Upper Gangway, Sistine Chapel || Amadeus (COMBAT: Aravad, Reis, Rev, NPC Ritualists etc), (RADIO: Tatyana, Vanessa)

[Damon T. Ruger]

One round.

Pressed, thumbed into a magazine mechanically many a day, possibly weeks ago, after his last self-maintained equipment inspection, this round was a .50 Browning Machine Gun round, and had been the first of five to load into the rifle, yet would be the last of five to exit with a great, tumultuous, calamitous, and explosive roar from the end of that barrel. With the sheer force of propulsion, this round could emulate the effects of a sledgehammer on any piece of ripe fruit; it could shatter the armoured canopies of military vehicles; it could potentially dismember the user's fellow humans. This round was a force of one thing and one thing alone: pure destruction.

The sniper had always been one for being prepared; but this quandary often fell to him. Did he continue to fire til his magazine was empty, and risk being short-handed if a follow-up shot was necessary? Or did he reload now but only have a single shot left later in that final magazine? Each choice was a double-edged sword - and it was a dilemma that Damon was used to. And with that necessitated ideology of perfection hanging suspended in his psyche, every time, the sniper already knew his answer: fire the one round. An empty magazine was a concession of failure, a desperate reach out for more bullets incase there was a margin of error. A real sniper only ever needed one shot - and he made it count. This was the adage and mindset that the marksman had been trained upon.

It was, however, when he spun back around to meet the three he'd missed, to be expected that they'd burrowed off into the distance with a sense of urgency; it was no matter, there was still the case of the silver-haired enigma and his troops holed up in the Civil Administration Building; but turning back to them he saw no silver-haired enigma - just the strewn bodies of cultists and a handful of his so-called lesser "brethren" scattered throughout the floors: and none of the bodies, though obscured by pillars and other such, appeared to take on the likeness of his original leader target. Where had he gone?

It mattered not, however; the scorch marks up the walls from a coinciding explosion probably meant that one of the grunts had gotten there first, sustained a few casualties, but managed to clear the den out. "Hmph." Was all Damon could muster, pulling back into cover stoically, still no communication between he and the Grandmaster he so fervently covered, with that one round, that one, primed, ready round, sitting in the chamber.

*****

2:14AM, GMT+1
APRIL 13TH, 2002
10 MILES OUTSIDE OF WETZLAR
HESSE, GERMANY

Nine remained - and the rookie, Janz, was still holding down pressure on the thigh wound that the medic, Holzer, had sustained. It was close to the man's femoral artery; and the warm blood had been seeping out and over the young man's fingers for what felt like an eon now. Crouched opposite and almost symmetrical to him on the other side was Gardner, who had ceased hassling the overwatch for their tardy evacuation, instead clutching a Gewehr 36 carbine of his own.

A storm of lead either sheared through the air over their heads or though the hay bale proper, perforating it with tiny rays of clear, unblemished moonlight from overhead, each new shot on-target opening up another disc of lunar illumination to shine over the bloody and tainted men who were slumped there, frantically, both hyperventilating - whereas the two that remained on their flanks, irrespective of what an electrocardiogram might have said, had kept a cool head all the way through.

It was safe to say that the continuous fire placed on them was relentless; and gave them no time to even fire blindly without risking sustaining a wound. Though soldiers of the GSG-9 were relentless: they were also mechanical, and did their best to patiently bide their time until a window opened - the ex-RAF troops could not have an unlimited stock of ammunition. Sooner or later there came a halt in the fire. And looking to Gardner's signal, the pair of marksmen silently nodded at each other, and pulled themselves around the bale, opening fire on their adversaries once more.

But as they took shot after shot, reducing the numbers of the men who seemed only to crouch there, not fiddling with the magazine wells of their poorly-maintained Kalashnikovs, the same analogous thought rang through the minds of both Fw Gardner and Uffz Ruger. What were they doing? And it was only when the pair of GSG-9 members paused to reload and heard the clink of grenade pins falling against the cold, hard April ground, the roll of the cylinders themselves down and thudding oh-so-lightly into the front of the bale that they realised that all Hell was about to break loose in their landing zone.

It was another four kills that the team's leader and sniper had chalked up in that short burst, pushing the remainder of the ambush troop down only to five - but they paid a terrible price for it. The intermingling of three, maybe four separate tickings; that sudden, terrible locking of the pair's stares in recognition - the realisation that there was no time to save the kid or the medic lest they end up burnt to a crisp and absolutely eviscerated, ground into a sizzling, bloody mulch of shredded viscera... the call came at the bellowing top of Damon Tomasz Ruger's lungs.

"GRENAAAAAAAADE!"

He and Gardner threw themselves out into cover each with a formidable leap - and as the rounds continued to shred through the air above them, they managed only to clear the zone of the blast before it happened: a great pillar of flame that forced a storm of hay and shrapnel outwards, the grenade's casing flying out like tiny daggers launched with speed unparalleled by that of any archer or acrobat. The heat rushed over Damon, the hay and grit scattered over his back - the dirt and earth was thrown up in a brief cloud that let him clamber and scramble, ears still ringing, back into cover, just as Gardner did opposite: but they'd paid the price.

Holzer and Janz were dead.

*****

The crackle of his radio kicked back in and jolted him from what were only moments of an almost eidetic remembrance of past events. "Attention all units, caution around St. Peter's Square, explosives have been planted." The sniper arched an eyebrow and drew back his lip. What? What the fuck was she playing at? Explosives? Amadeus had explicitly said: as little collateral damage as possible. Was she trying to piss off the Grandmaster of their order?

"Hunter Six-Actual, this is Archer Three-Actual, over," Damon irritatedly barked into the radio. "What the fuck are you doing? This is home turf, Hunter Six-Actual, we are not trying to bring it down, repeat not trying to bring it down." A gunshot rang out over on his right, peering down out over the centre, he saw that Tatyana very much had things covered now the promiscuous woman and her guardian angel - along with the third Ritualist - had disappeared.

With that, Damon hauled up his rifle and fetched the case, Zerstorer too, before beginning to sprint along the gangway; surprisingly stable for such an old craft, though he presumed it must have been to support such tourism that the Vatican undoubtedly saw - that much he knew from firsthand experience. "Silver Hawk directly instructed the control of collateral, not the creation." He continued the stern hissing through his radio mid-transit - it was time to move over to the right wing - look out over the top of the Basilica, over the square - towards the Audience Building.

It wasn't long before he found a vantage point - and cover right next to it. The Ritualists and the good Reverend were there below. Damon propped his rifle up and set his equipment down, wrenching the radio upwards and continuing his angry berating of the junior Templar. "Do not detonate those explosives unless explicitly authorised, Hunter Six-Actual, do you copy loud and clear?" The hiss was turning now into a vindictive snarl. Some wet-around-the-ears moron was not going to screw up this entire program. Not whilst he was on the case. "Do you fucking understand? Do not, under any circumstances, detonate those explosives without express permission."

Fucking amateurs.

[Alice the Chopper]

"I thought it smelled a little chaotic in the City today. Eris, a pleasure. Rematch, I presume?" With that, the good priest ducked her rugged attack, not to her surprise or anything. Seems somebody got a little rusty, or something. In another display of his old age, at least in the demon's eyes, he swung upwards. The teeth of his holy blade ripped through the already mutilated body at an alarming rate. Dried blood splattered on the possessed woman's face, only to be washed off almost immediately by the now pouring rain. With as much of the stuff that was being spilled, a puddle of red murk soon grew at the Ritualist and Templar's feet.

The saw was only inches away from Reis' hand when she dropped the body and pulled back, narrowly avoiding a surprise amputation. The woman at this point almost reached for her taser gun, but than recalled the whole water situation. That could end pretty badly, and not in the way she wanted to, either. "Certainly hope you've got some new tricks up your sleeves, Eris, or this would certainly be no fun!" The black haired woman smiled and flipped her chainsaw to her other hand in a juggling motion. It was apparent that the whole clown thing was a little more than an act. "You could barely handle my old tricks, Rev-man." She mocked in a sarcastic tone before revving up her weapon once more. It sputtered a few times.

Almost out of gas, already?

