Unfortunately, the inside of the ship beyond the door Teck yanked open was... not what one might expect. Where a normal (albeit small) corridor had once been, there was writhing machinery. Spilling down from the upstairs, overflowing from the downstairs, intertwined in sparking wires, gnarled messes of scrap metal, and all sorts of scrap robot parts (No fewer than a hundred glowing eyes stared back at him.), the brown, rusted mess, lit only by the flickers of electricity within, looked like a glimpse into some awful horror flick hell dimension. There was no empty space in which to maneuver. And, to make matters worse, the mess of machinery somehow moved, thrusting itself through the tiny corridor in a mess of grinding, scraping, and groaning noises, the metal components banging against the walls with the sounds of roaring gongs, while a mess of mechanized arms and tentacle-like cables lashed out at the porcupine.

Somewhere in the middle of Teck's winding-down moment, wherein he was supposed to be catching his breath and his wits, the tiny, dark window in the door behind his head shattered, and a mess of arms and wires and everything else imaginable made its best attempt to ensnare whatever part of him it could reach, while yet more erupted from other orifices on the boat. Pretty soon, the thing was marching down the road as a mess of big, waggling scrap arms, which groped around for anything that moved—Including the CTs.

Yet... they didn't seem as fond of Jam, though. Was it the electricity? Hard to say, but every time she pierced the air with that bright white, flashing, flickering bolts, whatever was coming toward her quickly whipped back. Now, whether that meant she could do anything to the boat was another story.

"EEEEK" And Sparky ducked instinctively with his hands flying over to cover his cowering head when Jam very nearly had a moment of friendly fire. Friendly fire ain't always friendly, less so when it involves like twenty bajillion volts of electricity.

When they got around to continuing in their task, they were still right behind her when she opened the door that led to their next objective: not dying. "WHOAMYGOD--" spat Joe, immensely shocked. Sparky managed to keep from blurting out similar sentiments but he was still stunned by the sight.

The shock turned to much worse feelings when they realized that tangle of veritable evil was moving, and had a goal of its own.

Sparky wasted no time. He jolted forward right into the mess of things and wrapped his arms around Jam (he was equipped to handle the lightning, even such a ridiculous amount), whipping around in doing so and facing the doorway. His thrusters thoomed. Joe went to the other side and fired away at the offending mass, putting pretty much all his knowledge of such situations gained from zombie-tentacle-infested corridors in Resident Villainous 5 at work, but it very rapidly became clear Jam wasn't the only thing on the menu.

"Oh crap," Joe said above the noise of his SMG, which suddenly went click, "oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap--"

Meanwhile, back down on the planet, things weren't much better for the uniformed personnel. Cross wasn't sure where he'd landed at first, then pushed off his stomach onto his elbows. "Ah--ah--sonofa--f**k--"

He heard footsteps, and felt hands grab him around the arm. "C'mon!" It was Tally. "C'mon, we gotta go!"

Killey and McBride were already up, and though they were clearly shaken, they looked more pissed off than anything. Killey'd gotten it bad with a big gash on his face, and McBride was limping and looked like he was in a lot of pain, but otherwise they at least hadn't gotten killed. Someone was carrying poor old Zanetti over the shoulder (that guy just couldn't catch a break), but for the most part, it looked like it'd take more to keep the SSD down.

Like the incoming wave of ruthless machines, for example.

Ace was lucky enough to slide back into consciousness just before Rock's inquiry. And how else could he answer, but a snide "Just... super!" Yeah, that was definitely him... That was his voice... "Oohhfff..." he groaned, rubbing his temple as if it helped. "Where, where'd everyone go...? Caz?"

...Caz?

He whipped about for some sign of his girl, jerking up with a sudden start like he'd just woken up from a nightmare rather than into one. And, there she was... Her eyes shut tight, arm dangling limply off the side of the flatbed.

"Oh, no."

He fell over to her as quickly as he could, flipping her over and giving a rather horrified look. Her glasses cracked, her head cut, blood already caking her fur and hair.

"Ah, Caz, get up," he pleaded, rubbing her shoulders as he looked around for something to bandage the wound. Nothing. "Come on, Caroline, don't you do this to me..." He looked up at the oncoming horde. "...CAZ!"

"Wha--?" blurted Sparky, before the blasting furnace noise of his thrusters ceased. In his moment of confusion his grip on her evaporated too, although he quickly tried to snatch her again but by then she was getting out of reach. "Hey, wait, wait--!"

Elegant Joe failed to notice what was happening at all. He did had problems of his own, after all, swiping away at the persistent issue of creepy ligaments and claws bugging him. "AAAAHHH TENTACLES BAD. TENTACLES BAD! I'M NOT A GIRL! LEAVE ME ALONE! AAAAAHHHH--"

Back down on solid ground, Ace's own problems didn't go unnoticed. Cross sped over to the scene and shouldered his way in to take a look at her. He grimaced. It was always the ones who probably didn't deserve it who got it worst. Nasty-looking wound, needed attention. At least she was out and didn't have to feel it for the time being.

"We don't have time to stand around here; grab her and let's go!" Whether or not the serv-- alley ca-- what was he anyway? Whether or not the dude even complied Cross started lifting her up as carefully as he could (which altogether probably wasn't as carefully as he could have been--he was in kind of a hurry) and hoist her towards her yellow buddy.

