GROUP 4: But last years light is shining hotter than the sun

[agogemod]

I see the safest place around;

In that city down below

Departure of the other teams

Perhaps it was a touching fair well or maybe it was barked insults of "Get back in one piece or I'll kill you myself" - either way, for better or worse, the groups of volunteers go in the early morning fog of winter.

The remains of the COST soldiers are left behind with Captain Lewis. The Captain is terse as ever, but he stubbornly orders the remaining men - all ANZACS to him - into position to guard their lines, forming some kind of sensible defence in the small section of blocked in trenches.

Basic fortifications are the first step. The remaining guns are set up not only at the north and south of the rectangle, but also to the east and west, forming a boxed position with sandbags and extra guns to defend each front.

This means an unfortunate amount of heavy lifting and - you guessed it - more digging. It means arranging what has been scavenged, too, to defend them. But given that everyone is now functioning on the equal terms, there is a certain amount of customisation allowed to it. If you've got an idea, it's barely even a question - the Captain just gives a dead-eyed look and says, "Why are you still standing here, get it done yesterday!"

The order is to make no sound, keep your steps muffled, and your eyes open. Small mercies is how much of the tunnels survived the barrage, so that the wounded - and their cries - are hidden in the depths of the rabbit warren that is Lone Pine. Now the base of operations of those left behind focuses on staying alive and getting out safely.

If you look in the thick mist - still smothering, still stinging on the skin - you can spot the tree that gives the area its namesake, strangely like a serene, encompassing warning.

One tall, lonely pine that somehow survived the barrage and shattering explosions stands in the middle of no man's land. It's as good a gravestone as any man will get here. Some of the older soldiers will sometimes tip their cap in a solemn respect to it.

Dawdle too long and you might get jostled, or perhaps the Captain will snap at you. They need to count their stockpile to see how long they can survive here with what they've got left. The rations need to be organised. There's always another set of hands needed.

But for the first time in the trenches, it's almost peaceful. It's almost like no one is here but these few hundred men left alive. There's no shelling, no machine gun fire, no grenades, no whistles of soldiers getting ready to die. There isn't even the sound of the Turkish soldiers the other side of the trenches, with their mild, affectionate jeers. Sitting there in the scarred earth, time passes like living in a bubble. There is, after all, nothing to do but wait.

The soldiers still gamble, make bad jokes, and occasionally scuffle. The lack of food is making everyone tense. If a fire is lit to stave off the cold, it's done near the wounded in the depths of the tunnels, where the smoke and light can't be seen. All of this quiet has the soldiers wary.

It can't be right at all.


GAS, GAS AN ECSTACY OF FUMBLING

Two days pass with no word and no movement and, for those looking for them, no sign of the Regency. The trenches of Lone Pine are quiet, the tunnels echo with soft murmurs, but mostly everyone waits for a single word of the other teams. Worse for the ANZACs after all; they won't know until they see a man for themselves just whether it has succeeded or not.

It's not much comfort.

Then, in the clear of the morning, just as everyone settles in to have their ration of breakfast -

"GAS MASK, BOYS, QUICK!"

It's cut off with a splutter of wet choking and coughing.

The air fills with a sudden explosion of thick, yellow gas. It smells like a strong mix of mustard spice and almost garlic, rather than anything dangerous.

But it couldn't be less pleasant. It takes seconds to fill the space and it burns with each breath. Eyes watering then stinging, and the men who aren't quick enough begin to cough, wet and heavy. It can almost be felt in the lungs as it settles and burns and burns and burns, like something is scorching on the inside of the throat and nose. Each inhalation drives it deeper, exposed skin feeling like it's on fire and melting.

Men fall with it, like weakened children on their hands and knees as the gas settles, deeper into the smoke. Others make quick but unsavoury work, if their mask isn't near them. They get a piece of material, piss on it, and desperately wrap it around their faces to neutralise it. Disgusting, but effective.

Which leads the question, COST recruits, how did you go about your training getting your gas mask as quickly as possible?

THE ODD ANGRY SHOT

The one mercy is that the gas is heavy and begins to sink, settling like a blanket around the ankles. And every soldier, young and old, private to captain, grabs for their guns and gets ready for whatever is about to come. It's almost instinctual for some of them.

The first bullet takes a soldier straight in the gut to send him sprawling into the dirt and the thick yellow gas.

The guns are seen before the people firing them, figures that emerge on all sides of the Trench. They drop into the space from over the top of the wall, or leap over the side of the sandbags to the right and left that block each side. Soldiers in German uniform, armed like any other of the war.

