PHD #098: EVENT - They Mostly Come At Night
Log Title
Summary: Mostly. The Virgan Embassy is scoured for supplies.
Date: 4 Jun 2041 AE
Related Logs: All Leonis logs.
Samuel Stavrian Trask Serpens NPC 

Colonial Row. Nestled in this collection of cul-de-sacs are several specimens of the iconic Kytheran brownstone, whose sturdiness in the face of nuclear holocaust speaks well of their construction. It was for precisely that reason that they were chosen by other Colonial governments to serve as embassies of sorts, complete with high walls, grim MPs, and untold terabytes of classified information secured by the best firewalls money could buy.

These fenced, three-storey brownstones are now the only buildings left standing on Colonial Row, having withstood the fire that swept through the rest of the neighbourhood in the days after the initial Cylon strike. Most intact of those remaining is Virgon House, standing proud — if scorched — with charred trees flanking its front entrance. It is here that the stranded Cerberus crew has decided to scout for further supplies, their current stores running dangerously low.

Junior Lieutenant Kal 'Bootstrap' Trask is near the front of the group. His pack has been emptied of all but the bare essentials, anticipating supplies from the Virgan Embassy, and he carries his rifle at the ready.

Samuel keeps his rifle ready as he looks around, frowning a bit to himself. Keeping silent for now, as he studies the surroundings rather carefully for now.

The hippie root-smokin JG is just behing the dirt-eating one. Stavrian has his medical packs on (both, one on his back and a smaller one within fingertip read on his left leg) and his rifle in his hands. Good pseudo-Marine. He still reeks of smoke from a last cigarette hurriedly puffed on just before they left, edging along the street with the others and his usual slightly dour expression, keeping watch to their sides.

Much like Sagittaron House, Virgon House's windows are all shattered, the remaining shards blackened from long-extinct fires. Unlike Sagittaron House, however, all the first-floor windows have been barricaded — some with stacks of furniture, others with haphazard X's of nailed planks.

There is a flagpole to the side of the broad main walkway leading to the front doors. At the top of it is the tattered remains of the Virgon flag — flying upside-down.

Upside-down: the universal flag signal of distress. No shocker there. Should there be any survivors who haven't caved to cannibalistic tendencies, or violent paranoia, or stark raving lunacy, the odds are favorable that the trio will remain relatively unscathed, Centurions going 'Blam! Blam! Blam!' notwithstanding. With the aid of some binoculars, Trask scans the visible entry points and then conveys via hand gestures and facial expressions to his comrades that the footpath gate is closed, whereas the one for vehicles could be climbed.

Samuel frowns a bit as he looks around, nodding a bit as he sees the signals from Trask. Starting to approach said gate now, looking around as carefully as possible.

Stavrian's eyes narrow at the sight of boarded windows. Centurions don't board windows. Right eyebrow makes a sharp tic upwards at the hand signal from Trask and he nods once. Someone doesn't have the welcome mat out, not that a red carpet was expected. He starts closer to the vehicle gate, not for purpose of scaling quite yet but just to try and get a glimpse through the rails. Movement, anything.

The embassy grounds are dead and still, the air moving barely enough to twitch the scorched lawns. To one side of the main entrance, opposite the flagpole, is a row of several shallow graves. A shovel is embedded in the sod at the end of the row.

The second- and third-floor windows are unboarded; only the first-floor windows have been barricaded.

<FS3> Trask rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Stavrian rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Samuel rolls Alertness: Success.

You paged Stavrian and Trask with 'It looks as if whoever was barricading the windows started with a lot of enthusiasm (and supplies) and started running low, the further they went along. One window looks to be blocked only by a grand piano — it would be relatively easy to climb in over or under it.'
You paged Stavrian and Trask with 'And no sound or sight of movement at all.'

