Semo and Angel check their AT-4s and head for the western edge of the treeline. Davis goes with them. Meanwhile, Hugh leads the rest of the squad towards the north end of the research camp. He motions the team down into cover and waves the shaman's group forward. The shaman shoulders his SCAR and idly fiddles with the vox hanging around his neck before calming himself and leading the five painted Chosen (likewise armed with rifles and spears) on a fairly noisy trek through the undergrowth. They're out of sight after 15-20 feet, but you can hear their movement stop a few tense moments later when the two Imperial attack drones spot them.

The drones' humming impellers are whisper-quiet, but the brief high-pitched fading whine of stingers powering up cuts the jungle like a knife. You cannot see the shaman's signs, but the few wherren words vocalized communicate the general idea of a missed tribute. That is good news - the drones aren't shooting anyone on sight. It also means the surveillance should be plenty distracted. Angel leads Davis and Semo in a slow, measured crawl through the jungle muck to a thick clump of ferns growing in the increasing spaces between the tree trunks. They're in a depression where a muddy almost-creek trickles through the foliage and some fallen dead wood. From here, the trio of humans can make out the grounded manta. The side hatch is closed and one man has his head and arms up in one of the exterior panels when the second pilot exits the hatch, talks to the other man, and heads back up.

Hugh can't move his fireteam in yet - it sounds like the shaman's group is being held outside the clearing by the drones, and the whole bunch is right where Hugh's team needs to be. Eventually one of the drones' voxes crackles to life. *Follow me,* the vox-feed transmits in Imperial. The shaman nods acceptance and falls in behind the first drone, which floats towards the clearing. The second drone trails the Chosen a few meters behind, rotating every now and then to look for additional natives.

Meanwhile, Angel's element sees a bit of commotion happening in the camp. The two lazy Turai standing guard open the door to the barracks-hab they were "guarding". They shout something to the occupants, then they grab their gear and trot off towards the north end of the camp, stopping about 20 meters beyond the dome. They keep their cloaks inactive, and are soon joined by a purple-sashed Rav-Turai. Angel spots the cloaked trin of Turai that was previously on patrol next. They're circling the camp slowly. They're not on patrol anymore; they're staying low and searching for, well, someone sneaking up from another direction. Someone like Angel. Angel's picked a good spot, though, and although he was able to spot the Imperials through their cloak, the reverse does not appear to be true.

Davis sees the man working on the manta's vent toss his tools down and board the ship. The dorsal beamer turret rotates to life, but cannot get a bead on the procession as it reaches the treeline. The shaman balks upon stepping into the moonlit clearing.

"Keep moving!", the purple-sashed Imperial barks through his helmet amplifiers.

"You forbade us from entering this holy place," the shaman signs in confusion. The alien's putting on a good show.

The Rav-Turai catches himself from facepalming in front of the natives, and in a measured, serene voice calls back, "You have our permission to enter; our guardians will not... smite you." The soldier looks around and his voice booms again. "Any other contac- oh, dammit-" he cuts off his amplifiers and his next words aren't audible. Apparently he gets the answer he was looking for from someone and nods. The two Turai with him bring their beamers up from a carry to "generally pointed at" the half-dozen wherren.

The Rav-Turai's next words are amplified once more. "Place your spears on the ground and take two steps forward." The shaman -almost- looks back at the treeline for confirmation but catches himself. He complies, placing his staff and spear in the grass. The Chosen follow suit. They're showing some anxiety to their fur at this point.

"Hold your rifles above your head and come forward." The wherren unshoulder their SCARs and gingerly walk into the clearing, their arms awkwardly holding the firearms barely above their tusked heads. The Rav-Turai stops their advance halfway into the clearing. The two soldiers with him have taken their weapons from "generally pointed at" to "shouldered and aiming".

Hugh's inched his team closer in the meantime and now the rest of the group crawls up to what cover they can find in the sprouting foliage around the clearing. The large center dome blocks the manta's view of Hugh's team as well as the Turai and wherren. Apparently someone in the camp realizes this as well, because the Turai's next order is to walk the wherren counterclockwise around to where the manta can see them. With the natives covered, the Rav-Turai and his two guards approach the shaman. The team hears the conversation through the shaman's earpiece.