Or almost any other. In their hands are a new type of weapon for this fight, the Lewis Machine Gun. The handheld weapon is as devastating as it seems, as it will one day change the war itself, but here now in this small pocket of abandoned trenches, everything becomes a new desperate attempt at survival.

The shape in the dark

For the COST recruits, it quickly becomes apparent that something is wrong with these Germans. It's no more than flickers in the power dampening mist that mixes with the Gas, but they can make out the shape of the Regency soldiers. When they're shot or punched or otherwise touched, for a moment the shape of the German uniforms fall away and the jackal masks are seen, if only as a brief silhouette against the gas.

Not that there is time to stare. It's clear that the Regency is not here to take prisoners. The close quarters make a mess of it, so best take what you can get to defend: Enfield, machine gun or grenade. Maybe you can work the mortars. Whatever it takes, it's time to defend those lines and push the enemy force back out of the position at the tunnels.

What follows is hard fighting without break or mercy. Whatever you do to drive them back - do it, as quickly as you can. Survive, and remember your orders: save as many men as possible.

THE LAST MAN STANDING

Eventually, the enemy is driven back to the right and left of the Trenches. It takes a better part of the day; retaking the position comes at the price of a great many men and it doesn't let up. The mood is dire; how are the ANZACs supposed to hold this until the others get back? What if even more Germans come?

Because once the Germans are pushed back, they don't let up. The war goes back to what it was, taking up spots behind sandbags and boxes and piles of dirt, taking shots at each other.

Moreover, on the second morning, the heavy artillery ammunition runs out. Everyone begins to worry about the rifles - there wasn't much ammunition to start with.

The fighting goes on, caught in the twisting trenches of Lone Pine.

Pity the only weapons remaining are hammers and shovels - maybe a rock, if nothing else. Whatever will do, will do. It's been two days of fighting and even the food is starting to run low. People begin to look for alternatives, coming up with weapons for when the ammunition runs out. The men are panicked, even if they keep it simmering to a hunted, ugly look of realising there is no way out.

Of course. "What else is there to do but fight?" asks the Captain, in perhaps not the most eloquent of speeches but at least the most straightforward of them.

"So let's go bloody fight."

Except, in the evening of the third day of the fighting, the enemy - whether they were German or Regency - is gone.

The mist is gone. Everything is, once again, still.

What the hell?

READ THE OOC INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

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PLACEHOLDER

[agogemod]

[dlc content: extra companions pack.]

CPT. LEWIS MORANGEY

[agogenpc]

BEFORE THE FIGHT
The Captain is tense, stiff back, eyes sharp. Not that he bothers to let it out - he can't, and won't let it get out to his men when he needs to hold it together, just what he might otherwise be thinking. The cigarette he holds between first and second finger, thumb flicking the base of it. A thready inhale and a forceful exhale. Barking orders in the same tone. Steady on there.

They're fucked.

Royally fucked, right there, thank you, Governor, I'll mind my ps and qs.

But what the damn else was he supposed to do but carry on? Sit in this muddy anthill and cry over it. He drops the cigarette and grinds it under his heel, then steps forward. "Come on, up one more, we can get that wall a little higher. No one is going to mind us taking a couple more bags now. I am sure the blokes will be back before we know it."

And he gets stuck right into it next to the other men.

AFTER THE FIGHT
It's all looking right properly Trojan after they're bottled into the tunnels. But they were the Trojans. Poor bloody bastards, taken by surprise. Even if it was their breakfast ruined, rather than a city burned down.

The ending is looking to be the same though. Slaughtered down to the last man. Nothing for it, barking out a speech that isn't a speech it's just better than nothing. God, who would remember it? Not some German, that is for certain. Had they been German... he couldn't... tell. Battle was muddled at the best of time. But there was something about these blighters. Hard to look at. Oh, he could hit them, just fine. But there was something so...

... It didn't matter. No weirder than the new recruits. But they didn't complain and they had all volunteered without question about it. They deserved better. Deserved this chance to get them all safe and he gets ready to run out again, the trench hammer in hand, a maddening cry on his lips as he forces his limbs to move, move, move -

- Nothing. No one. There wasn't a damn person there. Just the wounded on the ground, writhing in the gas and through their injuries.

