PHD #081: EVENT - Puttin' On the Ritz
Puttin' on the Ritz
Summary: The MolGen team looks for new lodging after the events at the hospital.
Date: 18 May 2041 AE
Related Logs: Zero Hour Part II.
Oberlin Stavrian Haeleah Penelope Sawyer Barron Helios NPC 
Marigold Road Northeast - Leonis
This diagonal thoroughfare that links suburbs to town forms the southern arm of the rotated 'Y' that is the backbone of the city. With room enough for four cars on each side of the road and lampposts every seventy-five meters to guide their way, Marigold Road would become a glittering parade of hazard lights and neon at the first sign of dusk. Now that Kythera's electrical grid has been well and truly fried, no power exists to illuminate what unbroken signage remains: like the supermarket here, the gas station there, and the home improvement store behind, to name the stores on but one of its blocks. Most prominently displayed of all is a white Asklepian staff on a field of navy blue, to the right of which crest stands the ruined remains of Kythera General Hospital.
Post-Holocaust Day: #81

The hospital is lost. Cylon assault has ensured that the survivors and Colonial forces alike will not be able to use it for shelter anytime soon. The lower floors collapsed, members of Barron's group eliminated, and the survivors turned out onto the streets with only what they could snatch and grab during their hasty escape. Equally important though is the fact that the medical supplies, water, and various salvagable bits of equipment is now in Cylon hands — there won't be any chance to get back inside.

Still dark, turned out on the streets, the Colonials have only shadows for companions. They come in various sizes and shapes, from the long, skinny shadows of the light posts that line the main thoroughfare every 75 meters, to the burned out hulks of destroyed vehicles. From the traffic, it's apparent that the Cylon attacks came right at prime travel time: the road is a total of eight lanes wide, and cars are packed tightly together, as bumper-to-bumper now as they were then.

In the absolute dark of the city, the pulsing red eyes of the Centurions are a grim reminder than the group can't move back to the hospital…and that the Cylons are out in force, securing the area and looking for survivors. Working in their favor is the fact that they're dressed in black, lack glowing red eyes, and can move without cracking the asphalt. Knowing the area, Barron has suggested the Colonials move north to find lodgings and regroup, citing the sturdy constructions along Embassy Row as having had a better chance to survive a nuke blast.

<OOC> Madilyn says, "So, as I understand it, you all are homeless now that the Cylons collapsed your dang hospital. Many of the members of III perished within, but Barron survived. Cylon patrols are frequent in this area now, but if you're careful, you could probably move without drawing their attention."

Surrounded by his absolutely shrunken retinue of toughs, Barron glances out into the still air as evening falls upon Kythera, the already-prominent lines on his face like dark crags as he hefts his shotgun. "Butcher." He says to the lanky woman who seems to survive everything. "Let's stick to the shadows." He avoids outright ordering the Colonials to do anything, really. Merely 'advise.'"

Haeleah is as quiet as she can be, edging into the shadows without hesitation. Not so much on Barron's word, but it definitely seems a practical idea. She idly reaches up to finger her head, where some hastily-done stitches have been applied to the cut she earned on her scalp during the hospital escape. She sticks close to the other Colonials, her rifle held close on her shoulder.

Oberlin , meanwhile, has his wounded arm hanging limp in the ghettoest of slings. He has his pistol out, his rifle long since discarded, glowering down the street as he grimaces in pain. "First priority is to find a defensible location. We have to assume the Cylons know where we are, now." With a few backward glances, he then checks on his team. His face is littered with cuts and bruises, but really, so is the rest of him.

Shellshocked and silent, Penelope follows the raggedy group, rifle slung over her back. A length of pvc pipe supports the bulk of her weight as she hobbles, her left arm and leg mostly useless. In such a state… her stealthiness is Not So Much, but she moves carefully as she's able, eyes glazed and distant. The Baron's advice seems sound, and she follows it, sliding into the shadows with the rest.

Stavrian was probably the one that made that ghettoest of slings. Don't hate. He's got the scrapings of supplies with him, what he had from Evan's two recovered medpacks and what medical flotsam and jetsam he'd shoved away from the hospital's pharmacy — which is to say, not much. And the soil isn't even kind enough to gift them with useable plants. Bitch. The PA heads along beside the group, his dirty hair still matted in the back from where his scalp bled after concrete bashed him, hands holding his rifle. His attention's split between the way they're going and the wounded they're trying to protect.