"Collect their weapons," he tells one of the guards. The Turai takes the SCARs from the wherren and awkwardly toddles back to cover the natives with six rifles slung over both shoulders.

"Now, why are you here?" the Imperial asks.

"The silver flyers did not come at the appointed time. I knew this was a holy place and brought the Chosen here to pay our tribute."

The Rav-Turai nods. "The tribute you give us is on a schedule for our convenience, not yours. You do not dictate when or where it happens. However, I will note your dedication and piety. From which village have you come?" The shaman makes a guttural syncopated bark. It's not even a word you could hope to reproduce, and the Imperial doesn't try. A second try with general directions and the river as a landmark seems to be good enough, however.

"All right. First things first. We accept your tribute. You-" he points to each Chosen in turn - "are now Chosen of the Emperor. You bring glory to your ancestors and to your village. You no longer are of this world - you stand among gods." It's telling that even with all the truth Davis has shown them in the past few days, a few of the Chosen are clearly proud to hear the Imperial's words. The Rav-Turai turns back to the shaman. "As for you... who gave you these weapons?"

The shaman reaches to his vox. "The same people who gave me this," he signs. "It is a message for you." The Rav-Turai takes the vox, inspecting it briefly for signs of obvious tampering and says something on his internal feed that's muffled by his helmet. He then switches on the vox.

Davis watches the proceedings, and it's pretty much going as he expected, up until the Rav-Turai moves the Shaman and the initiates into the line of fire of the Manta. Damn, he thinks. Not a problem, just gotta make sure this goes down clean.

That some of the initiates feel a sense of pride at being officially Chosen isn't surprising or worrying, after all, this is what they've spent their entire lives leading up to. An honor is an honor, even when it's from your enemies.

Davis sees the Rav-Turai switch the vox on. He adjusts his throat mic, and adjusts his night-vision binoculars to give a wide field of view over all the assembled uncloaked Turai. He nods in acknowledgement at Angel's silent signal towards the cloaked Trin, and steels himself. Show time.

Steady now, Hugh thinks, clutching his XM10.

Gatac wrote:

Steady now, Hugh thinks, clutching his XM10.

"Let's hope Mr. Washington can talk the talk." whispers Cowboy to Hugh, quietly switching off the safety on his rifle.

"That's the last thing I'm worried about," Hugh whispers back.

Gatac wrote:

"That's the last thing I'm worried about," Hugh whispers back.

"Yeah, figured you had as much faith in that guy as I did." Cowboy's smirking white teeth showing through the dark grease paint on his face.

The Rav-Turai checks the shaman's vox for prerecorded messages. Finding none, he attempts the tried and true "Hello?"

"Hello!" Davis cheerfully says. "It's an honor to have the chance to speak with you. I'm talking to Rav-Turai..."

The man looks a little taken aback by such cheerfulness, given it's the middle of the night. "Hale. Rav-Turai Hale. And whom am I speaking to?"

"Garrett Davis." There's an "oh fuck" from one of Hale's Turai that's audible through his helmet and over the voxline. Davis continues. "Pleased to meet you, Rav-Turai Hale. I figure I should be up front with you and not lie about who I am, and I think you've probably heard of the...distortions the ravilars have said about me," Davis says. "I'm here to offer you a way safely off this planet."

Hale takes the news in stride, although he does look around the clearing for any obvious signs that he's being peered at down a dozen rifle barrels. "You'll... you'll want to speak with the base commander, then." He takes a moment before adding, "Open vox channel 3778." He nods, no doubt giving instructions via his internal feeds. The two Turai motion the five Chosen towards the camp.

"Actually, let's keep this on this little vox right here. No telling who else is listening in, hm? No need for this to be a party line," Davis says. "I promise, if everyone stays calm, no one will be hurt on either side. Now, let's just keep the wherren where they are, you send that cloaked Trin to get the base commander so you're not out here by yourself, and we can start talking. Sound good to you?"