The Ritualist was running ideas through her head as the Templar ranted about the dramatics of the battle. She finally decided that shooting him would be the optimal idea, especially since it was starting to become her only option. "It looks like you need to come up with some new material!" The demon's voice said using the mortal chords once more, sharply replying to the priest. With a disturbing laugh, the dainty woman lowered her hand to her holster...

BANG.

A stray bullet whizzed from under the Reverend's armpit to make a direct hit to the cultist's hand, blowing it right the fuck apart and rendering it into little more than a bloody stub. The woman's mind cried out in pain, but the demon only suppressed it, treating the wound as if nothing really happened. She wasn't hurt. She was pissed. Who had the audacity to interrupt this moment? This was her fight, and hers alone. "Coward!" The bloody woman screamed out, before severing what remained of her hand with the chainsaw. Her bloodshot eyes darted back and forth, left and right, up and down, searching for any sort of life, anything could move, anything that could shoot. The Vatican? Destroying the Vatican?

HA.

That didn't matter. That was no longer the objective, for the Ritualist was no more, and Eris was the one in control. At least at this moment, her will was absolute, and her goal was clear: Kill this motherfucker who interrupted her most glorious kill. This insect, who was it? "Did you bring fucking backup?!" The clown yelled out in a rage unseen before. She was genuinely angered, no, she was pissed the fuck off. Her eyes soon located the source. It was no Templar. In fact, it was the complete opposite of that, a Ritualist, one of her own men, at that. Or so she thought, he was probably one of the bribed or kidnapped ones.

In a fury, the Japanese woman grabbed the chainsaw by the top handle and forced her nub into the back handle, giving it more balance than the one handed swing. With a quick swing forward, she would attempt to slash the Reverend's stomach wide open, at least hoping to temporarily down him while the other problem was taken care of. Without saying a word, hit or miss, Reis threw down the chainsaw, which chaotically ground against the stone streets of the city before coming to a halt from lack of gasoline. Using her right and only functioning hand, the woman finally grabbed not the shotgun, but the six shot pistol, as it had more range than it's more powerful counterpart. The barrel pointed towards the shaded man, the one she couldn't read.

She had no one liners or jokes for this man, and simply fired shot after shot until her gun wouldn't fire anymore, sending six surprisingly well aimed bullets projecting towards the silver haired Ritualist. No body parts were targeted, or could be targeted at such a range. As the gun clicked 'empty' the deranged cultist threw the weapon aside just like the chainsaw before finally grabbing that shotgun. She would aim this weapon directly at the Reverend's head, dead or not. Her gloved finger pressed ever so slightly down on the trigger.

The gun clicked.

Slowly forming a smile on her face as if her rage was broken, Reis began to giggle. Then she chuckled. Then laughed. Then she cried, breaking out in a mad cackle. It seemed that the personalities or whatever had switched again, because she was clearly nuts. "The joke's on you!" The possessed girl laughed, saying a phrase that probably had little meaning to the Templars, but had great meaning to the RPG wielding cultist and Bowie. For it was the trigger phrase. Lowering the great painted weapon, the Australian aimed the rocket propelled grenade towards the roof of the Sistine Chapel, and without hesitation, fired the yellow bomb of death directly at the right most dome of the building. The projectile fizzed across the sky as Reis laughed. It was only moments before the yellow dot turned into a fiery explosion, making a sound that would likely echo across the entire battlefield. The sound was the least of it, as the resulting burst of force caused a good chunk of the chapel itself to collapse, killing at least a dozen Swiss guard in the process, and not to mention at least four of the esteemed Templars.

In an unexpected turn of events, the maniacal Ritualist did not stay to continue the fight, but instead took a sharp turn down an alley to the righrt, heading away from the Sistine Chapel and the object in a move that seemed most counter productive. The Asian woman would make her way towards the railroad station, jumping every fence and hurdling every artifact she came across in a display of acrobatics and athletics. Unfortunately, her escape would be almost futile, as she left a thick trail of blood wherever she ran from her damaged left arm. As he himself didn't even expect this turn of events, the RPG wielding cultist would stay behind and out of the manner, instead choosing to run in the opposite way of the whole conflict.

Sometimes things just got way too stressful, even for a fanatic cultist.

Total (Reis) Kill Count!
Six Dead Templars on the wall...
One Dead Ritualist on the wall...
Fourteen Dead Swiss on the wall...

[Reverend Smith]

Splat. Splatsplatsplatsplatgore. Blood gushed from the mangled half-corpse of the ritualist as the Dutchman's chainsaw seared through sinew and bone alike, the ripping roar of the motor, muffled only by the mad minister's lunatic laughter. This was, quite simply put, fun. Combat was something he'd known since childhood; where other children played baseball and collected stamps, or worked on farms or whatever, his favorite game had always been "watch daddy massacre the spawn of the devil." He'd grown up with it, and while some Templars came from military background, and didn't enjoy fighting, some even hating it, he relished in it. To him, a weapon was merely a part of his body, something he could easily and comfortably control, which he simply knew from birth. He was born to slay demons.

As Eris retracted her hands, he grinned an almost sadistic grin, his clothing, blade, and even is hands and face, all drenched in blood and gore. He responded merely by wiping a bit of blood from his teeth, with his coat sleeve, serving only to smear it, as the sleeve had been soiled as well. Some would say that all Templars were morally restricted, honorable, deadly efficient, and overall, almost robotically mission-oriented. Rev was not like that. By any means. "Oh-ho-ho?~ Is that why you're using a chainsaw, then? Gee, knew you were a copycat, but really, come now."

At that point, he was laughing with a bit more glee than necessary, as the ritualist once again attempted to insult him. "Oh, me? New material? Well, you'd be quite surprised as to what new material I have. Quite surprised indee-" He was cut off, however, as a bullet just missed him, blasting off the hand of the one called Reis. And so he laughed, revving his chainsaw for the coup de grace. "Nice shot, Damo-..." But as he turned to see the sniper, or at least, to look up towards his location, he saw an unfamiliar face, instead. Definitely not a Templar, and definitely not Damon. For all he knew, the man was a threat. Not only that, but he heard his chainsaw sputter down, and thusly tossed it onto his motorcycle, nonchalantly drawing his rapiers. "Ah, well, these'll do ju-"

Squelch.

He hadn't noticed it, but as he'd been preoccupied with the mystery assassin and his weapons, Eris had made fine use of hers; a garish red stain on his shirt, coat, and pants told him so, as the chainsaw was removed from, as he figured, his liver. Which it had essentially just turned into a fine smoothie. Choking a bit of blood up, he gripped the wound, dropping to a knee. With a grunt, he turned to Reis, his face in obvious pain, but not only this. It was a lot more serious now. He looked up into the shotgun's barrel. Well, he'd had a good run. But to end it like this? Laiughable.

So she did. As she pulled the trigger, she laughed, saying the joke was on him, as the Aussie blasted the Sistine Chapel; bad news, considering Amadeus was in the Sistine Chapel. He had to get to him. Would be far more useful than staying here and getting shredded. He gave a weak laugh. "Actually, my friend, I do believe the joke is on you." Said weak laugh rose in volume, though hoarse, and obviously still muffled by a steady, yet slowing spew of blood from the priest's mouth.

Setting his rapiers aside, he grasped his radio. "Black Rook One to all templars in the vicinity, I repeat, all Templars in the vicinity. Four confirmed tangos near the Audience Hall. Black Rook One down, in need of assistance." His message sent to those near his location, he gave a cheerful grin to Eris, offset by a rather bloodied face and a pair of truly wild eyes under his spectacles. "Run." And it appeared she was already doing so. How utterly unpredictable. "Tango on the move."

Well, he could let his comrades handle business. He had a Grandmaster to guard, and with his life, he'd guard him. His wound had clotted somewhat, at the least, and was in the process of healing. It would take a while, it was a large one, not to mention the internal damage could take twice as long as the mere external to mend. Not much to worry about, as he stood, swords in hand, gritting his teeth. Reverend Adrianus Smith did not back down.

Not as he took a step, feeling a massively sharp pain in the abdomen as he did so. Not as he cut down two ritualists in his path, with no second thought, despite the pain. Not as he trudged every single step of the way to the Sistine Chapel, stepping into the door. "Heh. She can't say I don't have guts," he thought aloud to himself, chuckling at his own pun. My her humor was addictive...