Centurions may not board windows, but with some of the crazy theories that have been floating around about the dark-haired woman Kulko unloaded rounds into until she was D-E-D, the fleshy conspirators of the tincans are wilier than a coyote. Still, the ECO sees no sights nor hears any sounds of movement. What he does espy, is a single window that appears to be blocked only by a grand piano. Once again, gestures convey this tidbit, as well as they can with a rifle being carried. Trask casts a 'Well? What'cha think?' expression towards the corpsman and the marine.

Samuel pauses for a few moments as he looks through the gate, gaze stopping at the graves for a few moments, then back to the others. Pausing a bit as that window is gestured to. He didn't see that one at first. Studying it for a few moments, in quiet.

Stavrian is still for quite a long time, eyes trained on the windows. His chest barely moves under his black vest as he breathes, rhythmic and shallow. He looks over at Trask and Samuel and makes a motion with the blade of his hand under his chin. Zilch. Then a motion at that window guarded by piano, and a serpentine motion with his wrist and fingers. Entry point.

<FS3> Trask rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Stavrian rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Samuel rolls Alertness: Great Success.
You paged Samuel with 'Give me a moment to finish my setpose for general information — but you will notice the spilled silverware is tied together by fishing line, meaning that if any of it's moved, it'll be very noisy.'

It would be difficult for Centurions to squeeze over or under the piano, and impossible for them to do so quietly. Listening near the window, the silence remains undisturbed. Scattered across the floor beneath the piano is tarnished silverware, the handles stamped with Virgon's seal.

Looking beyond the silverware, the marble tiles lining the empty corridors are flanked by smaller patterns in gold-seamed malachite, echoing Virgon's colors. The flooring is cracked in several places, scuffed and scarred with drag-marks from the barricading efforts.

Join the military! Play charades! Let's see if anyone can figure out that Trask is saying to look out for tripwire. Carefully, he begins the approach, taking up a support position. Into the embassy yard… so far, so good. Closer to the window, he goes.

Samuel moves in closer to the window as well, pausing a little as he leans over to glance inside. Frowning for a few moments, before he ducks back, looking to the others. "Silverware tied together, don't touch." Hissed very quietly for now.
You paged Samuel with 'For further clarification, if either of them end up asking you — the jumble of silverware doesn't look to be tied to the piano, or attached to anything else. It's just all tied together, so if someone moves one of them, without realizing they're all attached, it'll be noisy.'

Stavrian is not good with pilot sign language, but luckily the man is sort of a marine. Which means he's not diving headfirst into an unknown situation — this time anyway. At Samuel's warning he arches a brow. "As if centurions weren't loud enough on their own," he whispers, barely moving his lips. "Expecting something lighter of foot." He gives his eyes a little time to adjust to the light, craning his neck to try and spot where the silverware is. So their climb doesn't disturb it.

Given Samuel's keen-eyed warning, the faint glimmer of fishing line can be spotted, connecting one piece of silverware to the next. Moving one, without realizing the others were joined, would have caused quite the jangle.

Realizing the trick, however, it should be an easy venture to slowly slide the silverware to the side to crawl under the piano and inside in relative silence.

Trask arrived at the Sagittaron House after it had already been swept. They'd likely do something like this. (Or something more lethal.) Who knew that the frou-frou Virgans would be so canny? It's not a point he dwells on. Instead, he lets one of the professionals make the initial entrance. Brown eyes momentarily settle on the shovel some 50 feet away, then back to being sentinel.

Samuel looks back inside now, reaching in to work on slowly sliding the silverware out of the way. Taking a the time needed to get that done, he slowly works on getting inside and under the piano. Trying to do so undetected now.

Stavrian covers the rear of the party, keeping a close eye on the street until samuel's wormed his way inside. Then comes the Marine medic, scooting on in over the piano. His feet land in Samuel's dirty bootprints, using those to best tell exactly where to step. Once back securely on his feet, he rests the rifle in his arms and crouches down, taking in the room.

The marble-tiled corridor stretches in both directions from the grand piano. A few pages of sheet music are scattered nearby — Sonata for Violin and Piano — and further pages are long-since fluttered to rest, leading toward the arched double doors left open to the greatroom. Massive pillars and part of a balcony can be seen through the doors, as can dirt and broken sod tracked in from outdoors via the main entrance.

