The Scarman Enigma

[|Scarecrow|]

Starwood Hotel, Landing Platform Terminal, Floor 75

“Manning is down,” Merlow said through gritted teeth as another energy blast from Connors struck the thin partition wall behind him. The laser bolt melted a hole straight through the light plastics. Merlow and Serov had backed away into a small, enclosed restaurant area as soon as they had come under heavy fire from the various pirate emplacements. There was Connors’ position, plus the attacking pirates from the direction of the collapsed ceiling. Another group had also joined the fray, raining fire down on them from another, yet unseen point in the central supermarket. The restaurant they had taken for cover was surrounded by a waist-high barrier wall, and was divided inside with taller, similarly styled partitions. It felt more like an office block to Robert than a restaurant. Still, the partitions had offered the two beleaguered Freedom Fighters a good amount of visual cover from the pirates.

“Shit,” Serov cursed as he jammed another clip into his SCAR. “How bad?”
“Bad,” Merlow replied, trying to steal a glance out of cover, “Scarecrow’s there. Damn it- He’ll get himself killed.”
“You need to go,” Serov grunted painfully as he shifted his weight. The injury to his right shoulder was making it difficult for him to brace and aim his rifle. The butt end of the weapon was darkened with his blood. He pressed it back under his shoulder pauldron with a grunt, ignoring the pain.
“Get to him,” He continued, “He needs backup. He’s a sitting duck over there.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Merlow shook his head, peering out in the direction of the attacking pirates. More light-arms fire clattered into the partition wall. “Not with this much heat on you.”
Serov grinned through the pain, “Then we’d better thin them out.”

Thomas Serov rose from his kneeling position to stand low behind his section of the partition wall. He sighted down the barrel of his SCAR and aimed in the direction of the central supermarket. The low, dark shape of Pete Connors was on the move again, attempting to rotate.
“Not this time,” Serov muttered under his breath as he tracked Connors. Merlow watched with intent as his friend expertly panned with his rifle. From his position, he could not actually see Connors beyond their position. However, he could see movement further into the supermarket. More pirates were moving up to Connors’ position to reinforce him.
“Better be quick,” He mumbled, tightening his grip on his rail pistols.
“Go, now!” Serov barked. He squeezed the trigger on his SCAR and the rifle roared to life, spitting fire out in the direction of the supermarket.
The Fleet Admiral's eyes widened as he broke cover and ran. That had almost sounded like an order.

Black Flag pirates Skyler Hawkins and Zed Raphael advanced on Pete Connors. They had pulled away from a bitter stalemate with the encircling native law enforcement, regrouping to support their embattled Tyrant. They were tired, bruised, and bloodied, and they had witnessed many of their brethren fall. As soon as they had arrived on the seventy-fifth floor, they had spotted Connors almost immediately as he exchanged fire with some unseen enemy target. The Brawler did not seem to be pinned, but the enemy apparently had him at a disadvantage. The fact that he had lost one of his hands only hours earlier was not making matters easier for him. He darted from shelf to shelf, covering his route as he attempted to reposition against his enemy.

As the two pirates entered the supermarket, Zed whistled to get his comrades’ attention. “Hey, Connors!”
The rattle of gunfire sounded from somewhere beyond, just as Zed called out. Caught in between shelving units, Pete Connors turned to look in the direction of the two Black Flag Elite. His eyes widened and he pointed angrily elsewhere into the seventy-fifth floor.
“Our Tyrant-” He began, but before he could complete his sentence, his face exploded outward in a visceral fountain of blood. A couple of rounds from the volley of his unseen enemy had struck him in the back of the head. In unison, both Raphael and Hawkins ducked down and skidded to a halt, sharing angry looks.

“This isn’t going to plan!” Raphael yelled over the sound of more gunfire from further along the supermarket area.
“What do you suggest!?” Hawkins shot back at him as he loaded another charge pack into his blaster carbine.
“I’m saying-” Raphael continued, “The Tyrant’s plan has gone to shit- And who the hell knows where Jadyn has gotten to.”
“You want to bail, Raph? Is that it?” Hawkins sneered at his comrade. “After all this time and dedication?”
“Fuck you Hawkins, I don’t want to die for no reason.”
“Good point. Then I suppose we fight our way off this deck.” Hawkins laughed as he peered through the shattered supermarket aisles. “There are aircars to the landing platforms outside. We can blast our way out.”
“And the Tyrant?” Raph said. His expression was uncertain.
“Fuck him.” Hawkins spoke with determination, “He dragged us to this place- this parallel dimension, and for what? We’ve done nothing but fight and die. It’s time we took control of our own destinies!”

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| S C A R E C R O W |

"See you space cowboy..."