Sawyer lost her helmet in the hospital. She was fortunate enough to have been sleeping on her pack when they had to evacuate, so she at least had the presence of mind to nab that. Not that it's good for much now. Her lips are pulled into a grim line, trudging along near the front of the pack for once, as she's one of the few that were uninjured during the invasion the day before last. Has it been that long? "How's the head?" She mutters to Stavrian, not chancing her voice above a low murmur.

The going is slooooow for the group. Fighting injuries and rush hour traffic, the suggestion to Go North Young Man is easier made than acted on. At the very least, there's plenty of cover for this ragtag group. Cars of all sizes — compacts, minivans, even a delivery truck here and there, the big boxy sorts — provide ample, if scorched, cover. In the fading distance, the Cylons at the hospital seem to (thankfully) be sticking to the hospital grounds; the glow and WHIRR-CLANK starts to fade.

The sounds of robots and settling, shifting rubble is to the south. On either side of the street, big box stores, supermarkets, gas stations and other various businesses loom in the dark. The insides are visible, dark and forboding, through those with big, shattered plate glass windows. Whether they have usable supplies inside or not remains to be seen: the thugs in this area had mostly been under Barron's direction as the group 'III.' Independent looters faced as much danger from their rule as from Cylons (which are, in fact, 'alive' and well on the west side of the river).

"River's not safe. I should tell you know, I got a transmission from Bravo. They lost Bartholomew, but Kulko's in charge." Oberlin says, softly and dully. "Goal is eventually to make it there to exfil. For now, we need to find a place to park. Stick to the shadows." Oberlin reiterates Barron's advice. The old man himself smiles wanly as his lieutenant wears a satisfied grin on her face. The other survivors of District III follow suit.

"You okay on your own, Pen?" Haeleah asks Penelope, falling back a little to keep in step with the other engineer. Should she need to offer an arm to the mobility project. A look to Oberlin. She doesn't seem to know whether to be relieved at that news or not. "They're still on planet, then? Part of me was hoping they'd been able to bug out. At least the comms are working." She sounds of robots in the darkness make her twitch.

"Holy frakking Hecate…" Penelope breathes, Oberlin's news bringing her out of the fog a bit. She reacts blankly to Haeleah's question, then manages to twitch a wan smile. It's possibly meant to be reassuring, but it looks rather sickly. "Yeah. I'm…" She takes a breath. "I'll make it." She plunges on, "Little shocked about the others. Glad, but… I mean… yeah. I guess I thought they were gone, too. Or dead. Or… maybe I thought we were dead." She frowns. "I should do less thinking."

"Bartholomew's gone?" Stavrian says under his breath, one dark eyebrow lifting as he looks up and over at Oberlin. Well, shit. "They in contact with the Cerberus, or is that too much to hope for?" He hefts his rifle more securely against his shoulders, keeping to the shadows as the others do. Cracks in the pavement, no worries anymore about breaking anyone's mother's back. He looks over at Sawyer, murmuring back. "It's good. I mean…sticky. Been worse." The humor goes way flat, but he tried. "You doing alright?"

Sawyer hears Oberlin's update and orders filter back through the group, which is kind of like playing telephone. At least the end message wasn't 'Kulko plays with shadow puppets'. There's a little bob of her head, and then she turns to relay it to one of Barron's men behind her. "Shame about Barto, I liked her…" It's said rather flatly, as if she's rather removed herself emotionally from it. The Journalist reaches up to rub at her neck, smoothing down the hairs that are threatening to rise as they're plagued by the sound in the distance. "You've actually had /worse/ head wounds? I can only imagine what college was like for you." As to herself, there's a shrug. "Holding it together. Still in one piece."

"Don't know. We didn't exactly have time to chat." Oberlin states with a furrowed brow and a terse shake of his head. "I'm making the assumption that they've got the wheels. Which is what was promised. Heh. Frakkin' Kulko." His chuckle has no mirth as he soldiers on. "Yah, Barto was a decent sort. That poses another problem. But we've seen enough people die already."