OOC: Conversational collab post with Rusty.


Rock offered a troubled look to Ace, but he unfortunately had nothing he could do at the moment.

"To be a head injury, she ain't leakin' that much," he said in honest, albeit weak reassurance. Any blood was too much, at least from somebody one cares about. "She's not gonna bleed out anytime soon."

As they took off running, Rock (being the least burdened by equipment or casualties) quickly took to the front. He repeatedly looked over his shoulder, however, his attention moving quickly from the incoming horde, and then back to the squadmembers, and specifically, Cross, who was very apparently the leader.

"... Hey, I just had a thought."

Cross picked up his fallen SMG and began trotting along as well, doing a fast head-count of his men (and woman) at the same time. The look on his face indicated he wished that whatever it was could wait, but some things couldn't, and this might have been one of them.

"What is it?" he asked, sparing a glance over his shoulder at the mass of badbots.

"There's no backup."

Had they seen anything besides those choppers at the onset? No.

"No GUN forces, no army, no air force, nothin', just you guys. This's got to be a smaller part of somethin' bigger, more widespread."

Cross considered that, and the others clearly did too. He had a point. Why else wouldn't there be more forces present?

The crow thought about it for a few more seconds, then shook his head and further lamented what was quickly becoming the longest day of his life. "However big this picture really is," he said, "we have to think small for now. Right now, that's making sure we all don't wind up in early graves. When we're safe we can focus on figuring out why the hell we don't have any of our buddies around for support."

"Sounds good to me," Rock huffed, and started to pick up the pace so as to catch up with the boat a little faster. "Where can we go after this? F'you don't mind the company, anyway."

Cross shrugged in response to the latter statement. The civvie had helped bail them out of a losing situation, even if the message hadn't... been immediately clear. As for where they could go, that was a more pressing matter and a more difficult question to answer. They had the helicopter, but he'd be damned if he knew where it was by now and the air obviously wasn't the safest place around anyway. And he couldn't get in contact with his superiors or anyone else.

"You take what you can get in a warzone. If things are as bad as they seem to be, we'll need supplies." He didn't know Central City well, though, and barely even had any mind where they were headed.

"The source of the attacks and all that fog and crap is from sea from what we can tell, right?" he observed thoughtfully. "I doubt they could make much headway on the Yellow Desert facilities yet. Too much air coverage, too much open space, no waterfront."

Cross may have thought Rock a "civvie" (which he had technically recently become), but the dogtags flopping around his neck weren't a fashion statement. He still knew a few things. Whether or not those things amounted to good ideas was something else entirely, though.

Just as things were probably starting to look a little bleak for Teck, there was a turnaround. Remember the robotic eyes? They examined him with quite a bit of scrutiny as he was being dragged off, but they didn't like something they saw.

He was still clutching explosives.

Rather than dragging their would-be bomber any further, the wild and waggly arms thrust him forward, and made to outright eject him—Not just from the cabin, but from the ship entirely, aiming to fling him clear overboard.

Yet, it wasn't that bad. If the arms' pitch was successful, it seemed the porcupine was going to land in bushes and and grass instead of on pavement or cars... It was actually a very nice lawn, and a big, open area!

... The president's lawn.

((OOC: Long. Very long, and poorly written. I do apologize, also, NCP damage was pre-approved by the adMAN.))

Crappy. It was just one of those situations wherein the best course of action was wholly unpleasant to a point one really couldn't fully appreciate until well beyond the ability to walk away. Jam was about getting there. As brilliant as she'd pegged herself seconds ago when she thought of this now wretchedly stupid idea, the downsides were becoming literally painfully obvious. For some reason, she'd not really considered how the bodiless extremities, sparking wires, shielded cables, and hardware miscellanea would handle their POWs, but it certainly wasn't with TLC. Furthermore, it was a really lucky happenstance that the ensnared simian wasn't claustrophobic, or she could probably wind up emerging from the rapidly expanding cold, metal darkness with some serious PTSD.

Probably the least bothersome aspect of the extremely disturbing bowels of the ship were the electrical currents running through its every fiber. Made to hurt and immobilize the average mouse in the trap, no doubt, Jam was a special case, and for once, beneficially; whether due to her ring, or simply because she was used to prolonged exposure, the shocks felt nearly indiscernible from the familiar crackles and pops of her shield.

When at last, enough time had elapsed to put her hopefully somewhere central to the unending mass of eerieness (or she could just no longer tolerate the feeling of said eerieness slithering around her), the gold set gem around her wrist blazed to life with an earsplitting crack, and her protective sphere swallowed the thoroughly frizzy-furred primate whole, instantaneously sizzling, spitting, and snapping at whatever it came into contact with, which recoiled in apparent discomfort. Instantaneously, the shield swelled beyond her fingers and toes, only to contract and concentrate, burning brighter and progressively more opaque, until, with a weighty THOOM, the walking jammer unfurled the largest electromagnetic pulse she'd ever endeavored. Immediately, and in whatever it had been doing, the vessel's legs, arms (all of them), and other electrical components in and of the ship (though not necessarily the Capsule Troopers on deck) jarred to a halt and fell lifeless.

Of course, with a teetering groan, so too, did the ship itself, dropping unceremoniously to the ground, while the facilitator of it all clawed her way free of the phantom tentacles, utterly spent.