Private A Helping Hand

[Judah Dashiell]

The massively loud boom he was used to. Working salvage was loud and chaotic. Refining salvaged materials was hot,loud, and chaotic. As a result, things often went awry. Large pieces of metal fell. Molten metals spilled from their containment. Chains snapped. Equipment literally ground to a halt.

All this lead to an advantage for himself. Instead of being startled by the noise as the rebels were he was already poised to move with Danger Arceneau out of the half-bombed out building.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a small group of refugees already taking advantage of the distraction. No doubt Danger had spotted them well before he did and wisely used the falling cargo crate in a dual attempt to get themselves and the small group out to safety.

Rebels were still firing wildly as shouts broke out through the dust. Knowing which direction was out already, he and Danger were making a bee line for the exterior when a stinging burn flashed through the back of his thigh. Wait, did he get hit? No time to worry about it.

The old salvager stumbled a bit but continued on. The dust was less thick now, he could hear the shouts of the refugee group that had been trapped in with them. Two steps more and his feet touched grass, sunshine brilliantly shining over head. The sound of drones also reached his ears, the mining probes he had called up.

Life was scattering from the area. They should too.

"Come on. Almost there now."

Distantly he could hear the sound of heavy artillery moving in. They had no time to linger. Getting to the cargo ship was paramount.

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Interacting with: Judah Dashiell
| Dress x | x | x | x | x | x | X | X |

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Danger didn't flinch at the boom -- big noise, big distraction. Just how she liked it.

It had worked in their favor to time their escape with the precision of someone who'd lived in the wreckage of other people's wars. She hauled the salvager forward with a rough grip on his arm, practically dragging him through the haze and gunfire.

He stumbled -- bad hit to the leg, maybe. She didn't ask. He didn't fall.

That was enough.

The dust thickened like a shroud behind them, but ahead, the way opened up. A clearing. Real sunlight. Real grass. Her boots crunched over shattered duracrete, then gave way to earth.

The refugees were already spilling into the open, coughing, wide-eyed, running like their lives depended on it, which they did. One of the little ones turned back toward the sound of more blaster fire, but Danger snapped, "Keep going! Eyes front!"

She didn't stop. Didn't look back.

Behind them, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of artillery echoed off broken buildings like a heartbeat counting down. Too close.

But above, the drones hovered -- faithful little sentries flashing blue in the haze. The landing pad was close now, the cargo ship already warming up, her ramp lowering like an outstretched hand.

"Come on," Danger muttered under her breath, eyes scanning for the next threat, hand already on her blaster. "Almost there now."

One more sprint.

One more breath.

And they were gone.