Blake was pinned down in an abandoned Holo-drome. He had three bullets left, and there were at least fifty Enemy troops outside. Their catcalls rang in his ears, daring him to come out, promising small mercies ("We won't cut off all of your fingers!"). Help was on its way, but Blake didn't know how much longer he could hold out.
His squad had been on recon in the Dark Sector when they came upon a small group of the Enemy. Quickly, Squad Leader Jonesfoot had ordered his men to capture the small group - unaware that this small group was part of a much, much, much, much larger group of the Enemy. Much larger.
Two had been killed by the Enemy, leaving six to retreat, frantically and without much organization. The chaos of battle always nauseated Blake. He and Smithson had holed up in the Holo-drome (As a measure of how long it had been abandoned, it still advertised 'Rose's Art,' which hadn't been in theaters for at least - at LEAST thirty years.) while Squad Leader Jonesfoot and three others had taken refuge in the Vitapaste-Mart next door.
"Are they still out there?" Smithson asked. Jorndt, how much could one man sweat?
To answer, Blake put his helmet on the gun and slowly raised it to the level of the window. It was immediately shot from about six directions and the helmet went spinning across the room. Sweat flew from Smithson's lips.
"Yeah. They're still out there."
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