In the other direction, the corridor is flanked by closed door after closed door on one side, barricaded windows on the other. A small sign is labelled '<— Washrooms' at the very end.

With the path cleared for him, Trask makes his way through the window and past the piano easily enough. Emulating Stavrian's stance, he waits for his eyes to better adjust to the lack of light and then again breaks out the binoculars. After a survey of the vicinity, he extends them in case someone else wants to take a better gander.

Samuel blinks a few time because of the change in light conditions, but attempts to glance around for a few moments. Those pages of sheet music that he can reach is picked up, folded and pocketed, a bit carefully.

Stavrian's eyes flicker sharply across the mess. Looking for signs of recent disturbances — places that are less dusty, footprints, new blood. Hm. He looks over at the other two and makes that 'nada' motion again with his hand. Then to Trask, his head tips back and forth at the two directions. Where you want to go first?

No one wants to take a closer look? Okay. Considering their options, Trask again peers through the binoculars. Tucking them away, he points towards the greatroom, then to the burst setting of his rifle, then back to key areas in the greatroom, accompanied by the quick flicking of one hand open and closed several times to indicate the wild spray of bullets he saw in the walls. Since this isn't some manner of air engagement or electronic warfare, he's gonna defer to the marine.

The greatroom is as massive and impressive as Sagittaron House's, the ceiling towering three stories overhead. There are balconies overlooking the greatroom from both the second and third floor.

The corridor leading to the main entrance is filled with a haphazard jumble of furniture — desks and chairs, small bookshelves and the like. There seems to be a small tunnel through the barricade, large enough for a person to squeeze through, though barely.

There are bulletholes in the walls, in all directions, suggesting either several pot-shots, or quick, wild bursts of automatic fire.

<FS3> Samuel rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Trask rolls Alertness: Failure.
<FS3> Stavrian rolls Alertness: Success.
You paged Samuel and Stavrian with 'You think you might have heard something creak from upstairs. Probably the second floor. Might have been a door.'

Samuel watches the greatroom carefully for a few moments, before something makes him look up to the balconies there, with a bit of a frown. Studying that area carefully for now. Rifle kept at the ready for the moment.

It's simultaneous, the medic and the marine both looking up. Like something had snapped its fingers just above their ears, or whistled. Or something not quite as benign. Stavrian looks over at Trask and taps his finger to the shell of his ear, then points up towards the second floor. Then a mime of turning his closed hand and pulling, like opening a door.

"HALT!" It's a young-sounding female voice — teenaged, maybe — cracking as she shouts. The word echoes slightly, as if she's shouting from around a corner. "Pursuant to, to the, the Articles of Colonization, this is Virgan sovereign territory and YOU ARE TRESPASSING."

There is the sound of a door creaking on abused hinges, somewhere from the second floor. The unseen girl shouts again, "You will LEAVE IMMEDIATELY or, or, or I will MAKE YOU GO AWAY!"

Who'd have ever thought that growing up on such an ornery colony as Tauron would prove useful in this situation? Traditionalist Taurians have never been quiet about sovereign rights, so Trask has learned a few things over the decades. Plus, it's hard to remain ignorant of such political things when you've been stationed in the hottest hot zones of Sagittaron. "Pursuant to the Articles of Colonization, during times of crisis, unrest, and all around frakked-uppedness, said Articles allow for the deployment and intervention of Colonial troops. This is definitely one of those instances." Beat. "I'm Lieutenant Trask of Carrier Fighter Wing ONE FOUR, stationed aboard the Battlestar Cerberus. This is the part where I have to ask you and any of your compatriots to please emerge with your hands where I can see them."

"And this probably counts as all the above," Samuel mutters under his breath at Trask's words about the articles. Looking up there once more, rifle kept at ready for now.

