back and angling off toward the entrance to the valley where Cap is, I think?
Wavering a little on his feet, Ilad keeps the cover going for at least a few moments longer, uncertain as to the positions of anybody beyond its immediate reach, and possibly just having reached a state of zen stubbornness.
Steve steadies the snowmobile and dekes through the last of the rocky obstacle course to come out near the valley mouth. He eases off the throttle and pulls it around nearby Terry's path as he spots her, flashing a brief, bright grin. "Need a ride?" he calls. "It looks like their commander's stopped a ways back."
Jack sees, and does not shoot. He was kind of being shitty with the shooting today, anyway. With Iago slinking toward nine, he re-shoulders his shotgun to go slink toward the closest of the already-downed al-S agents. Or goons. Whichever they actually are. Hey-ho. This also means that as he -- passes, or swings near, or whatever, Ilad, this time his order to, "Drop it," is a little more clear, if still arctic chill and adrenaline harsh. "I think they've got it."
Iago greatly appreciates not getting shot at, thank you. Cloaked as he can be in his own brand of invisibility, he lifts his pistol to aim at the person at nine, takes a breath and then fires.
Nine is caught unawares, and shot clean and neat in centre of mass with the tranquilizer dart. He slides down with a thump to reveal that he's actually a she as the parka's hood is knocked askew.
"Hold tight and stay low," Steve warns, before he takes off again, wheeling in a short arc and zooming back out towards the fringes and Hugh - even if he does not know who Hugh /is/. He takes his own advice on the latter point, using the wind screen for as much cover as it can offer - if from the elements rather than, say, bullets. He rides like, well, a man with enhanced reflexes, all speed and sharp jags and hugging near the rocks as he dodges them to provide the least possible opportunity for enemy fire.
Oh, hell with -that-. Once it becomes clear that he's become a target himself, Hugh hops on his machine, revs the snowmobile to life, and takes off across the tundra with a twenty yard lead. There may or may not be a wince as the other half of the radio is run over.
Ilad closes his hands into fists, and the flame cuts out with a sputtering hiss and a last billow of steam. He looks off toward the plumes of snow hissing behind the flying snowmobiles and squints a little, before turning to pace a little unsteadily over to help with the fallen.
Terry's hands slip from his jacket to around his middle, holding her pistol in front of him while she ducks in close behind him, cutting down wind resistance and holding on for dear life, oh god. Sorry about that vice-grip, Cap. She peeks over his shoulder to keep an eye on Hugh's figure as they pursue, holding her mouth near his back and creating a little pocket of warmed air to breathe.
Hugh is as good as a native-born Australian on a snowmobile can be, and thanks to military training with other sorts of vehicles that's actually pretty good. Still, his reflexes are human ones, and his dodges and weaves around rock outcrops and frost heaves are made with human reaction times. The gap is being slowly eaten away.
Terry doesn't waste breath speaking, but answers with a nod felt against his shoulder rather than seen. As the gap closes, she shifts and pulls one hand away from his waist (oh god please don't trow me) and lays it against his ear. She pushes up, trying to get past his ear, and screams, narrowing the effect to the target ahead.
Iago takes a look around, just in case there are surprise people around or something, but it seems that everyone is down and accounted for or at least not attacking anymore. He holsters his weapon and then trudges the rest of the distance to the fallen person at nine. After first pulling the tranq dart out and tossing it aside (littering), he checks on vitals just to make sure she seems alright (damn, that probably means having to briefly remove a glove, augh cold). "Need any help there?" He calls out to Ilad and Jack.
Steve drops one elbow to trap the arm remaining around his waist tightly between his body and his own arm. It is not perfect, but it is the best he can do to steady Terry in her forward lean while keeping both hands free to steer the speeding vehicle. He opens the throttle that last remaining inch, giving them just /that much/ more acceleration to close the gap to almost nothing.
Ilad looks up from kneeling in the damp snow before the guy with the gut shot and raises his voice, a little thin and thready, slurred around the edges of his accented words like he is swallowing their ends. "Help me with this one," he says. "My hands keep shaking. We could save a life."
The scream shatters the arctic air as much as those first early rifle shots did, interrupting Hugh's attempt to fire a fusillade of bullets into and at the snowmobile advancing on him. Two ping into the machine's engine, but then he's left screaming too, first a low yelled curse as the sonic force lances at eardrums and leaves him dizzied and pained and with his vision tunnelling to blackness, and then something sharper as he lurches off the snowmobile and ends up with the rear tracks of the snowmobile running over his legs. It's a sort of mercy when his vision fades to black and a warm unconscious darkness replaces the bright cold.
Iago leaves the woman at nine to her nap and takes off across the snow. He's attempting to run, but snow being what it his slows him down somewhat. Still, he makes his way as fast as he can, breath misting in the air as he arrives. "What do you need? Oh, shit," he says seeing the fallen Three.
Steve pulls the second snowmobile in a wide arc around the injured Hugh, and comes to a stop with one leg dropped to steady them. His expression pulls into a wince, sympathetic even despite the attempts to shoot them. (Or perhaps that's just the pained ringing in his own ears at whatever faint edge of power he might have caught.) "Can you drive one of these?" he calls back, over-loud now that there is no roar of engine and wind to contend with.
Ilad puts the propped open advanced field med kit a little forward on the snow. Himself suffering from nothing visibly worse than the shakes, he hisses a breath through his teeth. "Stabilize him," he says. "There is a lot of blood through his gear. See if you can find an exit wound?"
With Ilad and Iago on emergency medicine duty (and boy, will Jack feel like a jerk when he realizes those aren't just the shakes) and Steve and Terry on Hugh duty, Jack approaches broken-legged dude who had a manbear pounce on him. Mercy is swift, if not permanent: Jack unholsters his sidearm, prays his aim is better at range, and pfft-pows a tranq home.
Iago drops to his knees and gets to that, using the materials supplied by Ilad's kit to try and stop the bleeding. "You ok there?" He asks of Ilad while carefully turning the fallen man and looking for an exit wound. If there isn't one, not much he can do, if there is, more bandaging and such. He does what he can.
"C-cold," Ilad mutters dismissively, a faintly muddled expression on his face as his gaze tracks Iago at work with the bleeding man. "I'll be f-fine. I need some ... water." He looks blankly at the snow around, and shudders visibly before he clears his throat.
Bare, black and and rapidly icing from meltwaters rock hides blood where snow did not, but the little half-valley remains a scar on the landscape all the same. Still, the human damage is soon enough tended to, leaving X-Factor with a quartet of captured and injured assailants, one friendly war hero, and two corpses ursine and human. In the hour and a bit before the Rangers' arrival, they surely have time to whip up the basics of a cover story, for all that the two Canadian Forces members exchange a long look and a private murmur of Inuktitut that speaks of incredulity, Americans and nobody believing a word of their reports before they opt to keep their counsel for later and see everyone back to Resolute.
FWOOSH. GMing by Wyn.