As far as the eye can see, the road continues north by northeast, one of the main arteries through the city. Aside from the buildings that loom on the sides of the street, some separated by large, expansive parking lots, the city is quiet. After the hospital, it's something of a relief. Perhaps the trip to Embassy Row won't be as challenging or eventful.

<OOC> Madilyn says, "Can I get Alertness-20 rolls from you all? The -20 reflects that you (presumably) aren't currently using flashlights as you travel."
<FS3> Sawyer rolls Alertness-20: Success.
<FS3> Stavrian rolls Alertness-20: Success.
<FS3> Oberlin rolls Alertness-20: Success.
<FS3> Penelope rolls Alertness-20: Bad Failure.
<FS3> Haeleah rolls Alertness-20: Failure.
You paged Oberlin with 'As you're running Barron…in the distance, you can hear the sounds of popping. Gunfire. It seems to be coming from one of those distant home improvemet stores (think Home Depot or Loews). Barron might tell you that some members of III were there scouting, rummaging for some supplies to correct some issues at the hospital. Oops!'
You paged Sawyer and Stavrian with 'If you listen carefully, there's a sound of…something, in the air. You can't see anything, but it could be the sound of something airbore, and since it seems like the airbase crew hasn't had much luck with Vipers…'

"Wait." It is Barron now, who speaks up, as he cocks his head to one side, his stylized patrician drawl in full effect now. "You hear that? Guns. Not Cylon guns, but guns." The large, tattooed man flanking him grunts. "Sounds like people, allright. We lost touch with Bruce's patrol before the hospital got hit. They still alive?" Barron himself frowns in the twilight and explains, probably for the benefit of the Colonial forces, "We sent a team to scout for supplies, hitting a mixed-use mall. We assumed they were lost."

"Not a story for polite company. Ma'am." Stavrian steeps his quiet words in a little irony, even managing to twitch a minute smile at Sawyer at the final address. If there was anything else to be said, to her or to Oberlin, it's cut off by an abrupt distraction. His eyes lift, a sudden movement that doesn't cause his head to raise any. "People?" The PA sounds momentarily befuddled, glancing at Barron. Then back up. "I…there's something above us."

Haeleah sees nothing in the night save the shadowed shapes of her allies moving around her. She keeps moving along with them, though Stavrian's words make her pause. And look up. Blinking into the darkness.

Sawyer glances up with the others, "No no, I hear it too. It's…that's not an engine, though, is it?" While Sawyer's hearing is good, she's not particually well at /identifying/ those noises. Either way, her instinct is to stop moving and flatten out against the nearest wall. "Friend or foe, Barron?"

"Heh. Polite company. Who'd mistake /any/ of us for that at this point?" Oberlin chirps, deadpan, but breaks off as the mention of more survivors is laid out. Before Barron himself can response, the Lieutenant says through a grimace. "Well, they're not cylons. So either they're the Doctor's men or looters. The latter I'm confident we can slap into submission, at this point."

Not to be outdone in the oblivious department, Penelope doesn't even look up. She catches only the tail end of the conversation, turning to blink at Sawyer. "Hear what?" She looks around, hopping a little as she motion upsets her tenuous balance.

"I can't tell," Stavrian says back to Sawyer, his voice as tense as the corners of his mouth. His eyes stay up a few moments longer, scanning the dark clouds as though they might be kind enough to give him a peek. "But unless they got Vipers back up somehow, there's not too much other shit around that flies." He grits his teeth and looks back down. Not much he can do about air sounds. Guns, though, that's a more immediate problem.

Oberin's statement combines with the observations of Sawyer and Stavrian: the noise in the air is indeed an engine. It's not Colonial, either. Though nigh-impossible to see in the dark sky, the thing can be heard as it passes overhead, no more than a few hundred feet off the ground, if a foot. Passing from northwest to southeast, the visible engine cluster at the rear reveals the identity: a Cylon heavy raider.

The sound dies down only a little as the craft sets down in the parking lot surrounding the store from whence the gunfire eminates. Disgorging Centurions from within, muzzle flashes illuminate bits and pieces of the action like some sick stop-motion film: 300-400 feet away, Centurions proceed to fire fully automatic salvos into the store…and whatever humans may remain inside. Those sounds most definitely are Cylon.