Stavrian keeps his rifle aimed in the general direction of the disembodied voice, though not pointed directly at the door. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Jesse Stavrian, Marine company Able Five Actual," he calls out in identification after Trask. Ethics, they're a bitch. "I'm a physician assistant, ma'am; if you have injured or sick up there we can assist you." The ma'am is not the sharp one of the military. Though nor is it casual.

"Oh, no. No no-no no." There's a dragging sound that should be familiar to those on the ground floor — the sound of someone sliding a short distance along the wall in combat armor. "You tried that once already, and that was a SNEAKY-" The tense shouting cuts off abruptly to a hacking cough. There's a low, whimpering sound that gives way to another shout. "That was a SNEAKY LIE. I read my Articles of Colonization, I know them ALL! You go and, and, go lie to the Capricans! They're two doors down and Maman says they LIKE THAT! I mean it! I really MEAN IT! I'll MAKE you go away if you don't leave!" She sounds breathless from the shouting, or panicky. Or both.

<OOC> Serpens says, "There are doors and corridors branching off from the balconies on three sides — the fourth side is large windows looking out at the grounds. You would need to move further into the middle of the greatroom to (between the three of you) be able to see all the doors at once."

While the marines do their thing, the ECO does his. "Your maman must be a diplomat to speak so diplomatically. Ils sont salauds et conards." Were the girl's mother within earshot, she might be mortified by the offensive phrasing. It's an emphatic statement of some of the worst invectives in the Virgan language spoken about Capricans, albeit with a Black Country accent. Taurians are pragmatic people, so the man made certain to learn important terms and phrases while stuck on the planet for 18 months. Insulting people on their levels of intelligence of lack of ethical morals definitely qualified.

Trask does not yet venture into the sitting duck spot that is the middle of the greatroom. Instead, he scans for visible cameras and idly waves hello at one. The lopsided smile that follows has a boyish charm that is likely overshadowed by weariness. Calling back out, "Since you've read them all, you know I'm not lying about Colonial military jurisdiction. We're mandated to follow procedure, and this is procedure. We're also at an impasse, and I'd really like to get this resolved before some trashcans come by on a patrol and decide to redecorate the place with machine gunfire, explosives, blood, and more corpses. I'm no diplomat but I'm bettin' you've learned a thing or two from your maman. So, I'm askin' you: how do we negotiate a truce?"

Samuel pauses a little bit as he hears the voice from up there, and then as he hears Trask as well. Nodding a bit at the man's words. After all, the ECO isn't the only one that's served on that planet for a long time. He looks around for a few moments, before he calls up, "Corporal Samuel Blaine," since he didn't introduce himself before. Pausing for a few moments as he waits to hear what's said from the person up there.

Tried that once? Stavrian glances at Trask and Samuel at that, one eyebrow twitching upwards. "Whoever's come here before, miss, we're not them." The JG's accent is jarringly Sagittarian. Its mere sound has insulted many a Caprican over the generations of human existence. "You're coughing…are you ill? We can help you, we are not here to hurt you. Listen to Lieutenant Trask." If it comes to busting in with arms? He's got that. When it comes to talking he's quite willing to let their most verbal member steer.

"Maman. They're not leaving, Maman. I asked them nice and everything this time, I promise." The girl's voice twinges petulantly as she talks to… well, not the three soldiers below. "If. If. Wait." Her voice raises, cracking again: "Military jurisdiction. Military jurisdiction. We're still at war, you can't negotiate a truce! You're lying, YOU'RE LY-Y-YING!"

The sound of armor scraping against wall, and the creak of a footfall — it sounds almost directly overhead the three men — followed by something small thrown over the edge of the balcony. Grenade. Tinkle-tink-tink.

<FS3> Trask rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Samuel rolls Alertness: Good Success.
<FS3> Stavrian rolls Alertness: Success.
<FS3> Trask rolls Athletic: Success.
<FS3> Samuel rolls Athletic: Success.
<FS3> Stavrian rolls Athletic: Good Success.
You paged Samuel and Trask with 'That's a flashbang she threw down, not a frag grenade.'

