So that had done it. Jam had genuinely managed to make the thing come to a stop, and actually drop straight on the bottom of its hull in the president's lawn, just a hundred yards or so from the presidential home.

It wasn't over, though; not by a long shot. The robotic horde was still coming, swarming all over the spot Cross, Rock, Ace, and the SSD had just departed moments ago—And the truck Teck was apparently running back to for his jacket. Vanity, thy name is danger—The danger of a thousand or so violent, barely-destructible robots.

In addition, there was about to be more noise, and more firepower. It'd be a long shot to call it "backup," because the tanks lined up in front of the president's home seemed thoroughly unaware of the presence of the SSD and their civilian assistants as they volleyed an incredible amount of firepower into the collapsed patrol boat. Explosion after explosion ensued, and within ten seconds, the vessel was torn into two separate large pieces, and innumerable smaller ones.

Meanwhile, any robot that dared venture onto the lawn was met with a barrage of high-caliber slugs, the burning orange tracers zipping all over, punching through the machines like they were made of paper, and ripping chunks and shreds out of the neat lawn with heavy "thumps" and spatters of mud and turf.

The president's place would be a great place to be right then. The act of actually getting there without working radio contact (to avoid inadvertently being shot to tiny little giblets) was something that wasn't gonna happen, though.

Joe and Sparky would quickly come into Jam's view without her having to run too long, having just landed in the aftermath of their own great escape. Sparky was up and dusting himself off (he also wiggled his arms and legs all over the place, as if to "shake off" the effects of being electrocuted with eleventy-billion volts of lightning), and Joe was face down on the ground, mumbling to himself.

"First thing I'm going to do when I get a chance," Joe was saying by the time she caught up to them, "is go to the nearest repair facility and have the last two minutes wiped from my memory core."

"Maybe they'll invent a medal for living through tentacle rape. You'd be the first to ever get one!"

"Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better. They should consider giving me one for killing you too."

Further ahead, in the (relative) safety of the presidential lawn, the feds seemed thankful for the moment of rest, even if they weren't out of this yet. Hey, it was better than still being stuck near the wreckage of the truck and the waiting arms of a billion angry undead robots. But though they were at least a little safer than they'd been moments earlier, it didn't mean they were feeling totally jovial just yet, especially with things still needing to be addressed.

Teck's request (the SSD balked at any order given to them that didn't come from Cross) didn't go unheeded for long. One of the SSD squadmembers hurried up and unfurled from his belt a small kit--not enough to call it a medkit, but he was obviously the one designated for the role of medic, or the closest thing the anti-terrorists had to one, anyway.

"Move," ordered the squadmember bluntly (he was some kind of somewhat funny-looking lizard dude with a strange, unfamiliar accent and rapid, jittery gestures). He scooted up next to Caz and literally shouldered Teck aside. Soldiers didn't like civilians getting in their way. "Are you a doctor?" he queried, but didn't wait for an answer. "Off with you. Ooryl will handle this. Need room for work and concentration. Wound demands concentration. Save pretty girl." He flashed two fingers at something behind Teck. "My superior would like to speak to you anyway."

Yes, that something was just what he'd pointed at.

"...Huhh, that... girl..."

Behind Rock, the woman hidden under Ace's body didn't seem to be 100% unconscious. Nor did she appear to be weaving in and out, either. The closest possibility was her being stuck between the real world, and something else. Like she was dreaming wide awake. In a flash, Ace began whipping off his jacket. His fingers gripped at the sleeve of his shirt and tore off the cloth at the end. He lifted her head gently, and wrapped it around, tied it. Sloppy, but effective enough, and all they could manage right then.

"Caz, try not to talk, alright?"

He rubbed her shoulder again, darting glances every which way, to every threat and every event. But he'd always keep one eye on her.

"No-I-- no, I know that girl... I kn-- I, from... somewhere."

What was she talking about? What girl?

"...Who, Jam?"

"Euhh, she's a... nice girl..."

Ace released a heavy, almost aggravated sigh. "Caz, just focus on resting..." he pleaded. And he looked up again. He looked up to see a fellow he was rather discontent with at the moment, arguing again. This time with a member of the SSD.

"Would you guys shut up for a minute!?"

Wait, what?

"Listen, you don't get to play doctor in the middle of a f***ing warzone, alright!? We've got an indestructible army behind us, a boat with legs crashed in front of us, and the goddamn national army fireworks show ahead of us!" As he emphasized with a jut of his finger behind him, even with his stiff glare, seemed to calm himself... if only for a second.

He scooped her up, and held her close.

"She's a strong girl, and I know she's lived through worse. She's not bleeding out, and she's not gonna die unless we keep standing here like a bunch of idiots waiting for our death sentence! So spare me the big f***ing hero act and start thinking of a way OUT of this mess!" A glance just beyond. "Same to you, Rock! We can measure our dicks when we find a safe place to do it!"

"Did... did I, do s-something bad?"

Ace sighed.

"...Listen... sir," he said apologetically to the fellow in the uniform, for serious lack of a better term. "D'you have any... flares or something we could send, that won't get mistaken for more bombs?"

Teck wouldn't have to search far for the "superior" he'd been directed to; Cross was standing right there. He'd started to talk when someone else intercepted the discussion above the noise of the guns, though.