This skewey, rabbit hole little battleground was deserted except for the wounded and quick as he can, he doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He points, blood on his face, sweat stuck to his hair open and snarling out orders - "You! With me! We're securing these lines - watch for grenades!"

after the fight

[handsomefoil]

Henry's eyes watered and he coughed behind the mask, but he'd been lucky enough to always wear his gas mask around his neck even if it was uncomfortable and often times got in the way (especially when sniping). The quiet is suspicious, but not completely surprising as anything involving the Regency probably came with some oddities such as this. He smirks a little behind the mask, tempted to scoff at the mind games they seem to be playing, until he's interrupted by Captain Lewis barking orders at him.

He drops whatever he can spare, like his rifle, and moves towards the closest wounded man.

"The hell is happening?"

With a grunt, he hoists the man to his feet (who groans, but is at least in-tact enough to walk alongside him).

arthur // ota

[pointedlook]

i. and we lay still

[ Arthur's arrived on the heels of the departure. It's a bit of whiplash, coming from elegant ballrooms, fine food and even finer costume. He's glad of the successful mission under his belt, but he sobers quickly from the high, focused on settling back into the misery of war. Having no patience for drawn out good-byes, he only waves those he knows off with a nod and a wish of good luck.

And then it's time for the waiting.

The Captain barks out his orders and they don't have time to dwell for too long. It's a relief in a way, he'd rather stay busy than churn through the same cycle of anxious emotions. Eventually it evens out, night falling and not much else to do other than chatter, sleep, or pretend to sleep. Arthur shuffles cards reflexively, not really looking inviting as he's seated along a trench, simply staring out and not seeing anything. If someone sits near him, he doesn't seem to notice. ]


ii. shot in the dark

[ It shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, but it had. The mustard gas still swirled around in the trenches, caught in the motion of the soldiers' legs despite having settled more towards the ground. Arthur kept his mask on, just in case too much of it got kicked up again– breathing in the burning fumes for the precious seconds it'd taken him to get the gas mask on had been painful enough to dissuade him from taking any risks.

Their precious silence had been shattered, gunfire and shouting filling the air. He's slow on the first few shots, shaking off the rust of a few week stint without any shooting. Still faster than some of the soldiers on the other side.

At least, until the machine guns come out.

One soldier bearing the machine gun comes flowing out of the smoke and smog, a phantom with death written in every bullet. Arthur dashes forward, lifts his mask enough to shout: ]

Get down!

[ and in case you don't start moving, he's just going to tackle you to the ground. ]


iii. wildcard

[ got something else? go for it! ]

i

[handsomefoil]

Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?

[ He sounds tired, of course, the sarcasm there but sounding almost shoe-horned in. At this rate, maybe Arthur really IS a sight for his sore eyes. Sitting down next to him, he notices something odd about him, something off... ]

Hey—

[ He trails off, squinting at him suspiciously. ]

[pointedlook]

[ The words break him out of his anxious reverie; Arthur blinks for a few seconds before recognition sets in. He spares Henry a brief smile and ceases the shuffling of cards, hands finally stilling. ]

You must really be wanting if I'm a balm.

[ Arthur has to say it is good to see a familiar face once more. Especially in light of people missing. ]

What's that look for?

[handsomefoil]

[ The chuckle had almost sounds like a scoff, but he's just tired. That's all. As Arthur is questioning the look he gives him, Henry's questioning look turns to surprise. ]

Did you...shower?

[pointedlook]

[ The question seems to come out of left field. For a second, Arthur's brow furrows and then his expression relaxes, brightens. His shoulders roll back as he laughs, a short bark of a sound.

Of all things. ]

Yeah. Got sent on a solo mission, which sort of required bathing beforehand. And during.

i

[withimagination]

[It's hard not to be a little upset, in these conditions, with his best ally gone for a while. So, when he sees his face, forgive him if he's a little relieved. And then snappily angry.

He sits down next to him in the trenches for a second before quickly covering Arthur's hand with his own, preventing him from shuffling again. Usually that sound is good, means he's about to make a lot of money, but at the moment, it's grating on his nerves.] Hope you had a merry time away from here, darling.

[It's a bit sore, yes, but also far more tired than he wanted it to sound. Far more relieved. And if his thumb twitches a little over the back of his hand, then oh well. He removes it from Arthur's hand, looking up at him.]

[pointedlook]

[ He's halfway through shuffling the deck again when the motion is abruptly stopped. A larger palm has lain over his nervous tic, dwarfing the deck that's caught between his hands.