Grenade? Yeah. Trask knew that was coming the moment the girl initially said she'd make them go away. Since she also doesn't sound suicidal, he's banking it's either a flash or smoke grenade. None of which prevents him from rolling his eyes and muttering, "Oh, for frak's sake…" before calling out to his squaddies, "Incoming!" and taking the necessary protective measures.

"How nice…" comes the dry mutter from Samuel as he notices what's being dropped down to them, and he turns away to do the same kind of protective measures as Trask. A bit of a frown on his face now.

Well, son of a bitch. Stavrian calls out sharply, "Cover eyes and ears!" If it's flashbang, that'll help. If it's a frag, they're screwed regardless. He turns swiftly on his heel, trying to jam himself into the protection of a doorframe, hands clapped over his eyes and eyes shut.

It IS a flashbang, thankfully for all concerned, though the sound is still hurtfully loud and the flash shows pink against squeezed-shut eyes.

Overhead, in the faintly-ringing wake of the explosion, the sound of light, running footsteps can be heard — it sounds like the girl is ducking from one doorway to the next. When the steps cease, the hacking coughs are heard again. A wheezing shout: "Go away, GO AWAY, I swear I'll make you GO AWAY!."

Ears and eyes covered, that still sucked. Trask takes a moment to let his senses recover. Quietly, he sighs somewhat heavily, his mouth crumpling into the equivalent of a frown's older sibling. Air Wing is so much simpler. "Okay… seriously, mademoiselle? We're professionals. Good showing of spirit, though. And since you're treating us like hostile forces… yeah, a truce seems applicable, seeing how you refuse to believe we're all on the same side." Beat. "Unless you're aiding and abetting Centurions. That goes beyond the spunkiness of youth." Going over their options, he spots something that gives him an idea. Yay for gloves 'cos finessing that sizable shard from one of the broken mirrors would otherwise be painful. Tapping Samuel to assist, he says, "Let's get a different perspective, shall we?"

Samuel frowns a bit as he listens now, shaking his head a few times to get the his senses cleared up now. Pausing a bit at that tap from Trask, he nods to the man, "Good plan," he offers. Otherwise keeping silent, now.

Whoever forgot to put horse tranquilizer darts in their kits is getting a complaint when they get home. Stavrian opens his mouth wide as the flashbang wrecks his hearing for a good couple seconds despite the cover, feeling his ears pop. He blinks a few times, turning around and looking up at the balcony from his cover of flimsy doorway, then at the stairs. "We can get up there without crossing through the open," he notes to the other, under his breath. "See anything?"

Angling the triangle of shattered mirror upright reveals several open doors — and in one, the half-hidden face of a girl of maybe fifteen. Her eyes are wide and jittery in a filthy, blotchy red face, her Marine helmet comically large on her head. Her visible shoulder is covered in combat armor too big for her tiny frame. An assault rifle is quaveringly held propped against her shoulder, muzzle pointed up.

She appears to be listening frantically for those hidden beneath her, lips moving in unheard words.

ORLY. That's the look Bootstrap give the corpsman, followed by a nod. A course of action that reduces the risk of injury is fine by him. "You still have smoke grenades?" he whispers to his compatriots. Sorry, missy. You're gonna frantically be listening to the sound of nothing. Well, at least until the ECO calls out, "You hungry? 'Cuz I can toss up an MRE pack that claims to be meatloaf." He expects a hostile response and regards the mirror to get a better read on the sickly girl's reaction.

Samuel nods a little bit at Trask's inquiry about the smoke grenades, and pulls out one, holding it for the man to see. Looking carefully to the mirror as he hears the offer to the girl up there.

"No smoke, only frag." Stavrian murmurs back, shaking his head. "Not an option." He makes a subtle motion with his finger towards the stairs on the other side of the room from where they're looking. "Move under the balcony to there, we'd be out of sight. Angle's terrible from where she is." This is still whispered, only the consonants and sibilance making any real sound as his lips move. As Trask calls out about food his eyes watch the mirror.