Thankfully, there was meaningful purpose behind the outburst. He'd never have admitted it, but Cross' opinion of civilians rose just a tad; at least one of the yahoos he'd ended up getting literally shackled with seemed to have a pretty good head on their shoulders. That and the guy called him "sir," which Cross had found to be a surprising rarity among the common people. Besides, he had a point. It was stupid to stand out here chit-chatting when they still weren't as out of harm's way as they could and rightfully should have been.

"Closest we have are flashbangs, and those won't do the trick," the Major said, while his subordinate next to Caz continued tending to the mole despite the diatribe. "But I think they'd have fired on us already if they thought we were made of metal." He did a good job of hiding his uncertainty in his voice, but just the same, he didn't want them moving across the lawn without expending every possible precaution.

He thought about it for a second. They didn't have flares, but maybe they could substitute that with something else. "That card trick of yours," he continued, focus still on the cat. He'd seen it in action--hadn't there been a funny glow to the attack? "Think you can do it again?"

OOC: Moot now, but for the record, the knife was just in his hand, and not held directly to Teck in any way; it was his forearm that was being pushed at his throat. The knife was just for effect/backup. Also, playing catch-up in this post since I didn't have an opportunity to respond while watching the movie. Not gonna say anything that requires response, though, since intertwining conversations will blow the scene continuity to hell moreso than it already is.



And where was Rock that he was too busy to answer snotty commentary? He was normally the first to smack down on things like that, but somewhere between the jibbering and the medical attention, it seemed the onslaught of robots had been neglected, and he, along with numerous other members of the SSD, had been very suddenly relegated to warding off their foes.

It didn't stop him from commenting somewhere in the middle of the medical ordeal, though.

"Elevate her legs?" yelled Rock as he shuffled back toward the group, narrowly evading the swipes of some sort of horrible little green thing that looked like it was trying to throw blades at him, but couldn't get the rusted things off its mantis-like arms. "Yo, that bleeding part's her head, not her foot, dipsh**," he declared, belting the last word as he similarly lunged forward and belted the robot in the head with a good cross, leaving the thing indented down between its shoulders. While it was disoriented and trying to dislodge its head so it could see, he simply kicked it away, and moved back a little more to try to avoid getting himself shot by any of the SSD guys who actually still had ammunition.

They needed a way out, but everybody was hunkering down and setting up camp near the burning boat, it felt like. He was beginning to feel at a loss for what to do. With Jam safe and sound, though, he was beginning to contemplate grabbing her and hoofing it. The president's home, with its tanks and defenses, however, was a very enticing prospect.

There comes a time when one has "taken too long." Now, that precise instant reveals itself with utter clarity.

The robotic hordes had not been defeated. Big whoop. The big problem was that the ship had not been defeated. Or rather, its contents had not.

White forms began to appear, swirling around the deck. Eyes, reddish and orangish and all shades of hellfire and brimstone, slowly became visible. Yet, it wasn't quite as terrifying so much as it was queer; the ghouls' big, googly, inky-black-pupilled eyes, and gaping, sawtooth-like mouths were weirder than they were necessarily scary. Nonetheless, it became clear that there was no projector at work. The air temperature dropped a good fifty degrees on the spot, rendering all puffs of steamy breath visible from everyone from the street to the president's house.

The sheet-like ghosts began to fill the gaps between the two severed hunks of the ship's hull, producing a strange smokiness. Tendril-like masses began to stretch and draw their way across the gap as their bodies merged, until eventually, strange, undulating, intangible cords bound the two pieces together, and begin to pull toward one another. Raucous laughing filled the air, booming even above the sounds of the cannons, which suddenly didn't seem quite so impressive now that the ship and its occupants (or "possessors") were no longer stunned; most of the shots did little to nothing.

As soon as the two pieces were close enough together, solid pieces of the scrap metal filling that had been poured inside the vessel reached out for one another, flicking away any debris that didn't belong, while rejoining with their original mates, and reestablishing a firm connection. No, the ship would never, ever look the same again, nor be seaworthy, but sad as it was, it was back on its feet in no time flat.

With specters still poking out of every orifice, the ghost ship (Yeah, it really was--Commence groaning) turned to face its aggressors. It had become more interested in them than the president.

"Ahhcrap," growled Cross, looking at something over the porcupine's shoulder with a decidedly alarmed expression.

Poor Teck. He still wouldn't get any answers, because yet another interruption came to take his place in Cross' pecking order of things that needed his attention, except this time the distraction made him move. Teck could wait until they weren't about to die, he felt--things had just gotten bad.

"ON ME!" the crow shouted to his buddies above the seemingly endless gunfire with a wave of his hand before bolting. Most of them were running dry now, though. The price a team paid for not exactly being prepared for a full-scale war. The team turned and made a run for it, not having to be told twice and some of them waving hurry up gestures to the distant Sparky, Joe, and their cool lightning-riffic buddy.

The SSD's weird pseudo-medic guy (what'd he say his name was? Ooryl or something) hauled the mole girl up from the floor--wasn't this technically a way of elevating her legs?--and since it was blatantly obvious who'd want the task of carrying her between he and the alley cat dude, he helped her into Ace's arms. "Must hurry, not done patching wound! Must get her out of harm's way!"

"HAUL AAAASSSSS," yelled McBride, making a beeline across the lawn. Honestly, like they had any choice any more. They weren't about to make a suicide run at that thing with their bare hands.

... Boy, he could run fast, for a guy who'd been limping around, no less. "GET TO DA CHOPPAAAAAH--"