"Amadeus, I came as quickly as I could. I'm not sure the chapel's safe anymore. Not with the beautiful ceiling shattering overhead, anyways." At all costs, he must survive. With no leader, they'd be reduced to rubble. Wouldn't be very fun, no, not at all.[/color]

[David Bowie]

"There we go, all prim and proper fixed. Oh, Eris, darling, look at my splendid stitchery!~ It's simply grand, non, ma cherie?" Oh, but no, she wasn't paying him any mind, no mind at all, as she was preoccupied with fighting Smiiiiiith. HE had stolen the limelight! How dare that blasted wooden shoe-wearing, windmill loving, cross-carving, clearly Welsh DICK. THIS SHOULD BE BOWIE'S TIME TO SHINE! IT TOOK A CENTURY TO LEARN HOW TO SEW FINGERS BACK ON, FOR PETE'S SAKE. Whatever, it's not like anyone even CARED about him or his feelings. Not even the Australian. Sheathing his blade, he was about to yell at Eris, but he saw a flash of silver behind her. Eh? OH, A SNIPER. FFFFFFFFFFF- HIS TIME TO SHINE~ Diving like a madman, he jumped in front of Eris, grinning widely. YES. HE WOULD BE THE HERO! HE COULD SAVE THE D-... Oh, right, he can't jump faster than a bullet. Well then. Anti-climactic.

He could, however, retrieve from his holsters two of his favorite toys; Morte e Rovina, Death and Destruction. His pair of Five-seveN semi-automatic pistols. Aiming them at the source of the bullet, he fired ten shots from each, a total of twenty, though at this range, he had no idea if any even made contact. "Well, well, well!~ 002 to the rescue, eh, Reis-Reese-Rice-Ruse?~" Ooh, but things did get better as Eris shanked that bloody- LITERALLY, HAHAHA- templar, ending his reign in the spotlight.

As Eris then ran, the wimpy wuss dashing away after dropping a rocket on the Sistine Chapel, Bowie fo-... WAIT, WHAT DID THE AUSSIE JUST DO!? "HEY, ERIS, THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU RUIN MICHIE'S WORK LIKE THAT FOR, YOU SILLY TWAT!? I INSPIRED THAT, I'M OFFENDED." Ahhh, whatever. Old art is old art is old firewood. He followed behind Eris, matching her acrobatics and free-running with his own, in addition to paving a way for her, and shooting at the ritualistic Benjy Arnold, should he follow, with his pistols. Time to actually be semi-useful for once!~ "Just remember, if you need me as a human shield, let me take my shoes and shirt off first; they're worth far more than your current mortal shell, you know."

[Damon T. Ruger]

It was only when the sniper threw the barrel of his rifle back over the grandiose open-air window of the Sistine Chapel that he caught sight of the events unfolding below; a guardsman had appeared, and along with his would-be comrade, the good Reverend, who brandished his signature chainsaw - such a messy affair - they appeared to be locked in clutch with an Asian woman, presumably a Ritualist of some sort, perhaps even the leader of this merry little band. However, this was not of the most importance that Damon noticed; for after a round split and mangled the hand of the female practitioner of the darkest of arts, and she took aim upon her opponents with a shotgun, something occurred down there; some unholy trigger or signal that made the only other standing cultist, bearing what the sniper only then pinned as an RPG.

The events unfolded before his eyes and he was helpless to act, still pulling his rifle upwards and resting it along the mantle of the window; even as he lined the scope up with the cultist's head, he watched, unable to do anything, as that gloved finger squeezed down on the rocket launcher's trigger; and the conical, dark green explosive jet-propelled projectile launched itself through the air with a hiss. It was only a split-second after that his reflexes kicked in - and with the last round in this clip, fired upon the explosive-wielding cultist, shearing open his rib-cage with that same signature roar. However, there was only a moment for the marksman to analyse the damage that had been done before the great burst of light the rocket emitted obscured his vision, and it became clear just where the propelled explosive was heading: the Sistine Chapel, specifically near him.

"R-P-G!" Came the call in that voice oh-so-typically devoid of emotion yet now motivated by a cocktail of explosive adrenaline and glory; for Damon was unable to see the Ritualist leader take flight, nor the good Reverend begin sprinting towards the target of the explosive. The archer broke into a sprint immediately; lugging up his empty rifle and case, and vaulting over the gangway he'd positioned himself upon, without any further hesitation dropping down a good fifteen feet onto the floor of the Sistine Chapel, only a few feet from Amadeus and the men he'd kept as a personal guard.

The soft thud of his body hitting ground was dwarfed by the explosive roar of the RPG; it collided with the upper wall of the Sistine Chapel, and engulfed a large portion of it - including where the sniper had been standing barely moments ago - with a great wave of flame. Parts of the ceiling had been charred and immediately reduced to a storm of falling, ancient rubble, and a shower of fine grit that had been shed from the stonework oh-so-well kept otherwise. But the damage had been done and the destruction of the priceless historical relic of a building had been set in motion - the momentum now only increased.

Ringing in his ears and coated with a thin layer of patchwork grey dust and grit, Damon rolled about on the floor for a moment grunting - his collision with the floor had been painful, to say the least. Landing on his side - having no time to really position himself mid-air - had bruised up all the right of his body, and presumably fractured a few of his ribs. The ATLORS was primarily designed to be a tactile and low-maintenance sneaking and stealth suit, to allow him to get into place undetected so his targets could be eliminated from afar and with ease. It was, however, whilst reinforced with basic Templar technology, not designed to endure or protect him from anything but the lightest of assaults, and only provided a slight degree of dampening the shock.

However, Damon pulled himself up after just a few moments, and regained his composure, grasping the empty rifle and its case, not to mention wiping a stray rivulet of blood away that had formed at the corner of his mouth, before looking up to the ceiling. The crags were beginning to form rapidly; and the building was filling with more and more clouds and gentle tricklings of the gritty Renaissance dust with every passing moment. The mortar was crumbling: the Sistine Chapel was falling. It was the price they paid for taking up refuge in such a priceless shelter, of course - but the Vatican itself was a relic and holy grail of Catholicism. It didn't matter where they were: if anything burnt or broke, there would be public outcry.

But for now, the affairs of the public was not the Templar's primary concern. For now, he lugged the empty rifle over his shoulder with the durable leather strap it held, and tugged the remaining clips of .50 rounds from his case, sliding them into what little pocket space the ATLORS suit possessed. The Reverend burst through the Chapel doors not a moment later, loudly addressing his grand superior. "Amadeus, I came as quickly as I could. I'm not sure the chapel's safe anymore. Not with the beautiful ceiling shattering overhead, anyways." Smith always had kept a penchant for the statement of only the blatantly obvious.

"He's right, sir," Damon interjected rapidly, gesturing towards a side entrance which would lead them straight into St. Peter's Basilica, where they could regroup with Hunter Six-Actual. "If we head into the Basilica, it's far more defensible, and we can establish an outwards perimeter defense." The sniper continued to point. "Block off the side entrances once we're in there, barricade them, leave the Ritualists no choice but to approach through the Square." With that, he tugged Zerstorer, the .45 ACP sub-machine gun, from his lower back around, pulling it on a similar swing, and drew back the automatic weapon's bolt with a resounding click and a look of sheer and utmost conviction on his face. It was time for the marksman to move closer into the field. "And then we cut them down."

Cradling the automatic, he continued to gesture out into the Vatican proper, trying to ferry Amadeus, the Reverend, and the remainder of the Templar elite guardsmen left through. "We can leave a perimeter guard here, and dispatch some of our troops to head out and hunt down what remain of them." No grin. No smile. Just a furrowed-brow display of the truest conviction: for what was Damon T. Ruger aside from driven? This was not a matter of emotion or humanity: it was a battle of tactics and of strategy. "We've got them running scared, sir." And not to forget the ever-relevant respectful addendum: "With all due respect, that would be my plan of action."

Either way, they were escorting him. Grasping his radio with his left hand as he lowered the suppressed UMP in his right, he began to bark into it. "Black Rook One and Archer Three-Actual here, we are escorting Silver Hawk, repeat, escorting Silver Hawk, and moving into the Basilica to regroup." Then, a final, irritated addendum to Vanessa, who'd still frustrated him with her whole "explosives" gambit. "Hunter Six-Actual, stand by for arrival." With that, he nodded then to Amadeus and the Reverend. "On your mark, sirs."

