#//also why do i crave the monster energy drink now tsk

[originemesis]

@cast-you-dxwn xxx

“Hng, you and your surfer-boy bullshit-“ Saltern quips as Abel lands at his side and the water flows into a shield over their position. Rounds pound into the holy water, their points mushrooming as they hit the unyielding wall, an ever-growing bouquet of copper-and-lead flowers suspended in the tiny, writhing tides.

The wound is bad, a mangled mess of flesh, intestines, and bullet fragments. Not immediately fatal, but without surgery or some quickly-applied healing magic, Saltern would surely die, if not of blood loss then by succumbing to infection.

The man laughs at Abel’s comment, though it is cut short by a wheeze and a pained groan. “You’re mixed up, man, I was shitting my guts out for weeks after that.”

The initial stab of pain as the tendril of water breaches the wound is indescribable, leaving the heavy gunner unable to do much as draw breath, much less cry out, but God, does he want to. The tendrils work through the wound swiftly as they are guided by Abel’s practiced hand, catching the main body of the projectile and all of its fragments, the metallic pieces tinkling against the floor of the emplacement.

The water seems to do its job well, slowly beginning to knit together torn flesh and organs, the pain beginning to dull, and the bleeding beginning to slow even as Abel hops up onto the gun to take Albert’s position.

Rounds continue to smack into the shield, a few of them finding the narrow sliver the medic keeps open, whizzing past his body as he begins to put rounds down range.

The exorcists who are advancing towards the barricade are caught out in the open, and their light armor offers no protection against the large-caliber projectiles being hurtled down range. One woman is cut clean in half as they stitch across her midsection, unable to even scream as she falls to the ground. Another is caught in the shoulder, the entirety of her arm flying from her body in a spurt of bright gold arterial blood.

The platform shakes as another exorcist from above lands on it alongside Abel, her blade raised and ready to strike. Before the blow can fall, her body jerks once, twice, thrice, before the three neat holes in her side explode outward, showering Abel’s armor in blood and bits of bone.

Albert lay where he’d fallen, his sidearm now in his hand even as Abel’s holy water continues to root around in his guts, the barrel smoking as the Exorcists corpse falls from the platform.

"You should try it sometime. I've been told it helps with anger management. Possibly cholesterol-" Both of which Albert could do with- well, once his guts were all sewn back up anyway. If it weren't for that, he imagines his insinuation would have been met with a headlock and a subsequent grinding of knuckles into a shorn nape because Albert would claim that helped manage his anger more. Perhaps later. There would be a later...

As bullets blasted the shield overhead- an amplified champagne burst and pop for each entry into the blistering body of water, the medic is quick to retrieve and discard the stray and it's fragments from Saltern's, leaving the water in its place to meticulously sew damaged ends of guts and reconnect them with bouts of roiling pain that likely did mimic the results of ingesting chili oil infused wasabi by the pound. "It was voluntary..." The reminder is the last thing he shares with the other before he's scrambling to get the station secured for when Albert could find his feet again.

There's no denying the other is a repelling force with his aim, because it doesn't take long for some exorcists to find their way beneath the shield and through the stream of outgoing return fire, and once the bodies of a few block the final entry point as living shields for the last infiltrator to rattle the platform with her landing. The gust of her wings too close for comfort upsets his balance to the side, and the gauntlet on his arm prepares to catch the blow while he grabs for the handle of the field dressing dagger sheathed at his side. The resounding whizz of a shot from behind renders the padding of his armor freshly painted with splatter of gold, and he blinks as the exorcist topples over mid attack.

Swinging his gaze back to confirm Saltern was still on the mend, he nods and offers the man a camaraderie chorus of "get some!" over a jerked thumb. They had done the whole storm the base drill countless times, and the defensive position was really a matter of hunkering down and diverting the onslaught's patience to take a preferred route. That route, from what he understands will have their back up from the embassy...they just have to last that long.

Thumbing past the dagger, he yanks free the shepherd's cane from its holster on his back, the glint of angelic steel evident in the slope of its handle. If another makes it through, he's going to hit them right back out into the bullet spray. Flock around and find out.