Barron's face is drawn. "We don't have anything to — " He stops, in a rare moment of indecision. "Nothing anti-air in your posession, eh?" This is to the Colonials at large. Butcher steps forth, almost dashing in that direction but the old man stops her with an open hand on the woman's shoulder.

What was that about it not being Cylon. There's a tremble from Sawyer, sort of a shake that starts from her feet and telegraphs up her legs. She looks like an earthquake erupted just below her stance, but somehow, she still manages to slip the strap of the rifle off her shoulder. "Oh gods, oh gods.." It's not vocalized, just mouthed, over and over again.

Haeleah tenses. So much for simple looters. She looks to Oberlin, unshouldering her rifle, though she tries to stick as near to the shadows as possible. "Frak me…" she murmurs in a low, low whisper.

Penelope watches the Raider set down in the parking lot with sick, mute horror. The moments that follow, the flashes of visible carnage, are only what's to be expected — but that doesn't make them any easier to bear. She sinks down against the delivery truck at her back, crouching in a heart-sick, mind-frakked ball, biting on her knuckles to keep from screaming.

"Dire ruin of mad savage fight…" Stavrian draws in a sharp breath as the craft lands, one shoulder turning towards the mall area. His eyes are already looking for Oberlin, quickly, as he flicks the safety off his rifle. "Sir!" He hisses, the sound weaving in and out of the noise of the gunfire. "Orders?"

<OOC> Oberlin says, "Question. How many centurions do there appear to be?"
<OOC> Madilyn says, "10, according to the BSG wiki."
<OOC> Oberlin says, ""
<OOC> Madilyn says, "As a reminder: non-marines have 20 AP rifle rounds (1 clip), and 20 regular pistol rounds (2 clips). Your marines have 40 AP rifle rounds, 20 pistol rounds, and 2 grenades. This is all in post 1/37. A few of you are injured."

"More than we faced storming the hospital." Oberlin's head whips around in the direction of the carnage as he winces. "And that's when all of our limbs worked." Oberlin grimaces as he looks to his battered crew. "I'm not going to ask anyone to do this. "If we go - there's a good chance we all die. If we win, some of those people may survive. And we get a way off this shitstick of a planet." He looks around for consensus.

Oberlin adds, "That's if anyone can fly the damn thing."

Penelope takes a deep breath and pulls herself together with a visible shudder. Using the truck at her back and her good leg, she pushes herself into standing, pulling her pistol. "It's a good day to die," she states with flat determination. "I'm ready."

<OOC> Stavrian says, "Maddy - all the cents are outside, firing in? Like backs turned to us?"
<OOC> Madilyn says, "They land, deploy, trapse into the store, commence murderizing."
<OOC> Madilyn says, "I figure they landed up close to the front of the store, in the drop-off lane (har har), and got inside pretty quickly, guns blazing since ammo isn't a problem for them."

Barron says, sourly, "I have so few of you left, do you think I will send you to die on some fool's errand?" That sounds like a 'nay.' Although his men don't immediately show signs of agreement.

"Don't think 'Raider Piloting License' is one of those things you can just forge up from Athena Online Flight School, sir," Stavrian says, shooting Oberlin a very grim-looking grin. "Shit, how'd they get in there so damn fast? We /could/ grenade the front of the place, weaken their backs and open fire in the flash."

Sawyer closes her eyes briefly, her head clunking back against the wall she's glued to. "You're all frakking insane." She mutters beneath her breath. With little to no time to create a diversion, they seem to be running on pretty limited options. And limited ammo. "There's gotta be a back way out for anyone in that building. They have a chance. We're not going to, if we just storm in there."

Haeleah blinks at Oberlin. "Umm…we can fly a Raider, sir?" This is news to her. Her eyes try and follow what Stavrian is talking about. "There some way we can avoid them. Not sure if they've spotted us yet."

"That and we never did a live weapons test. That autocannon's a frakking killer but if we jumped in that thing there's no guarantee we'd even know how to fire it. And just shelling the storefront would kill whoever's left inside." The injured Lieutenant snaps his head towards Stavrian. To Penelope. "I know you are, Pen. But we've got bigger guns to take back home." Finally, to Sawyer. "You're right, Averies. You're right." Oberlin says, bitterly as he shakes his head. "I'm not going to jump on that. If it was just me. We've got twenty-some people here and you're not going to all make it if we go."