[Amadeus Edge]

The battles were fierce and there was constant chatter coming through the earpiece Amadeus had been wearing. Constantly, he had been giving orders to those who needed them. The dead needed to be accounted for, the wounded would have to wait. If the injury wasn't fatal than they could keep fighting. The Vatican couldn't fall, it wouldn't fall. There were so many lives hanging in the balance. If the Templar Order were to lose, it would deal an almost crippling blow to the entire Christian community. This place was sacred, beautiful. It had to remain standing at all costs.

Despite the fact that he hadn't done any of the fighting, Amadeus was absolutely winded. The sweat poured from his pores and rolled down the front of his face, soaking into his gray beard. He felt his heart pounding and hands shaking as the adrenaline began to pump into his bloodstream. In place of worry for those out in the battle, there was rage. Even though his face betrayed no emotion other than cold determination, the ones that have known him would be able to know just how angry he was.

Over the radio, he heard Vanessa announce her placing explosives. That was unacceptable... Their job wasn't to destroy their own buildings, it was to keep the Ritualists from doing so. But just as he opened his mouth to give her a harsh reprimand, Damon was quick to step in and do it instead. He was doing a good job as a leader, thinking quickly before something absolutely foolish would occur. Once this was over, he needed to speak at length with the both of them.

"Good job so far, everyone... Continue to do whatever you can to-"

KA-BOOM

That couldn't have been good... Amadeus lost his balance slightly as the area around him began to shake, falling to one knee. Something terrible must have happened, and he was right. He felt light debris beginning to fall on the top of his head and he looked up to see the area above him beginning to fall apart. The chapel itself had been attacked by something powerful enough to cause such terrible destruction. The debris around the hole fell all around him. The chapel could barely withstand whatever happened. As much as it pained him, Amadeus needed to move... Quickly.

By mustering whatever strength was left in his old body, Amadeus rose to his feet and shouted into the earpiece, "Attention: The Sistine Chapel has been attacked. Don't let this distract you, however. We are going to win this war!"

Amadeus was much too slow to exit the area on his own. As the old man did his best and quickest shuffle, The Reverend, along with Mr. Ruger, broke right through the door, telling him what he already knew. He wouldn't be save here anymore. The place was compromised and he needed to move, "I agree with your plan of action, Damon and I appreciate the thought. Act as my word and will to make it happen. It was your idea, you give the order. As for you, Reverend, you're in no condition to talk about safe... No sane man would take a chainsaw to the torso and worry about someone else's safety!"

Then again, The Reverend wasn't sane... At all. But when push came to shove, he was fiercely loyal. Amadeus couldn't ask for a better soldier, "Alright... Let's go. Damon, help me along. We can move faster that way." It pained him to ask for assistance, but now wasn't the time to let pride get in the way, "Adrianus, don't overexert yourself. You're strong, but you're human. Remember that."

[Tatyana Vladimirovna]

"Negative, Paladin Alpha. Cannot get a bead from my angle, Hunter Six-Actual will assist. Over." Tatyana's lips tightened with a nod. She understood. Considering where he had decided to nest, that was what she suspected. "Tangos inactive over at the admin building, Paladin Alpha." They were? She glanced up towards the top of the basilica as she wondered at that. It was good that the area was clear though, for it meant one less spot to focus on for the moment. "Hostiles sighted. They're going down. Over." "Copy Archer-Three Actual." She murmured just as another voice shot across the radio, the bullet shot ringing out rather interestingly across the board. "Attention all units, caution around St. Peter's Square, explosives have been planted." Her eyes instantly widened as she stood up straighter, her pain forgotten at one single fact. What the fuck was this woman doing?! "Archer Three-Actual, Paladin Alpha, this is Hunter-Six Actual. I have planted explosives along the arcs and the obelisk of the square. Explosives are dark, awaiting command for priming and detonation. Returning to overwatch, over."

"Hunter Six-Actual-" "Hunter Six-Actual, this is Archer Three-Actual, over. What the fuck are you doing? This is home turf, Hunter Six-Actual, we are not trying to bring it down, repeat not trying to bring it down." Damon had stolen the words right out of her mouth. Tatyana was enraged. What division was that girl under? Who the hell had trained her that it was alright to pull this kind of fucking stunt without consulting someone beforehand? ESPECIALLY when it went against mission parameters! The Paladin straightened up as she could hear the gunfire coming from the Audience Hall. That... was not good. "Paladin Alpha, this is Hunter Six-Actual. I'm hearing firing coming from my right, perhaps by the audience hall. It is most likely Ritualist activity. I request permission to assist, ma'am. Over." And now she was requesting..... Tatyana groaned as she aimed her pistol and fired off another shot that buried itself in the eye socket of an unsuspecting Ritualist. She was starting to get a headache. "Silver Hawk directly instructed the control of collateral, not the creation."

"Do not detonate those explosives unless explicitly authorised, Hunter Six-Actual, do you copy loud and clear?" She took a deep breath as she cleared out the last few of the Ritualists in the area, leaving it clear for Templars and Swiss to move if need be. "Do you fucking understand? Do not, under any circumstances, detonate those explosives without express permission." She glanced between the Audience Hall and the Sistine Chapel, frowning as she was not sure where would be the best to move to. She could hear the explosions that were beginning to rage. Someone had a rocket launcher. Shit.... This was going to Hell fast.... "Hunter Six-Actual, I would like a word with you and your superior when this night is done. Keep on watch and the square clear. Over." She spoke into the radio, taking a deep breath as she shook her head. This was going to be a long night. She was just about to turn towards the Audience Hall in the distance when she heard her radio crackle to life again. "Attention: The Sistine Chapel has been attacked. Don't let this distract you, however. We are going to win this war!" She glanced back towards the Chapel instead, a grimace forming as she blinked and ducked down, avoiding a discus that had been tossed at her. Oh they would win alright, but they still needed their leader intact for it to mean a damn. Her fists lashed out as she Ritualist came hurtling towards her with a high pitched screech, knocking it down to the ground hard. It died there. "Black Rook One and Archer Three-Actual here, we are escorting Silver Hawk, repeat, escorting Silver Hawk, and moving into the Basilica to regroup." She blinked twice, frowning as she immediately turned about and strode to the Basilica, planting herself at the main doors. "Hunter Six-Actual, stand by for arrival." She could still hear the frustration in his voice, her frown increasing as she fired a shot up above her. Stepping to the side, a Ritualist fell down dead beside her. "Understood Archer Three-Actual."

With Vanessa watching the outside, Tatyana took the time to head into those doors, clearing out the couple of Ritualists that still lingered there battling against their forces. Oh she was not in any mood to be dealing with any of their shenanigans at the moment. They were merely the stone with which she could allow her anger to smash down on.

[Nathaniel Nazbith]

Ow...OwowowowowowoWOWOWOWOW! Damon was pissed and it hurt Vanessa's ear, his voice was so rough on the auditory nerves. The anger itself was enough to give her a migraine. She was getting sick of being yelled at for trying to have forethought. The explosives, firstly, were dark. They didn't yet pose a danger. The tone of Damon's voice made it seem like she already blew up the entire square and every member of the Templar Order. She had just planned to use it as a retreat strategy  or even a bargaining strategy if she could trap them, just to intimidate the forces. She even SAID that she was waiting for orders to light the candle, something that Damon apparently didn't hear. But...she understood why he was mad and as she sat on the church, feeling helpless and shivering from the rain, flinching at every crack of lightning and peel of thunder. It was a tense situation, having to keep everyone safe, especially Damon. He had the greatest responsibility of taking care of the Grandmaster. He couldn't afford screw ups. Or other people's screw-ups. Vanessa just tried to tune him out; she already understood what she'd done wrong, she was sorry, yadda yadda yadda. She sighed as more rain created the plaster between her fair skin and her clothes. Although, now she would be getting an earful from TWO superiors once she heard this. "Hunter Six-Actual, I would like a word with you and your superior when this night is done. Keep on watch and the square clear. Over." The blonde haired girl on top of the church just sat. The square was clear and she just waited, waiting to support people who didn't even need it. Over to the right, there was a fight, somewhere she could actually be of service to. She wasn't the smartest in strategy, but she at least knew how to help. But being restrained to the ancient building, hearing and seeing others perish with her being able to do nothing...it just made her silent. Morbidly so. Vanessa should probably had mentioned that she was no replacement for the late Crusader-General, but the sounds caught her ear. There was the sound of chainsaws, a bullet, a click...then a fwoosh.