Meatloaf. There's a reaction — the panicky gaze suddenly snaps down toward the floor, and the tip of the girl's tongue sneaks out to wet dry, cracked lips. "I like meatloaf," she says, plaintively. "Maman makes it with Aquarian mushrooms and, and. Oh-h-h." It's a moan of pain; she sags against the door, sliding down until she hits the doorknob. The impact seems to spur her back into hysteria — as she looks back around the doorway, her face is contorted with rage. "That's it, that's IT, I WARNED YOU!" It's somehow sing-song, like a hide-and-seek riddle.

She darts into motion again, ducking for the next doorway. Leapfrogging along — there's a corridor not far from here, where she'll be able to run away, deeper into the embassy.

"Poor kid," Trask murmurs, the way she speaks of her mother's meatloaf seemingly getting to him. A nod to Samuel. "We'll probably need it." Surveying the room, he plucks up three smaller shards of mirror. Might come in handy while scouting, after all. "Right," he quietly says. "Gentlemen… after you."

Samuel nods a bit as he makes his way over towards the stairs, staying in cover until the stairs can be reached. "I'll keep the grenade ready in case she tries shooting us, then," he offers. Stopping while still in cover, waiting for the officers to give the word about when to head upstairs.

"She's armed, be /very/ careful," Stavrian mutters as he gets up. "She could end up shooting herself as easy as one of us." To Trask he adds as they start to move, "She looks burnt, hair loose on her back…must've run out of anti-rads recently. Could be causing some mental impairment. Have any water with you?" He quickly motions Samuel ahead first. Sucker, Corp's got point.

Samuel starts moving up the stairs now, trying to keep as much in cover as possible. And looking around for the poor kid with the gun up there. Looking around carefully, to spot said kid.

The Major Frakshitinsane incident revisited? Greeeeeat. "No risk of decompression this time, at least," is quietly quipped to Stavrian. "And I'm thinkin' it's past the point of 'could'." Sardonicism, thy greatest prophet is Kal Trask. "Yeah. There's a small bottle with the MRE." He's not sure what good it'll do, but that's why he's not the PA-C. Following Samuel, he angles one of the small shards to see it he can see anything of note, all sneaky-like.

"Good, hold onto it. That's worth far more than food, if the radiation's gotten to her." Stavrian starts up behind Corporal TakePoint, staying low and keeping his eyes up on the area overhead. If anything's about to rain down, he's damn well looking for it.

The girl hadn't considered interlopers actually coming up the stairs after her, or hadn't considered covering angles. The three men are protected by balcony ceiling at first — but then the landing is reached, leaving nothing but bannisters and the marble stairs between themselves and the girl somewhere down the corridor.

Without climbing further, potentially into the line of fire, Trask's mirror will show only the tops of open doors, and between them, faded squares where large paintings once hung. From further down the second-floor corridor, the sound of rapid breathing can be heard.

Samuel frowns a bit as he looks around, "See her there," he offers to Trask of the Shards, as his hand moves to that smoke grenade, a bit thoughtfully. "Think it's time for some smoke about now?" he comments.

"Mirror, mirror, in my hand… show me where the girl doth stand," Trask says sotto voce, tilting the object every which way. "What's that? I'm the fairest of them all? That's nice but not very helpful right now." A mild shake of his head cements the verdict about what can be viewed. Glancing about, the ECO spots a piece of broken tile. "Let's see if we can't flush her out without the grenade…" Picking up the miniscule slab of marble, he tells the others, "You know the drill… steer clear of the line of fire, yadda yadda." With that and a flick of his wrist, there's some marble skittering across marble action, which hopefully sounds like someone accidently kicked something while being pre-occupied looking at other than the floor.

Stavrian arches a brow sharply. Maybe at Trask talking to himself, maybe at the marble. Either way, the medic's not particularly chatty right now — as Trask rolls something across the floor he lopes across the step he's standing on, crouching and placing his back against the wall. Different angle of fire, still covered as best he can figure.