"You - go home," Hale tells the shaman. "The rest of you, head to building 2." Hale keys the vox again. "These five natives are part of the Imperium now. They belong to me, and I do not take orders from Narsai'i. Channel 3778, Mr. Davis." Hale drops the vox on the ground and backs towards the dome.

Davis keys off the vox. "Shit." He knows that by connecting directly to the Imperials' system, there's a chance they could trace his vox, but it's worth it if he can keep them talking. Davis quickly flips over to the radio while he changes channels on the vox. "I have to connect with their vox system, get ready to drop the drones on my order," he radios to the team. "Angel, Semo, get ready to blow the Manta. If they hack my system, we're gonna need to take it down fast."

Once he's dialed into the camp's vox channel, Davis keys down again. "This is Garrett Davis," he says, keeping the light conversational tone he had before. "I've already met Rav-Turai Hale, and you would be?"

Luis has pretty much tuned out Comboy's banter with Hugh. Luis trusts Davis to do what needs to be done to avoid a full-out battle. He's also steeling himself to accomplish the mission if things don't go acording to plan. When Davis' message comes in, he checks his target and waits for the signal. Do your stuff, Davis. Make this work.

Sweat drips in tickling rivulets down the team's faces. Insects buzz around iron sights trained unwaveringly on the Imperials in the clearing. Davis' vox crackles with a throat-clearing hack of a cough on the line, then a phlegmy voice answers, "Samal Varna. Hale tells me you have some sort of offer for him, or myself, or something like that?"

"That's right, Samal Varna," Davis says. "We're here on a mission to help the Wherren species gain their independence, but we have noticed that you have many wounded unarmed civilians and Turai in your camp. As an offer of peace between us, we would like to offer you and the people in your care a way off this planet and proper medical care."

In the clearing, the shaman is standing there, unsure what to do, watching his five tribe-mates being marched towards the camp. Rav-Turai Hale shouts again, "Go home!" He even signs a passable version in whiirr-sign. "Get out of here! This isn't your fight! This isn't your problem! Whatever those people told you, they are using you! Just... go home! On... on pain of... smiting!" There's a 'please' in there, but Hale can't bring himself to say it out loud.

Davis mutes the vox and keys on the radio. "Yes, Shaman, please get out of the line of fire, you don't need to risk yourself like this." He changes back to the vox to continue his ultimatum to Varna. "However, for our safety and the safety of the Wherren tribes that are allied with us, we would require that you and your men stand down and surrender your weapons to us, and allow us access to the research camp."

To Davis' relief, the shaman backs up and starts heading clockwise out of sight of the manta. Hale's free to loose his beamer and back up towards the nearest pile of containers dumped out of the dome building.

With the Shaman out of the line of fire of the manta, Davis continues. "We control the orbital, and have reinforcements on the way, and right now, we have many Quads of wherren poised and ready to attack your position, trained and armed with the same rifles that the four initiates Rav-Turai Hale is escorting now. But I think we both know what would happen if we are forced to storm the camp. Innocent civilians would die, men and women that your Turai have bravely risked their lives to bring back to safety. I don't want that to happen, and you don't want that to happen. I come here with an offer of peace, and a way out of this place." He pauses for a second. "Yeah, I think that just about covers it. I'm open to negotiation, Samal Varna, but that is where things stand. I'm just trying to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed, on either side."

There is a long pause. Finally, Varna comes back. "No, I do not want that to happen, but I think that... " he's interrupted by a few messy-sounding coughs. "I think that you want a battle far less than I. I think you are watching my camp right now, and your mention of wounded civilians means you have been watching for a while. Watching long enough to know not to approach from a direction upon which my gunship could fire. So are you certain you have spotted all the cloaked Turai under my command, Mr. Davis? Are you sure the manta ship lacks the ability to hover? Are you willing to bet the lives of your wherren friends in the clearing?"

The team knows the Chosen and the shaman haven't lost their smoke grenades. It's getting pretty chancy, though - the Chosen are almost around the corner of the dome and the shaman might not be able to get their attention if this goes off like it feels.

Hugh's got the cloaked Turai dead to rights, and the drones don't have cloaks, but... shit. How long has that hab's door been open?