Fwooshing on the battlefield was never good. Her clothes fluttered in the wake of a large yellow projectile as it flew across the air, straight into the building. Her earpiece exploded in overlapping shouts and messages. "R-P-G!""Black Rook One to all templars in the vicinity, I repeat, all Templars in the vicinity. Four confirmed tangos near the Audience Hall. Black Rook One down, in need of assistance." "Black Rook One and Archer Three-Actual here, we are escorting Silver Hawk, repeat, escorting Silver Hawk, and moving into the Basilica to regroup. Hunter Six-Actual, stand by for arrival." Vanessa stood up immediately. Black Rook One. That was Smith's codename. Vanessa saw him run across the square, trailing blood. Her eye twitched violently as she saw two Ritualists following him, running with weapons trained on him. Oh, fuck this. Vanessa was mad. Getting yelled at? No problem. Getting called stupid? Used to it. Trying to hurt Uncle Smith...that was fucking pushing it.  That was really fucking pushing it. Over the edge in fact. She hopped down onto the right arm of the square, drawing her bow with her finely manicured nails by the corner of her eye as she aimed. Judge wind speed, drop rate, distance...one. Thwick. Two. Thwick. Her expert hands released two arrows milliseconds from each other, flying through the fierce rain. The one at the left was pierced right in the top of the spinal column. Dead, no question. The other went twirling as his shoulder was pierced. Vanessa shot a second arrow at his motionless body, spearing him through his ear canal and out the other. Her voice was cold as it crackled over the earpiece. "Don't...fuck with Uncle Smith...Awaiting arrival, Archer-Three Actual."

Vanessa saw more and more figures come towards the building. One explosion is all it took to bring in the troops. She spoke into her earpiece again. "The explosion is starting to draw in the rest of the troops. They're going to rush the building." Many gunshots rang as they drew closer, Swiss Guards trying to hold them off as best they could. Close by, she saw an arm clear the  roof. Just an arm. And creepily eerie singing. It ran a shiver up her spine. She wondered who...or what it was. More Ritualists....she started the volley of arrows, accurately ending only two of them. There were so many. She didn't have the speed to take them ALL down, even with her pistols. She was stuck on the roof with only a bow...perhaps investing in an automatic weapon would be helpful.

[Damon T. Ruger]

"Alright... Let's go. Damon, help me along. We can move faster that way." Damon nodded in concurrence, lowering Zerstorer onto the sling for now and instead drawing Weiss, the rightmost of his Glocks. With that he threw a mechanical arm around Amadeus silently, and began to get the Grandmaster moving, slaloming as quickly as was possible around the rubble that still fell. But the weight of his leader hauled around his shoulders still dampened the speed at which they navigated the wreckage of the Chapel significantly.

If they took any longer, the bricks falling from their ceiling would become their tomb - it was however when a pair of foreign voices came in sharply in tandem with the kicking down of the already-weakened front doors that Damon spun around and opened fire. Weiss was set into semi-automatic; three trigger pulls and he caught the right-most of the pair of Kalashnikov-wielding Ritualists in the gut twice, felling him immediately, but the other opened fire before the sniper could reach him, bullets drilling into what remained of the Chapel's walls. The ATLORS-garbed Templar pushed Amadeus in front of him, allowing his body to take whatever strikes were coming their way, and charged the pair of them behind cover and into the Basilica with a shout. "Kill him, Smith!"

Wisps of smoke trailing from the barrel of his Glock, Damon charged shoulder-first, clutching Amadeus, through the door that lead into the Basilica proper, and moved up into the few remaining Templars who had organised themselves in the middle. Vanessa still held the roof with her bow; Tatyana stood there with three of her own soldiers. Rev was taking care of the man the marksman had left behind. That left them with seven men to defend the Grandmaster against whatever Ritualist forces remained. The odds could have been better in their favour.

Setting down Amadeus and ensuring his stability, he then turned to Tatyana and pulled up into a mechanical salute. "Ma'am." He reported sternly, holstering his pistol and drawing around the UMP instead with a slow, gentle pull, aiming it down at the sanctified ground he trod still upon. "Are you wounded?" He asked first, before turning like a hawk to the three men that remained, cradling their weapons, brushed with a light scattering of Vatican grit and (hopefully) Ritualist blood. "How many casualties did your team suffer?"

Casualties...

*****

2:21AM, GMT+1
APRIL 13TH, 2002
10 MILES OUTSIDE OF WETZLAR
HESSE, GERMANY

Five of them were left against the two remaining members of Jaeger Riege. Hunter Team - that was their designation. And of the six hunters, two stood. It was less than twenty minutes; they'd suffered four casualties. Four of the best damn men that Gardner and Ruger had ever seen fight. Four of the corps' finest marksmen who had ascended out of their own painstaking prowess and training to GSG-9. Four men with wives. Children. Families. Four men felled by these Red Army scum.

Damon could not see his team leader - the pair of them now took cover behind hay bales opposite and tilted away - but evac was arriving soon, and it would take even longer if the landing zone was still crawling with hostile troops. Raising his rifle and loading in a fresh clip, tucking the last away into a pouch, the marksman took one, final deep breath. This was it. Make or break. He could go out there and face a storm of shoddily-maintained hand-loaded 7.62mm rounds. Or he could go out there and succeed.

Five men meant five bullets to a real sniper; but today he had a battle rifle. Pulling the Gewehr up into his shoulder and spinning around, he drew in breath sharply and double-tapped the first who spun to greet him in the chest, and pulling up to shoot the pistol-wielding comrade on his left in the neck, with a grandiose spray of crimson and a choking splutter. The other three all turned on him; one with a hunting rifle, one with a double-barreled shotgun, and the last with an Uzi - he could see, even from there, in their eyes. The tenacity. The hatred. The determination. These men may have been under-trained. But they were going to kill him.

A sharp whistle rang from the left. "OVER HERE YOU BASTARDS!" And Damon could only watch as it unfolded; Gardner stood there cradling the rifle of his own - drawing attention only on himself - and opened fire on the first of them with the shotgun, peppering his torso with rounds. But the troop holding the hunting rifle fired a single .300 Winchester round, revolving through the air until it met Fw Gardner's forehead, half an inch above his right eye, and all too quickly turned the back of his head into an exit wound.

There was time to mourn and to grieve later, and time to thank Gardner's spirit for saving his life: but now was the time to act. Bringing up the rifle, two more shots rang out and the last two troops were left with the gentle April breeze whistling through fresh holes in their head before they could so much as consider pulling their own respective triggers. And then... suddenly, the place was empty. It was just Damon. Damon Tomasz Ruger. And a field full of corpses.

*****

Damon snapped back to reality as the sound of three sets of tyres squealing on the varnished stone of St. Peter's Square outside brought with it a horrible realisation. Reinforcements. Immediately the sniper moved into gear; cradling his .45 sub-machine gun, he looked only to his Templar comrades before sprinting straight to the front windows of the Basilica, kicking over one of the beautiful mahogany pews and squatting down next to it with whoever would join him. "CONTACT!" He barked - both out into the church and over the radio.

[INITIATE BATTLE THEME]

Of the three vehicles, two Jeeps had drawn up outside. Old, battered things; ex-military probably. Cheap and worn, green camouflage. But each held six troops. Clinging onto the exterior framework of each were gigantic men; each standing maybe six and a half feet tall, wearing extensive, armoured bomb disposal suits, and cradling a military-grade M60E2 with two extended cardboard boxes of 7.62 ammunition linking into the weapons' chambers, each holding three hundred rounds. That was six hundred total. Twelve hundred between the two of them - armoured, LMG-clutching juggernauts.

The rest numbered ten between the two Jeeps; most cradled their Kalashnikov derivatives, but these troops were more brutal and vicious. Some of them held Remington 870 shotguns - or even sawn-off double-barreled weapons with a sidearm to complement. Much like the original troop, they all wore ski masks - but they parked up their Jeeps and crouched behind the pair of them, aligned horizontally, so that the gas tanks were facing away from the wall of Templars.