Oberlin adds toward Haeleah, "Don't think we can." Simple, succint.

Democracy is not always a good thing. While the Colonials take the time to devise their next move, the Cylons continue their efficient killing. Fullauto fire shreds through the front of the store: registers and checkout displays shred under the concentrated fire of the Raider's 10 Centurion payload; the machines seem to spread out, making a firing line, as the press deeper into the cavernous home supplies store. Looks like those humans inside had the same idea as Sawyer.

Without missing a beat, the Cylon 'firefighting' crew transport rises back into the sky and zips across the sky, this time SE to NW. That's a full payload of Cents on the ground, pursuing a band of limited strength — thankfully, it's not in the direction of the Colonials here. The chance to commandeer the Heavy Raider is lost soon after it appears though. It would've been exceedingly difficult to cross that parking lot to the storefront anyway, wrangle the controls away from the pilot-bot, and then figure out how to work the thing. It's a grim indication that the Cylons are much more coordinated and capable of responding to threats than the scattered humans…and they aren't shy about swift reprisals even against small bands.

Particularly astute students of Kytherian geography would recognize that first the hospital was hit. Now, this shopping center, a few blocks north. It's as if they're sanitizing the city, running their fine-tooth lice combs that fires hot lead, from the south moving north…

Barron mutely shakes his head, and makes a gesture to move on, under cover. His people reluctantly follow suit.

Oberlin gestures as well, his face expressionless. "Come on. We don't want to end up statistics out here." He's apparently shaken off his haze and is ready to move on. He does so with whatever alacrity he can muster.

Bitterly, Penelope holsters her sidearm and takes up her improvised walking stick. She pauses just a moment longer, closing her eyes and kissing the medalion on her prayer beads. She whispers something, the barest movement of her lips, and limps forth.
It takes Haeleah a beat to move on and not because her head is bothering her terribly. Eyes follow to the building, as if they could look through it and see the people inside. But she'll keep moving.

Sawyer mutters another, "I'm sorry…" in the direction of the dark building, not the first time she's said as such to a faceless nameless person they were unable to get to. It's not a decision any of them should take lightly, and it certainly weighs heavy on the Journalist as she reshoulders her rifle and wills her limbs to move yet again.

Stavrian stands there stiffly for a few moments after they're ordered on. His blue eyes watch the back of moving heads, flatly, and when he turns to follow it's without a single word.

Moving farther north brings them away from the big box stores with parking lots, the discount and warehouse shops in complexes, to the more quaint and smaller, family stores: delis, gas stations, cafes, coffee shops. Parking dwindles down to meters on side streets, as the crowds here seem to be based more on foot-traffic. Aside from that run in, and the occasional pop of gunfire from the SE, Cylon presence is nonexistant. The same sound in the air from before can be heard, as more Raiders deploy Centurions all over the city as needed. A light breeze blows through the shattered windows of one small convenience store, right beside the street, disturbing some of the trash, littered food wrappers, and empty cans within.

<OOC> Madilyn says, "Can I have Alertness-30, when it comes to looking in the store, both since it's night, and since it's off the road, through the windows without their glass?"
<FS3> Stavrian rolls Alertness-30: Success.
<FS3> Penelope rolls Alertness-30: Bad Failure.
<FS3> Sawyer rolls Alertness-30: Success.
<FS3> Oberlin rolls Alertness-30: Success.
<FS3> Haeleah rolls Alertness-30: Failure.

You paged Oberlin, Stavrian, and Sawyer with 'If you stop a minute and look inside that particular shop, you might see something moving. They're big and awkward, they clank, and when Penelope stumbles on a piece of car bumper or something littering the street, red eyes turn to look right. At. You.'

"In the shop." Oberlin's hiss is prominent. "Cover. Move. MOVEITPENMOVE!" He's a little impaired, but not /that/ impaired. He hauls ass as fast as he can, attempting to barrel into Penelope and move her somewhere less directly exposed to the window.

Haeleah move-move-moves on Oberlin's orders. She can't see a thing, but she can play follow-the-leader just fine.