Glancing up, his gaze goes sharp and then softens at the edges. Of course, that doesn't last long, annoyance darkening his brow not a second later. ]

It was satisfactory. Difficult to keep your head in the game when you're worried about people you know getting shot on the front, though.

[withimagination]

[He falters, quick response on his tongue dying, and then he's frowning, frustrated.]

Don't give me that shit.

[Stop making him feel bad when you should feel bad, Arthur!! He huffs out an annoyed breath, taking out his poker chip without thinking and rubbing his fingers over it.]

You didn't even text me.

henry "cooley" mccauley | ota

[handsomefoil]

[calm before the storm]

After all the needed work has been, for the most part, done and settled with unless there's a solider with a particularly nervous set of hands who needs to occupy himself, Henry leans against the wall of a trench and brushes dirty from his eyes. Caked on and covered in dark splotches of things he can't even recall anymore, he's spent. Bursts of activity, adrenaline, and the fearful need for self-preservation with short spans of time has him caring less and less about his vain comforts like he used to.

He'd let his pleasant facade of a personality down for the past few weeks, letting himself be himself (a snappier and less 'refined' version of what he normally portrays) and while this would normally sound relaxing to most, he finds it harrowing. Being forced to expend his energies elsewhere, like surviving, thinking not only for himself but for others as well, dumping the bodies of the dead that did not deserve to be...it's something he's never really had to do much. Hell, even just keeping tabs on Travis back in Santa Destroy had been a chore. So yeah, he's been pretty spoiled with his cushy assassin job. Only had to worry about the paranoia of being killed himself by the occasional assassin, instability of his living status, stuff like that. He considers that a pretty good life compared to this.

The moment of wary peace is still a blessing, even if it's in disguise, as he sits there with his head ducked and one knee drawn close to his chest. He fiddles with the gas mask hanging around his neck, not really paying attention to anyone who might've sat down next to him. They're all crammed in here anyway, and he's used to this closeness now. Every now and again, he hums or whistles to himself.

[withimagination]

It's hard not to be miserable in these situations. Eames has been in some shitty situations, but a lot of them have been just a step away from reality. Not real. This is real, entirely too real, and he feels himself cracking at the edges, angry and miserable and willing to take it out on other people just as much as Henry with snapping. Isolating himself from his friends has been a priority, but somewhere between snapping at a younger man for just asking for a deck of cards and now, he's become quiet. Contemplative. Still miserable, but less angry, and suddenly wondering how everyone else is doing, even with the slight panic over Arthur having been gone.

When he spots Henry, he makes his way over, sitting down with a huff beside him. The other man doesn't seem to notice him. He can't blame him, with how they're all packed in spots. Touching people who have been stuck in a war zone seems like a bad idea, so he speaks, his voice cautious. He doesn't know what's been going on with him.

"Henry." His voice sounds gravelly and tired. He clears his throat. "Hey."

[handsomefoil]

During the hubbub, Henry hadn't even thought about the safety of his fellow COST members. At least, not the ones he'd gotten separated from, if there had even been a thought of assuming they were one cohesive unit. For example, the Dreamshare Guys. To keep things simple, he'd started grouping people into categories depending on how close they were or if they were known to be from the same place.

He hadn't seen Eames in a long while (and Arthur even more so) but didn't even think to worry about them. Maybe he just assumed they were capable enough not to go dying over something stupid. Especially in the beginning, it wasn't hard to stay alive around here as long as you didn't stick your head over the trenches.

"Hey," he answers, still keeping his gaze downwards. He knows it's Eames though, from the sound alone. "Fancy seeing you here."

At least there is an attempt at humor.

[withimagination]

Eames glances over, smiling as well as he can. His lips are chapped and dry.

"Yeah, right."

Henry's gaze remains downwards, though, and he sighs. He's always kind of uncertain how to react to Henry. It delights him and yet pushes him out of his comfort zone. A little like interacting with Arthur, he supposes. He reaches up to run fingers through his own dirty hair.

"I don't suppose you've missed me."

He doesn't really expect him to have cared about his disappearance, but he's always secretly hopeful. Eames is nothing if not attention-seeking, and his favorite sources to poke at the moment are Arthur and Henry.

[handsomefoil]

He doesn't respond, at least not right away. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he'd probably admit to missing a small handful of people, Eames included. Being surrounded by like minds and getting into mischief and the like, or exploring Dreamshares, things like that. After all this mud, body rot, lice and all manners of things not to be mentioned in decent company, he finds himself wanting the simple things in life. He also imagines he's not the only one.