The third and final vehicle was an armoured flatbed pickup truck. In the bed of it sat four men; and a large, protrusive object covered by a dust sheet, along with the two in the front. This truck was parked up slightly closer to the Basilica - and wasn't spun around, instead just facing it, as the passenger and driver exited, along with three of four men from the bed - as the last yanked away the dust sheet to reveal a .50 BMG M2 Browning heavy tripod-held automatic machine gun, drawing back the hefty bolt with a vindictive grin and a loud click. This was no Jeep: this was a technical.

It was then that the remainder of the Ritualist platoon, all took their covered positions behind their respective vehicles, as the two EOD troops raised their M60s on either flank and the single man on the M2 collectively took aim upon the Basilica. And they fired. Rubble and dust flew everywhere; chunks of grit and brick strewn and thrown through the place of worship as round after round after round seamlessly cut through wood, stone, and stained glass indiscriminately. The Ritualists had come again.

((READ.

Okay, listen up. Because we've eliminated the bulk of the Ritualist troops I've pulled these in. These'll serve as a cheeky battle for the remnant of Templar forces. There are fifteen regular men, two heavy troops, and one placed machine gun. There are four combat-engaged Templars. This means we get roughly four kills each. Do not overstep your bounds. Now, for anybody taking out five people in a single sentence - yes, I mean you, Kume - I suggest you don't, and make these troops last otherwise you'll be stuck with no-one else to kill. THESE ARE THE LAST OF THE RITUALISTS.

Ritualists: If you're planning to, you can start leaving the Event now, posting up your exit posts. I know Jean and Ceri are taking a leave pretty soon, and whilst David and Reis have run off, I don't know what the plans are for Aravad and Heiwa, but you can sidle away if you'd like, or join up the remnants of the Ritualist forces.))

[Reverend Smith]

Rev grinned to the elder man, flashing a thumbs up, despite his still bleeding wound. "Ahhh, I like to think of myself as more selfless than sane, sir. A little flesh wound like this won't keep me from protecting the Order." Even as he spoke, he managed to remove his hand from the sight of the wound, and drew his rapiers, combat-ready as ever. As Amadeus continued, Rev had to, even then, take a moment simply to admire the man's resiliency in his old age. Sure, he wasn't as strong or able as he once was, but for a man his age, that was to be expected. "I'll be careful, Amadeus. I give you my word." And a man's word was worth far more than any golden coin; he would be careful.

Before he could say anymore, a pair of Ritualists burst into the room, opening fire. Rev turned to face them, but was outdone by Damon's sharpshooting, taking down one of the pair with ease, while moving Amadeus. In Rev's current state, he was admittedly slower, so he let Damon and Amadeus go on, as Damon told him to fight. He grinned a grin of icy daggers at the man, twirling his rapiers. "Come at me, heathen."

[BATTLE THEME]

He may have been injured, but he was still quick on his feet, at least for now, though as time wore on, he figured he really WOULD have to get to Inferis, as quickly as possible, in order to mend his wound, lest it be less of a wound, and more of a liver-flavored smoothie. But he could worry about that later. He gave a laugh, piercing the brief-lived silence of the chapel, now only containing he and the Ritualist, pieces of the ceiling still falling.

He leapt forward with a sluggish grace, oxymoronic as it sounds, twin rapiers slashing out wildly, the man blocking deftly with his rifle, while attempting to use a bayonet against the Reverend, who parried with his blades. "Heh. You're not bad."

The ritualist gave a cocky grin of his own. "Yeah, I wish I could say the same about you, old man."

Rev frowned, letting his eyes and mind wander as he continued deftly defending. "Old? Huh... Well, I am nearly in my sixties, and I call myself old a lot... But maybe you're just too young" Playtime was over, as Rev took advantage of the man's derisive laugh, which left him standing prone for but a moment, to slice his gun into thirds, a devilish grin emerging on the holy man's face. "Young, foolish, inexperienced, stupid in the ways of the world. And the ways of a classic distraction dupe, apparently."

As he spoke, he dropped into a low sweep, wincing as he felt the pain in his abdomen. As Amadeus himself had said, he was strong, but only human. The Ritualist, less human, was caught off-guard, and dropped, though as he did so, he turned into a cartwheel, hopefully not in a literal sense, rather, he turned, then did a cartwheel, as he fell, and narrowly the twin rapiers once more. Swinging the blades again, however, Rev was surprised greatly to see a weapon now; a large warhammer, apparently made of water. "Leviathan, grant me the power I need to smite this pathetic geezer of a foe."

Rev chuckled, stepping closer, nonchalantly, as he placed the rapiers back into their sheathes. "Nice hammer, kid. Compensating for something? I mean, I might be a geezer like you keep saying, but at least I don't have to cry about my feelings to my diary, and slice my wrists every time I get rejected for having a prepubescent dick. I mean what're you, like fourteen? Bet you joined a cult because The Super Science Friends didn't want you. Oh, and by the way," He drew his cross, swinging its 200 pounds of glory at the teen's hammer. "I can play hardball too."

A maniacal laugh grew from the man's mouth as he missed the kid, narrowly ducking away in time, laying waste instead to a pew; poor pew. Didn't deserve to die! The ritualist would just have to suffer an even worse death to make up for it! Chasing him to the center of the chapel's sanctuary, he swung the cross again, this time clashing with the aquatic hammer, though to unexpected effect, it managed to absorb the effect of the blow quite well, rippling and denting momentarily, before reforming. Interesting...

But not that interesting. He brought his cross in again for a rebound blow, this time aiming to hit the ritualist directly with one of the side-pointed bars of the cross, rather than the main body of it, thus avoiding the hammer. It was a mission accomplished as he heard the cracking of a rib. With a mad grin, he quickly pounced, landing on the guy's stomach. "Well, my good boy, one of us has to die, right here. And right now."

"Heh. It'll... It'll be you. I'm too young to die, not today!" On cue, he swung his hammer up at Rev. Rev grinned even wider, the lighting casting a shadow over the upper half of his face, leaving but a small sheen of light on his glasses.

"Well... I'm too old to die young." Swoooooosh...

Splash.

The kid, who'd turned his head away in terror, glanced back, not understanding, until he laughed. Like an idiot. "You fell for it, you senile retard! All you did was ruin my hammer, I can make anoth-"

"Be my guest, came the suddenly nonchalant reply as Rev put away his cross, reaching into his back pocket for something. The kid looked on edge, nervous. And drenched in water, with a puddle around him from all the spilled water from his hammer, not to mention the rain pouring in through the now halfway roofless chapel. "Do you know what that hammer is made of?" The kid scoffed. "Water, duh."

"Yep. Rev grinned, revealing a rod, maybe two feet long. He clicked a button.

The cattle prod buzzed to life with a visibly electric spark.

"It is, indeed, water, kid, and this is what happens when you attempt to get. On. My. Bad side. Buh-bye~" With that, much to the teen's shrieking protests, Rev jammed the cattle prod against his chest. Normally, it wouldn't be so lethal, but it was aimed at his HEART, for one, not to mention the kid was soaked, and laying down in water. Suffice to say, it was an impromptu electric chair, minus the chair. Heh.

But as Rev went to put the cattle prod away, a satisfied smirk set on his face, he fell to his knee, coughing up quite a bit of blood. That chainsaw really got me, I'll have to commend her on that next time I see her.... He had to get to Inferis, where his augment could kick in, and he could heal.

"Black Rook One to Archer Three-Actual. Bit more... Ugh. Wounded than I thought I was. This guy's done for, he was a tricky one. Have to shift, need to heal. Gotta go." He shifted the channel settings. "Red Cross Six, come in. Black Rook One to Red Cross Six. In urgent need of medical attention; find a fill-in for your position, then make your way to the Audience Hall. Outside, you'll find my bike, and most importantly, my CrossGear. Drive the bike to the Sistine Chapel, and we're crossing over. Bring whatever you need to repair a chainsaw-shanked liver, kay?" Ahh, Gunthar. Best medic Rev knew of, his personal medic, in fact, for when things went sour.

Soon enough, the fellow Dutchman had arrived, and Rev climbed on the bikes, tying the furry car-decoration die to his right handlebar, before revving the motor. LITTLE DID HE EXPECT WHAT WAS TO COME NEXT, IN INFERIS. Probably.