You think the gods are laughing at them, sitting around a giant plasma screen TV while they munch on popcorn? As the Centurions' cover is blown by Oberlin and then Sawyer adding her own frantic, "Down! Down!" no doubt they're all throwing kernels at the screen. Sawyer's scrambling to get her rifle back off her shoulder, slamming her body behind a late model minivan. There's a child's car seat in the back, but no time to think about that now.

"Sons of bitches," Stavrian hisses, spotting the red flash at the same time as Oberlin. "Contact, get down!" He drops down to a low crouch, skittering back towards the street's edge. Part of a phone booth lies jacked up on its side against a pile of concrete rubble, which he braces his rifle against for support.

"What — ?" Penelope startles, turning to look at the shop. She starts to move for cover, but it's excruciatingly clumsy and slow, and it's a damn good thing Oberlin's got her back. The tackle knocks the breath out of her and the takedown elicits a strangled cry of pain, jostling her broken foot — but it likely saves her life. For the moment, anyhow.

Flanked by Butcher, Big Cubits, HP Shivcraft, Fat Steve, and the other remaining ex-hoods in his employ, Barron to goes barrelling into cover. He's spry enough for an old man.

<-=[ Combat #890 ]=------------
< Name Weapon/Vehicle Damage Stance/Action Target
< Team 1
< Barron Shotgun (8) ….. COV/pass
< Cubits Rifle (20) ….. COV/pass
< Diesel Rifle_AP (20) ….. COV/pass
< Haeleah Rifle (20) X…. COV/pass
< Oberlin Pistol_AP (10) XX… COV/pass
< Penelope Pistol_Ap (10) X…. COV/pass
< Sawyer Rifle_AP (20) ….. COV/pass
< Shivcraft Rifle (20) ….. COV/pass
< Stavrian Rifle_AP (20) X…. COV/pass
< Walker Rifle_AP (20) ….. COV/pass
< Team 2
< Centurion1 LMG (100) ….. NOR/pass
< Centurion2 LMG (100) ….. NOR/pass
< Centurion3 LMG (100) ….. NOR/pass
< Centurion4 LMG (100) ….. NOR/pass
< Observers/NPCMasters:
< Madilyn Polaris

Oberlin's cry, and that of the others, allows the Colonials to dive for cover behind anything and everything. In the tight confines of the convenience store, the Centurions have a tiny bit of trouble turning without running into each other…and getting into each other's line of fire. That's not to say they aren't quick, but it's not the lightning-fast snap around and shoot that the Colonials might have come to expect. Within the darkened store, four glowing red eyes do spin around to bear on the merry band, as arms raise to fire, and fullauto fire sprays indiscriminately over their hiding spots.

Cowering behind a junked-out hoopty, Oberlin's good arm snaps up with its pistol to deliver a few shots at one of the glowing red eyes. "Walker, get a frag on those pricks! DO IT NOW!" So much for being quiet. One would think he doesn't want to get shot. Again.

"This is not a good death," Penelope hisses, dragging out her sidearm. She was ready to die earlier, but not now, it seems. Not like this. She rolls onto her hip, poking around the front of the vehicle and return fire.

At this point, Barron and Crew understand how to handle these situations. Keep your head down, and fire when you can. And hope that your timing is right. Butcher's face is a snarl. But then again, her face always is, these days.

<OOC> Madilyn says, "Show of hands. Who wants to FF the PEW PEW so we end at a reasonable hour? I can reset after every round if you like, or we can just rapid fire through and reconvene after."
<OOC> Sawyer does only have 20 minutes or so.
<OOC> Oberlin says, "I'm in the same boat as Sawyer"
<OOC> Haeleah is fine with ffing
<OOC> Madilyn says, "Ok, let's FF some, to get to a better ending point storywise."
<OOC> Penelope thumbs up.

Oberlin ain't exactly eagle eye Ted here with a busted arm, sending off a round and ducking back behind the car, cursing. "Shit. KEEP YOUR HEADS DOWN PEOPLE!"

Sawyer doesn't have time to overthink her shots, maybe that's why a few of them actually hit home. Still, five out of eight shots ain't bad for a Journalist. Maybe there's something to be said for riding an adrenaline rush. When the fire fight calms down, it leaves Sawyer huffing for breath with her back pressed against that minivan. She starts counting something on her fingers, but surely it's not 'kills'. "Seven. Seven shots left…" She mutters.