Can they trace radio signals? you wonder.

The instant Varna finishes his first sentence after his coughing attack, Davis mutes his vox mic and gets to work. "Shaman, when we fire, you and the Chosen need to use the smoke canisters we gave you and you need to run back towards us as fast as you can. Put the tent between you and the flyer. Everyone else, prepare to hit your given targets or pop smoke grenades on my go. Only eliminate the drones and the Manta, and anyone actively shooting at the wherren. If they're just looking for targets or have them at gunpoint, leave them alone." Davis pulls the pin on his smoke grenade while Varna finishes his rant. When Varna asks his last question, Davis shakes his head and keys down on the radio again. "Fire."

WHAP!

Luis is the first to squeeze his trigger. His XM-10 flares, accelerating a stream of atoms from its fuel rod and throwing them into the drone nearest the shaman. The particle beam leaves a white afterimage as it heats the air and leaves the drone a spiraling, smoking dead sphere.

Next, there's a sharp bang from Cowboy's position. His round penetrates clean through the next nearest drone; the machine flutters erratically for a moment before something pops inside it and it drops into the tall grass.

Hugh's shot flat-out detonates one of the drones circling the camp from the east. The fireball flashes bright, scattering strange shadows through the clearing.

Zaef holds his fire, watching for any imminent danger to either him or the wherren exposed in the clearing.

The last drone has spun to face the treeline when Arketta lights it up. Its holed carcass smoulders in a patch of tall, wet grass.

Somewhere in the manta, the pilots have realized that shit just got real. Unfortunately, this revelation hits them slightly after the two 84mm AT-4 warheads from the northwest side of the camp. Angel and Semo watch their rockets hit the Imperial vehicle; Semo's pretty sure he got it dead center on the aft. The fireball obscures Angel's shot, but this second hit sends jagged metal debris spinning off into the jungle. A massive dirty explosion rocks the clearing, flattening grass around the manta and sending a cloud of thick smoke mushrooming into the sky.

The Turai in the clearing barely have time to react. The cloaked Turai drop prone into the grass. Hale ducks behind his makeshift cover as the manta's shockwave washes over him. The two Turai escorting the Chosen wherren stagger back from the blast and spin around, their wherren charges all but forgotten in favor of returning fire.

As the shockwave from the Manta roars off into the jungle, Davis unmutes his vox. "I think that adequately demonstrates our resolve, Samal Varna. We have come here on a mission of peace, but do not think for an instant we will hesitate to do what needs to be done to accomplish our mission and support the Wherren here. We have taken out your drones and destroyed your Manta. Next, we will fire on any Turai who fires upon us or the Wherren." Davis pauses for a second. "Samal Varna, Rav-Turai Hale, please, do not force our hand. There might still be time to save the men in the Manta, if you surrender now. We will provide our kaukas to heal your wounded, and we will keep you safe. I offer you a choice: a battle that you have no chance of winning, or a safe ticket out of here. We will come in there if you force us to, but for First's sake, Rav-Turai Hale, Samal Varna, do not force us to end this in blood."

Angel hears Davis' plea in the background, but the two Turai with the wherren and the three cloaked out in the taller grass are already raising beamers and extending spearbombs. Angel lets the empty AT-4 drop off his shoulder and grabs his rifle. There's two straight white smoke trails leading from the flaming manta wreck back to his fireteam's position. Too many things to do, not enough time to do any of it. Davis' offer won't filter down their chain of command in time to stop the Imperials' initial counterattack. Angel might be able to get a few of them, thin them out before they can fire. He could hunker down, take cover and try to weather the storm and hope Davis can get through to their leadership before there's too many shots fired. Maybe displace; break contact and get to another spot fast.

Across the treeline, Luis quickly ducks back behind cover after taking his shot on the drones. Arketta's taken cover behind a moss-covered stump a couple meters away. She grins at him, eyes bright with adrenaline.

Knowing the trail from the AT-4 is a good way to get as much counter-fire as possible brought down on your head, Angel takes his rifle and begins a hasty withdrawl in a low crouch toward an alternate position - preferably one where he still has line-of-sight on the Turai.