[EXIT THREAD]

[Aravad]

So yeah, ARAVAD WAS DRESSED LIKE A GUARD. As in he COULD BE MISTAKEN FOR an ally. That, and EARLIER, he was WEARING A BALACLAVA, as in a MASK, to conceal his hair and every other features about him, but now ALL THOSE identifying marks like his shades, and mask, and clothing, are gone in place of his disguise, with even a replaced gun, it was hard to distinguish Aravad whom was obscured by the shadows as rain had even further murked his form forth, obscuring his form and outlining him as an ally to those of Templar cause, at least by appearance. His hair slicked against his neck, as his eyes are unseen and unrealized from fathom.

ANYWAYS. IT LOOKS LIKE IT WAS TIME TO LEAVE FOR Aravad. A third party would be pleased with the find he would initiate as he has come to be surprised rather by the results of his shots from an overly penetrative pistol, the kind that doesn't make HANDS EXPLODE into a stump, as gore spewed out. The berserker displayed what was actually typical of either someone possessed, OR someone who was high on LSD and other drugs. Aravad guessed the latter. He really dodged the bullet with Reis, as she was probably loaded, and not with bullets. Except squinting his eyes, he saw the muzzle of a gun from across the murk, making the outline of something pointing at him at least, that would denote a pistol, as if like a dance, he strafed to the side, yet despite all those shots, one punched him straight to the gut of his Kevlar, transferring the force as his skin became purple from the shot that didn't penetrate his protection, but bruised him. He grunted silently in pain, putting on his shades as he caught glimpse of smoke streaking above him and towards the Sistine Chapel. That blur he saw was an RPG. He didn't have anymore time to spare, he had what he came for. Although as of this point, he did the most SENSIBLE THING after the rocket streaked with instincts, he ducked when he saw another person's outline pointing a gun at him, well, his general body mass. And by ducked, he actually went on his back, letting the bullets whiz on top of him and hit the wall behind him. Getting up once more as he saw the Japanese girl fleeing for her life, blood seeping behind her. The red was strong enough to attract his recognition, with the ritualist following suit, not Aravad, but Bowie.

Without even a moment's notice as the Reverend just ran towards the Sistine Chapel, Aravad bolted towards the nearest wounded Templar, slinging her across his shoulder as he cooed with a tranquil tone to the woman whose wound oozed from gunshot, "Worry not sister. We have orders to depart, to withdraw from this Holy place turned Hell, all in due part to the whore of Babylon that laid her sullen wench hands upon this place. Hark, for I am your salvation made manifest."

The Templar's eyes soon drifted off to sleep, as she trusted Aravad's calm voice, he gave a rare smile as things played in part to what was planned. Running across the rain as fast as he can, carefully deliberating his steps as it seemed he was carrying an injured brethren out of the place, whilst drab in guard uniform. Sprinting as he huffed his breath, the lights all around that illuminated his path flickered, that he would avert from going there, instead stepping onward to the grass where less light shined. The muddy ground helped fathom his weight, thus leave room for further maneuvering and footwork, as he sped up in his pace. Before the arrival of the main Templar force as well as the last redoubt the Ritualists would incur. This woman, he would glimpse upon her, was heavy. But that was all in part to what strange manner of attire she wore, but nonetheless, her's was that of importance.

Soon enough, Aravad happened upon a helipad, with a helicopter in place, as he ducked behind a bush in stealth, letting the Templar reinforcement that came from the helicopter pour out, walk past him as he lay unnoticed, taking this opportunity to adjust his lungs to breathing. Catching some rest for a while, before as casually as possible, taking steps towards the helipad, placing the Templar woman inside as he stepped into the helicopter itself.

"H-hey! This isn't med-evac!" The pilot looked behind, exasperated alongside his fellow, whom also decided to speak, "LOOK, we can't take her out of here, all medical matters should be taken within the sanctum ALREADY HERE, as per PROCEDURE, we can't just break it all willy nilly, unless you have an excuse? I mean we're just a troop carrier, hospitals are too hot, especially for her."

"No. Were attention deprived of her, she shall expire and..." Aravad pointed his pistol towards the pilot, pulling the trigger to execute one as blood splattered against the side, the one whom patiently explained procedures and gave away a vital tip of Templar base location, Aravad walked towards the other pilot, but not before taking a moment to give a swift trauma to the Templar's head, already with the weakened constitution with consciousness fading, the woman gave out to the kick. Aravad calmly walked up to the other pilot, and stuck a pistol towards his skull, even a pilot's helmet could not withstand a bullet from the Five-SeveN at point blank range, "Fly us out of here, now." He points Eastwards, the pilot gulps and nods in acknowledgement of the non-verbal show of direction, "Very good."

Soon enough, the helicopter picks up height, and as Aravad explained it to the pilot, to actually keep a low altitude till they are 5 kilometers away from the Holy See. An altitude that would soon pick up once such a thing was achieved. Circling around though initially at the perimeter of the Vatican City, before finally leaving onward to the horizon of the sky, as rain continued to trickle down against the window, the doorway closed as Aravad gave an innate smile to himself at the result of his sabotage, as he mentally reviewed it all to himself. To iterate, he let himself curiously wonder what was Reis's fate ultimately, after such a wound she incurred, and just how this whole attack would be covered up by the great enemy.

[EXIT]

[Alice the Chopper]

"Just remember, if you need me as a human shield, let me take my shoes and shirt off first; they're worth far more than your current mortal shell, you know." The possessed girl's ears rang a she noticed David Bowie was finally making use of himself, running and gunning his way through the Swiss, the Templars, and even the occasional Ritualist. He was actually a pretty sharp shot, to the demon's surprise.  The Japanese woman herself found herself utilizing nothing but a knife stolen from a fallen comrade, as all of her other weapons were no longer with her, or unable to be used at this current point in time. As far as things were going, as they were pretty swell, the maniac had already slashed the throats of at least two templars, or maybe they were Swiss, or maybe fellow Satan-worshipers. She couldn't tell. Everyone looked the same at this point.

Reis' radio crackled with static, something she hadn't expected, but suddenly remembered. "Lotus Commander, reinforcements inbound, time to blow these Christ-kissers to high heaven, over." A rogue priest launched himself at the leader, capturing her in a choke hold, only for his head to be blown off by the homicidal superstar and her comrade, covering her in yet more blood. Damn, she was a total mess by this point. Hastily returning to her knife run through the alleyways, she pressed down on the water damaged radio, funny thing she didn't buy an all purpose one, but oh well. "Lotus Commander reporting in, still kicking, for now." Once again, the shell was granted a chance to speak, and she was feeling the full brunt of the damage she had sustained. Another human went for the choke hold, only to find himself butchered with a quick slash to the stomach than the jugular.

More radio static broke out. Something about aiming for the snipers, or whatever. The leader knew the results of this battle. She had failed. It was likely due to the explosion that alerted the entire complex, the target had already left, and was miles away from the Vatican. Templars tended to take such matters pretty seriously. But the battle was yet over, and it wouldn't be over without a little fun. The alleyways snaked ot an end, and led to a dangerous spot, the spot that had been predicted to be the major front of battle since the get-go: St. Peter's Square. The Japanese woman would stop to help David Bowie over the fence, than would lift herself with ir without his help, cutting herself slightly on the barrier on her way over.

Once over the barrier, Reis took a moment to admire the unfolding battle going on in the square. Truckloads of reinforcements had shown up, as she was informed and ordered to arrive in the case of an emergency. Did they truly consider this to be an emergency situation? It was quite under control. Walking over to a body of a dead templar, one slouched up against the wall, most brutally murdered with a inverted pentagram engraved into the poor sap's forehead, and leaned down, looking into his dead eyes. "Looks like you won't be needing these anymore, doll." The demon spoke this time, patting the man's blonde hair before looting his corpse, taking not one or two, but five grenades, and proceeded to stock them in her jacket.