Haeleah points her gun in the direction of the large metallic objects and fires. It's not sharp-shooting by any means. The Marines would never particularly want to make a sniper out of her. But it gets the job done. She's panting, too, by the time the last Centurion falls, patting down her body armor. No new dents. This is good.

"Huh." Oberlin's chest rises and falls as there is gunfire, and then…silence. He immediately turns to check the status of pretty much every human presence here. "We hurt? Can we move? Let's get out of here." He spares the congratulations for the time being, only adding a second observation. "Why are they sweeping the city now? They've had /weeks/ to do this. Something must have changed. That something might be us." Shelving these thoughts for the time being, he lumbers to his feet. "Somehow I doubt they were here for the Twankies." Why are they called Twankies? It is not known.

Four Cylon Centurions come trapsing out of the convenience store. Stomping, arms up, machine guns plugging away, they seem to have trouble hitting the Colonials. Thanks to a sharp eye, the humans got the chance to duck for cover behind the many vehicles parked outside. While the Cylons laid down row after row of hot lead, moving their firing patterns back and forth in sweeping arcs, right-to-left, left-to-right, the Colonials have a chance to pop out, to fire off single shots here and there. The pop of rifles is accompanied by the blasts of Barron's shotgun.

Thanks to cover, and a sharp eye, even in the dark, the Colonials manage to make it through the fight with only minor, superficial damage: Barron is grazed in the arm, Walker in the hand. It's not enough to stop any of them from firing, and are more nuisance injuries than anything else. Not life-threatening, at the very least. Even though this patrol is down (and what were they doing in a convenience store? Were they looking for looters? Were they ransacking remaining supplies? Where they taking stock of food supplies?), who knows what messages they sent to home base. Despite the four sparking, 'dead' tincan corpses there, it's probably not a good time to stop the trek north.

Stavrian takes a chance in the middle, standing up to full height just after a centurion takes a dent or two. Bullets whiz past him in a charmed sort of envelope, letting him get off a nice shot to the faceplate. By the end he's up in front of the phone booth siding, intent on just finishing the damn things…and down they go. "Frak me." He looks behind him, making sure Sawyer's still able to walk. And the wounded…yes, able to walk. He'll patch-job when they can stop.

Barron looks down at his grazing wound, sourly. "I will live. Unlike — let's do what we need to and go." He says, wincing. "Please."

"There are Twankies? Should've said that before. I'd've taken those bastards apart with a pocket knife for a Twankie." Penny winces deeply, using the car behind which she was taking cover to pull herself to her feet. Foot. Whatever. It takes her a few moments of hopping about to find where her pipe-slash-walking-stick fell. Once she's recovered it, however, she hobbles to catch up with the rest.

Colonial Row- Leonis
Nestled in this collection of cul-de-sacs to the east of Herald's Green are several specimens of the iconic Kytheran brownstone, whose sturdiness in the face of the late unpleasantness speaks well of their quality. It was for precisely that reason that they were chosen by representatives of other Colonial governments to serve as embassies of sorts, complete with high walls, tripwires, and untold terabytes of classified information secured by grim MPs and the best firewalls money could buy. These fortified homes are now the only buildings left standing in Colonial Row, having withstood the fire that swept through the rest of the neighborhood in the hours and days after the initial Cylon strike — but closer inspection reveals that they, too, have been gutted, their wood-paneled rooms now empty and bare.
Post-Holocaust Day: #81

True to his word, Barron's Kythera knowledge has again paid off. Thinning traffic makes the trip north easier: mass-produced family cars begin to be replaced with more expensive sedans, even a limo or two. The stores and apartments begin to give way to once-manicured small parks, open spaces, monuments…and the ultimate prizes: the brownstone embassies.

These buildings, old construction, opulent on the outside and reinforced for political security under the surface, have indeed weathered the storm better than surrounding buildings: windows are blown out; roofs are collapsed and mangled; the yards littered with broken furniture, pieces wood panel, and stripped and broken hardwood flooring. The buildings though look a hell of a lot better than the hospital though — there aren't any sick cracks in the stone work. Many sit behind high wrought-iron fences, but there are a few bars bent open enough to squeeze through a human being…but thankfully no Cylons. Though unlikely to have food, and possibly already with tenants, these buildings should work for a somewhat more secure night's sleep…

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