As soon as the marble tile bounces and slides scratchingly down the corridor, gunfire erupts. Automatic fire, wildly spraying down the corridor and the walls above the three men. Shards of glass and marble fly everywhere, clouds of plaster dust thickening the air.

Bullets, more bullets, still more bullets — until the clip runs out. Click. Click. A second later, the sound of bare feet against marble tiles. She's running deeper into the embassy.

Samuel keeps his head down until the sound of bare feet is heard. Then he starts making his way up the rest of the stairs, looking around carefully before he moves over where he can look inside the corridor the girl ran down. Looking in that direction now, as he absently dusts the plaster dust off himself. "Nice one," he offers towards Trask.

Bullets, bullets down the hall
Bullets, bullets in the wall
Shards of glass and marble fly
But that's okay 'cos getting hit by armor piercing projectiles would totally suck and none of the men wanna die, yo

"AP rounds," the ECO informs his squaddies, having plucked up and examined one of several casings that landed nearby. That special casing is one he's become rather well acquainted with over the past several weeks. "Let's hope she doesn't have another clip." He starts to follow Samuel. "Or, actually, let's hope she has lots of clips but no idea how to reload."

Bullets crack against wall and railing near Stavrian's shoulder and head. It showers him with whitish plaster dust that sticks in his hair, and turns it white in wild, chalky steaks. "And no more grenades." Backup optimism offered darkly, he gets up to follow. "Love a frakking floorplan about now."

From around the corner, all that can be heard of the girl's flight are fast, irregular footfalls, echoing off the long embassy corridor-

-then suddenly the sound of a stumble, and a hard fall against the tiles, accompanied with a cry of pain.

"Hate do disappoint you," Samuel offers as he keeps on looking around the corner where the girl's running. "She seems to be reloading now. Looks to be some kind of obstackles in there as well…" Grimacing a bit as the stumbling sound is heard. "Ouch, she fell…" Ducking back a bit, "Stay back. She's reached for something. Grenade maybe?" Anyway, better not risk that being a grenade.

"S'ok, Sammy. I was disappointed before you were even a sperm in your dad's nutsack." Whatever the frak that is supposed to me. A nod to the marine, then, and Trask is doing as instructed, preparing for the possibility of a grenade — one that might not even be flashbang or smoke.

Stavrian gives the side of Trask's head a dry glance, then his attention turns back down the hall. A slight wince as he hears her go down, but he doesn't rush ahead. His body's tense, knees bent as he moves forward just a couple inches. "We can't do this forever."

She's reached for something, the Marine says, but then five seconds crawl past in silence. Ten. Fifteen. The slap of palms, or feet, against tile — she's getting up again — followed by limping steps and a keening, petulant wail.

"Maman?! They're not le-e-eaving, maman! You said it'd work! YOU PROMISED!"

The sound of her sobbing is drowned out by heavy, wooden creaking — a heavy, abused door slowly being dragged shut.

"Didn't get your favorite food or something?" Samuel offers lightly in Trask's direction, before looking around the corner again, "Looks like false alarm…" Pausing a little bit as he hears that sound of the door, before he shakes his head a bit, starting to hurry down the hallway, towards the door. After all, Stavrian spoke the truth, this can't go on forever. Thankfully, he saw where those wires were, so he gets through quickly, over to that doorway.

"Something like that," Trask caustically murmurs, leaving it at that. "Neither can she," is drily added to Stavrian, which might be why he doesn't bound right behind Samuel. Instead, he shakes his head and more cautiously advances, covering the Corporal's six, just in case someone else emerges from one of the many doorways flanking the hall.

You paged Trask with 'Several of the rooms have 'nests' in the far corners — blankets that look to have been slept on, with empty MRE and protein bar wrappers scattered near them. A few (rifle) ammo clips, as well. You'd have to climb over or under the barricades to get to them — it would take time.'