It's probably not an actual question or a cry for validation, but he imagines Eames has probably gone through a similarly rough time. Arthur is also nowhere to be found, so he assumes they got separated at some point. He shifts a little in his seat and leans against him, shoulder to shoulder.

"I did think about my favorite heat source from time to time."

closed to natasha

[lefthandfree]

The firefight has been close to nonstop for a while now, and even as steady as he manages to keep his sights, whenever he must draw away to reload his weapon, the damp only amplifies the cold sweat lining his brow. Their supplies were already dwindling. There’s no doubt the Regency has realized, and this is why there’s been no real room to breathe.

Though there has been progress in driving the Regency back, the soldier who’s been predominantly spotting Bucky with mortar shots for the last while begins to tire. Noticing immediately, he calls for a replacement, hoping any can be spared from the tunnels. When none comes, the man eventually ducks away, apology in his eyes as Bucky continues without him, and retreats to the tunnels. He manages for a while, his spot in the defense line still decently protected at the sides, but it’s not long before their opponents realize there’s a gap in the mortars.

They target the ground before him, obscuring his sights as much as they can to keep him from making another clear shot. He takes a slow breath, fights for patience. A sharp ring echoes through his ears as a bullet that was meant for his head tears through his uniform sleeve and glances off the metal arm. His jaw clenches as he ignores the hit. It may rattle his bones, but it won’t stop him. But another shot comes, this time cutting through the top of his right shoulder. Though he tries to stabilize again, his right hand begins to shake, no longer even enough to steady the tail of his rifle.

Fuck.

He slides away from the side of the top of the trench, fighting to steady his breath as he presses his back to the trench wall and the pain starts to register the rest of the way. He only looks now, left sleeve torn asunder from the bullet ripping along the cloth twice into a long jagged slice and his right sleeve a small cut. There’s no exit.

“Damnit,” he grouses to himself, using his left arm to set the weapon aside as he holds his right arm to his torso defensively. He needs to get it looked at immediately, get fixed up, get back in line. There isn’t time for this.

[latrodectus]

"Don't," Natasha says, rushing out to stabilize the wounded soldier. And that's who he is, at the moment, one of the many in this place, not someone she recognizes, even as a fellow agent.

She isn't supposed to be here, a woman so close to the front, the red of her hair covered by a nurse's scarf. She can't help herself. That had been always been the part of her training she found it hardest to swallow: the lessons about how to stand still, how not to interfere. Natasha had dedicated the last ten years of her life to ignoring them.

"You won't help them if you can't fight. An extra body is a liability." At least her accent is perfect. She reaches into her pack, for a bandage, or disinfectant. "We need to get back to the hospital.

[lefthandfree]

“Hey— What’re you—” he cuts in, his own accent tinted with New Zealand. He hadn’t expected one of the nurses to approach so readily. They aren’t even supposed to be about out here; it’s simply too dangerous.

Ducking away his left shoulder, he lets her attention fall to the right arm, hoping it’s only the blood that she’s noticed. Though there had been the chance to get specialized disguises for the mission, Bucky had opted for retaining his natural appearance. Should any of the natives to this time point realize he has something that simply cannot be in this point in history, there would certainly be hell to pay.

“No, it’s not so bad, see? I don’t need the hospital. Just a little disinfectant and bandaging and I’ll be right as rain.” At least to staunch the thing. The bullet can be removed later. He just needs the pain to settle, to stop shaking.

[latrodectus]

"We need to get you help," Natasha says, looking through her small cache of supplies and not the man she's speaking to. "If you follow them into battle you'll risk infection."

It should be said that she doesn't have the softest bedside manner, but that's common enough amoung the girls in the field, and not on the propaganda posters. She'd seen them herself, in her youth, relics of a hated regime, of a war Russia shouldn't have been fighting. Like she shouldn't be here at all.

She brings a bandage out of her pack, and a small bottle of disinfectant. "Sit down," she says, moving closer to get a better look at the wound.

And then she catches a glint of something metal where it shouldn't be...

[lefthandfree]

One of the things he hadn’t quite considered when he’d joined COST was how he would ever have to face explaining the affects of Zola’s replicated serum, a knock off to be sure but unnatural even back on his own Earth. While he’d be perfectly okay with just digging the round out, dumping a bit of alcohol on the wound, maybe a light stitch, and then some bandaging at most, procedures are simply different altogether in this time and place. Boy, way to feel even more idiotic for getting shot in the flesh at all.