Angel's up and out of the barely-a-creek in a flash, narrowly avoiding an incoming beamer shot. He runs and rolls to a stop behind a leafy tree-trunk. Behind him, Semo's doing much the same. The Turai out with the wherren follow the AT-4 trails back to the sergeant, though, and Semo's hit by a lucky shot. There's a bang and a smoke cloud, then Semo rolls forward out of the blast and goes down. For him, it's a bad hit, but for anyone else, it would be far worse. The wound's a ragged crater in his upper chest, boiled and burnt and bleeding. He's alive and moving, but not in any organized fashion. At least he fell and rolled into a ditch that should hide him from further fire.

The rest of the Turai follow suit; one of the cloaked Turai gladly gives away his position with a fusillade of poorly-aimed snap shots towards where Arketta and Luis were. Burning splinters and smoky soil geysers around their cover. The other two Turai take more measured shots, but their knee-jerk attempts on Hugh and Cowboy's lives miss as well.

A split-second after the Turai return fire, Cowboy thumps a 40mm shell into the group of three cloaked-but-not-so-hidden Turai. One's definitely dead; that much flying meat isn't easy to put back into a torso. Both others go down and do not return fire. Specialist Kang backs up Cowboy's retribution with a shot that knocks Semo's nemesis down into the dirt.

*I hear gunfire! You guys need help?! We can help!!!* Charlie and Martin interject over the team's vox and radios.

Hugh's ducked prone to avoid the enemy fire, but he finally keys his radio, shouting "Cease fire!" Swims-the-Black holds his position; he was lining up a shot but Hugh sees his finger go back to the trigger guard.

Davis hears Varna and Hale mirror Hugh's order over their feeds. "Cease fire! Cease fire!"

*What the FUCK?!* both Sheen comment in unison. Their critique is oddly applicable to the Imperials' imagined response as well; in less than ten seconds, the research camp has been stripped of its lone vehicle, it's drone capability has been obliterated, and of the six Turai visible on the field, one gets up slowly from Cowboy's smoking crater, rattled but with armor mostly intact. Kang's victim is down but wounded. The remaining Turai looks around in confusion. As for Hale, his head bobs behind his cover. He's clearly talking fast.

*Give me a moment to communicate the situation to the others in the camp, Mr. Davis,* Varna voxes. *I have ordered my Turai to stand down and will consider your offer.*

"Better make it fast, two of your men need a medic," Davis voxes back, then changes to his radio. "Luis, need a medic over here, Semo took a hit. They're standing down, but keep low just in case."

Hugh keys the radio again. "Easy, people," he says. "Everybody take a breath and check your trigger fingers."

Angel decides not to take down the remaining Turai in a hailstorm of old fashioned high velocity metal, but uses the confusion and breathing room to switch position again to cover the wounded Semo, hunkering down in cover as much as he can.

Luis ducks behind his cover, and loks back at Arketta just before he ducks closer to his cover as the smoke and splinters shower them. “Take the damned offer,” he hisses. After a few seconds, it seems like they may have. First Hugh calls out, “Cease fire!” then Davis is on the radio telling Luis that Semo needs him. Staying low, he moves out. As he passes where Arketta's bunkered down, he pats her shoulder and says, "Looks like we gave them something to think about, but watch my back, will you?"

Cowboy holds his position, reloading the spent grenade round and popping in a fresh mag into his SCAR.

"On your eight," Arketta replies to Luis. She follows him through the foliage over to where Angel's covering Semo. Meanwhile, Varna's response crackles over Davis' vox along with a health helping of pleghm:

*As the commanding officer of this Imperial facility, I surrender it and its personnel to the custody of... the Narsai'i.* Varna gives another wracking cough, then adds, *Hold your fire, I'm sending out medicae for my wounded.*

Cowboy, Angel, Hugh, and the others covering the camp see a brown-robed man carrying a medkit run out from the dome and head for the men wounded by the grenade. At the same time, their attention's drawn to a woman in dingy administrative garb leaving the northmost hab with a second medkit. She's heading for the grass where the guy Kang shot is groaning.