"On your nine, corporal," Stavrian's succinct and curt, getting up and starting off just after the man. His boots thud dully against the marble floor, heart pounding in his ears as he follows Samuel's path across the wires. His toe catches on one that he didn't spot in time, making him stumble slightly — he drops from Samuel's nine to his eight as he gets his balance.

Drag-g-g. Drag-g-g. It was an expensive bookshelf, once upon a time. Solid oak, constructed to last for generations. It's slow to move. Doubly so, if you're a small and undernourished girl trying to do so. Triply so, if you're crying huge, gulping sobs as you try to move it.

The bookshelf has made it about halfway across the doorway when Samuel and Stavrian come into eyeshot. She looks up sharply, her comically oversized helmet rattling when she does. Eyes widen with a terror far beyond what really stands there in front of her. She recoils with a piercing shriek that would do horror movies proud and ducks behind the bookshelf.

Samuel winces as he hears the sound of that shriek, but aqueezes past the bookshelf, and turns in the direction where the sound came from. "We're not monsters of some kind," he tries telling her in what he hopes is a gentle voice. "Don't worry, please?" Trying to offer a bit of a smile to her.

Bit by bit, Trask makes his way towards the others, carefully peeking into each room to ensure they are 'clear' before he passes, mindful of the tripwire.

Stavrian's eyes flash with unmistakeable pity, a soft breath exhaled as the girl scrambles away. "We're not going to hurt you." The Sagittarian's voice is soft, threading up underneath the noise of her shrieking. Even if he knows he's probably not dealing with a rational mind. "Look…" He licks his lips and kneels down, setting his rifle on the floor. As he stands back up, he lifts his empty hands with the palms up. "Look. Nothing. I have some water…are you thirsty?"

Samuel squeezes past the bookshelf and turns in the direction that ear-piercing shriek came from to see the girl sprawled on the floor, skidding herself away from him with her filthy feet peeking out from beneath her tattered skirt, fingers scrabbling at the tiles. Her rifle hangs from its shoulder-strap, dragging along the floor with her. Stavrian is given a look of blank, pop-eyed terror, her tongue rasping over cracked lips. Hearing? Yes. Acknowledging? Not consciously.

She edges away from them for about fifteen feet, until she bumps into the wall behind her. Her eyes widen that tiny fraction more — and she reaches for her rifle.

Lowering his own rifle, Samuel frowns a bit as he sees her reaching for her weapon, "Hey…" he offers as he hurries forward, trying his best to get that weapon at least pointed away from people.

Were he there to see his compatriots laying down their weapons, Trask would undoubtedly say something scathing. As things are, he's still conducting his security sweep, thus remains mum.

You paged Trask with 'It would be fair to say that if she hadn't (apparently) run out of food and water and gone around the bend, the kid could've engaged in quite the vicious guerrilla warfare from this place. It looks like she's pulled some of the ceiling tiles down to be able to crawl through the roof. Barricades everywhere.'

Perhaps Stavrian was thinking ahead. Now unburdened by a rifle (and more sure he's not going to put a bullet in a child), his hands are free to grapple. Trask's seen this kind of manuever before in a crowded Raptor, the type that a medic is trained and trained and trained yet again to do. Remove the threat without further injury. "Get the gun away from her!" As Sam goes for the firearm he goes for her, trying to get her hands pinned where they can't reach for things like…grenades.

It's painfully obvious, once she's grappled with, that she's at the end of her strength. Samuel wrestles the gun away — a single shot is fired wildly and deafeningly into the ceiling before he manages to do so — and skinny, radiation-burned limbs are little match for the medic's grasp.

She does not go quietly into that good subduing hold — rather, it's with an ear-piercing scream that lasts until her air runs out. She kicks and twists like a cat being dragged toward a bath. She bites — Stavrian's ear is bitten through with a disgusting crunch of enamel through cartilege. A second later, her panicked sobs give way to a hacking wheeze, a struggle for breath — and finally, hyperventilation-induced unconsciousness.

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