Reluctantly, he lets her do her thing, not unaccustomed to field care as he’s seen plenty enough treatment along the front in his own time in Italy. He sits as she instructs, angles his right shoulder so she can get a better look, then—

The unmistakeable glance, the direction she looks in clear, makes his chest clench. Shit.

“Miss?” he interjects, trying to disrupt her attention. “It won’t be bad, will it?” Feigned fear. He can still make this work. Attention is all about focus, and focus can be altered by misdirection. He shrinks back in his seat. “Never been shot before. Told my girl I’d show her all my scars, but I didn’t really want any.”

Felix | ota

[mcscouty]

i. Everybody Loves Me

[ It takes approximately a day for Felix to remember exactly what he hates about this 'sit and wait' bullshit in the trenches. Less than that to miss his armor, something he's been able to rely on for years to keep him safe. Bad enough he's chest-deep in war, but they've got to fight like fucking primitives. What's he's signed on for, again?

It takes two days for Felix to pick a fight with someone.

Well, 'picking a fight' seems generous, both in the sense of actively seeking conflict and there being much of a conflict at all to be had. There are cigarettes left in this shithole and he swipes some. Someone notices. Terse words are exchanged, a taunt regarding someone's mother, and suddenly Felix is reeling from a headbutt and blood running down his mouth. He grins and licks his lips before headbutting him right back, and then there's nothing but noise and movement. Some scared kid who's been wound up too long and finally found a reason to snap at someone is scrabbling to knock him down, with a handful of his friends clustered close.

Beyond that it's hard to tell what's going on, except that Felix? Appears to be laughing. ]



ii. We're Gonna Fight, We're Gonna Fight the Good Fight

[ Ironically, he seems a lot less tense in the heat of the fight. The gas mask provides a certain kind of tunnel vision he's familiar with, and the adreniline thrums in his blood like the beat of an old dance. As miserable as it's been, as uncomfortable and hellish as the conditions are, there's a looseness to the way he moves after the the Regency soldiers that descend on them.

Of course, standing next to him isn't necessarily the healthiest place to be, either. He's concentrating on dealing damage, not playing meat shield to someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Felix doesn't hesitate to let someone else take a shot meant for him by dodging out of the way. Maybe that's counter to the spirit of the orders, but the first order is survive. The second is trying to save these assholes. And best believe he's got his priorities straight.

He doesn't even glance as the soldier beside him topples back from a headshot, he concentrates on lunging forward, getting his gun in under the Regency soldier's chin, and paying him back in kind, with a spray that can be seen over the edges of the trenches. Anyone standing behind?

Sorry about the mess. ]

ii

[handsomefoil]

[ Flecks of blood splatter him from the side. Fortunately, it barely registers as he's gotten so caked in dirt, blood, and all manners of other things he really doesn't want to think about. The Regency soldiers are their utmost priority, killing them before they're killed themselves.

Henry believes in the idea of every man for himself, but when he sees a German-dressed soldier coming up behind the guy, he straightens up from his previously crouched position and instinctively raises his gun to shoot them down. He doesn't stop to check if his fellow soldier OK though (he already knows he's fine), and lunges forward to grab the machine gun in the fallen Regency soldier's hands. ]

This should come in handy!

[mcscouty]

If you stay standing long enough, yeah! Probably will.

[ No mention of his life saved, of gratitude earned, or anything of the kind. There's no time to dwell on it -- there will never be enough time for Felix to reflect on how he needs anyone but himself -- and he shoulders past the guy to lift his gun, firing at another Regency agent clambering after them.

The recoil on this thing is starting to jar his shoulder something fierce. He's just lucky the stupid thing hasn't jammed yet. ]

Fucking antiques. Y'know, would it kill them to just...find a way to make them look the same but suck a little less?

[ Reload. Another shot, before there's a rattling noise and something lands in the dirt in front of them with a soft thump. Felix staggers back, nearly knocking straight into Henry as he does so. ]

Shit. Go, go go gogogo...!

[handsomefoil]

[ A modern weapon disguised as time period appropriate ones is such a marvelous idea, he wonders why nobody else thought of it. Even if they functioned exactly the same but worked just a little better (no jamming, etc), that would've been worlds better!

But he has no time to think about this now. He hears the thump but the fact that it's something like a bomb doesn't register until the guy is bumping into him and yelling. ]

Fuck—! [ Keeping a tight grip on his gun, he takes uneven, galloping steps backwards to get out of range. ]