The spot the two were in seemed to grant them a little time. The Ritualists hadn't noticed the leader and Bowie yet, and neither had the Templars. The alleyways were clear, and if one were to look back, they would see a maddening trail of bodies from all sides and all ages. It was gruesome, and would be difficult for the Vatican to simply cover up as "terrorists", but yet it would be done, somehow, someway. The Ritualist's boots clicked as she turned to the superstar. "If you wanna depart, I suggest you get to it, 'cause things are about to get a bit messy out there." The mockingbird actually gave a word or two of sane advice, something that she rarely did, and something that should probably be taken pretty seriously. She would tap him on his shoulder - with her stump of course - and then proceed to slowly walk out into the crossfire, somehow just nearly dodging the bullets fired from several gun crazed priest guys.

"Clear a path. Time for the finale."

[INITIATE THEME]

Her sentence was simple and carried no cool code words or anything, but yet the mass of fanatic troops parted like the Red Sea, forming a small path right down the middle, and that is where the leader would tread. Slowly at first, and without words, she simply grew a large grin upon her face and pulled forth from her jacket a single explosive, placing it in her mouth, holding it in place with her teeth. The Ritualists backed up a bit, fearing the worse. Wise they were as the possessed woman grabbed a second explosive, and yet a third in a single hand, leaving but two in her jacket. Her boots made the traditional sound as she slowly approached the collapsing Basilica. Such beautiful chaos all this was.

Reis signaled for a single comrade to come forth, which he begrudgingly did, carrying a megaphone. It seemed that this was his sole job, one he hoped he wouldn't have to perform. The man in question was only but eighteen, after all, funny how one got involved in cults at such an early and ripe age. Anyways, the megaphone came to the girl's thin lips, who were simply teeming with joy at this point in time. "Where is your God at this hour?" The voice of Eris rung out, mocking the creator of the universe in his very home. "Where is your archangel Michael to hold up your city as it collapses?!" Now she taunted not only the big man himself, but his children, the most holy ones. "Even Mary turns her back on you!" With that sentence, the crazed psychopath pulled the pin out of the explosives in her right hand, and then with a little effort, pulled the pin out of the third one in her mouth. There was no need to pull the ones in her jacket, as they would detonate on their own accord. Or maybe not. It didn't matter, as suicide wasn't the real goal behind this...

A tiny motor ticked in Reis' heart, implanted by the group's "top" scientists (who were in reality just a bunch of Ritualists who knew how to cut somebody open and sew them back up),a tiny mechanism that counted her every heartbeat, just awaiting for a stop. As soon as the device would pick up a null heartbeat, it would activate it's deadly attachments, the seven or so C4 explosives rigged to trigger when this would occur. Yes, it was a deadman's trigger, a more complicated one than a handheld, and a far more deadly one. As soon as the pins were pulled, it was already set in motion, and it was unstoppable. Unpreventable. Hell, they probably wouldn't even be prepared for what was about to happen next. Nobody could've been. "The joke has always been on you!"

It seemed that the demon had timed these words perfectly, as just as the final word left her mouth, the explosives detonated, shredding her body into a mess of blood and shrapnel, which immediately took the megaphone Ritualist with her in an unavoidable direct hit, further increasing the gore level of the whole ordeal. Perhaps this event wouldn't be paid any attention to, however, as several large explosions could be heard from all around the city, only to be followed by what could only be distinguished as collapsing artifacts and toppling buildings. The explosives first completely obliterated the railroad station, as two bombs had been planted there, only a few hours prior to the assault by a few undercover Lotus agents. next, an explosion in the Papel Gardens decimated a small structure, then the Civil Administration building took a powerful blow right in the middle, knocking through several important support beams and causing a large deal of damage to the complex. Next, the obelisk in the square itself exploded, raining down rock and shrapnel upon the Ritualist troops, but also created a cool "badass explosion at our backs" effect. A few more bangs and booms could be heard throughout the city.

Man, death during possession did always give her the biggest headache in the morning.

[REIS DEAD]

Click here for a map for all the explosives, the red "X"'s mark the placed bombs that detonated in this post.

[David Bowie]

Honestly.

He'd told her, his shoes were far more precious than her life. But he had only to glance down and BAM. REALIZATION. Blood stains! ON HIS WHITE SHOES. FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF- THOSE WILL NEVER COME OUT. NO MATTER HOW HARD HE TRIES. A BLOOD STAIN IS ORANGE AFTER YOU WASH IT THREE OR FOUR TIMES, NOT CLEAN! Ah, but he let his feels digress, not bothering to bring it up, instead simply moving forward, his Five-seveNs being used with remarkable skill; should be obvious, seeing that he's a highly experienced MI6 agent. Actually, what's really remarkable is his apparent usefulness. Probably had something to do with being paid $20.00.

Nevertheless, he trailed behind Eris/Reis, shooting out enemies, though as he got to the fence, he glanced at his watch. "Ooh! My favorite time of day!~" Cocaine Hour. Best idea he'd ever had. That said, as Eris pushed him over the fence, he'd drawn a credit card and a small bag from his pocket, and made quick haste to SNORT ALL OF THAT FINE WHITE POWDER. Before continuingontoaccomplishCOMBATYEAH! And suddenly, a little ditty stuck out in his soul as he twirled his pistols. "Totally got this, Eris, like, yeah, these guys? SCREW THESE GUYS. I got this, luv, but first I THINK I WANT TO SING!~" And so he did.

[BEST BATTLE THEME EVER]

I don't know why but today seems like it's gonna be a great daaaaaaay!~" He stepped carelessly into the fray, ahead of Eris, as Swiss Guardsmen quickly noticed him, and opened fire. What would a sane man do here? Well, Bowie had no idea, so he started dancing, while shooting at the Swissies. "There's something in the air that makes me feel like things are gonna go my waaaaaaay!~" BANG. BANG. BANG. BANGBANGBANG. Four Swissies dead, the rest... Well, confused, but still shooting at the man who now seemed to have a few bullet holes in him. He skipped forward, merrily raining lead death on them.

"The birds are chirping tweedly-deet, the sun is shining bright!~ There's a skip in my step, a pip in my pep!~" He paused the song, and his murderous rampage, briefly, in order to sniff, inhaling a bit of his magic drugz from his nostril. "And I don't know whyyyyyyyy!~"

He leaned over next to one of the Swiss, putting an arm around the other man. "Hey there mailman friend, any letters from my ex-wife or the kids?! No? Fantastic news, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" The man put a few holes in Bowie point-blank, surprisingly to no effect, before Bowie, while laughing like a mad man, rather brutally snapped his neck. And tried briefly to pull his head off, before continuing. At this rate, an efficient path would be cleared for he and Reis in NO TIME!~

"Wonderful day makes me feel so happy that my face is nuuuuuuuuuuuumb! My heart is racing along barapa pampaaaaaaaaaaam!~" He wasted the last of his pistol ammo on a flock of pigeons, despite Swiss being NEAR THE PAIR, AND READY TO KILL THEM BOTH. He drew his handcrossbows!

"So many places and people to meet, now that I've lost my jooooooooob! They say "Young man, the world's your oyst-" And abruptly, he stopped singing and dancing, and started shooting bolts at random at everything he saw, killing at least two Ritualists who were hiding out after the explosions, and a good amount of Swiss, injuring plenty more! Oh, and more birds... He hates birds, you see.

"HEY. HEY, GET THE FUCK OFF ME. NO, FUCK NO."

...

He promptly snorted a bit more coke, before resuming a cheery grin, and proceeding forward, to slaughter a few more enemies, en masse.

"Idon'tknowwhy, buttodayseemslikeit'sgonnabeagreat daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!~ Lalala blah blah blah blah I should spend more time with my kids!!~" Fwhip, fwhip, bolts fired off at stuff. He was honestly messed up enough he couldn't tell if he was even shooting at people anymore, or if ever had been to begin with.

"It's carpe diem, gotta seize the day, I'm gonna move to Spain and run with the bulls, and my wife and boss and kids and parents will saaaaaaaaaaaaay!~ We were wrong about you Dennis!!~" Even as he sang, he managed to occasionally hit some form of target, somewhat miraculously. "HEY, DENNIS!" Aaaaaand now he was talking to himself. And calling himself Dennis. That's my name! Are you really gonna run with the bulls? Why would I do that? Cause you said you were gonna! Haha, that was like three days ago! OR WAS IT?"

...

Something today makes me feel fine and fancy-freeeeeeeee!~" Aww, out of bolts. He drew his falchion. Spying a young Templar, likely a rookie, he skipped forward, swinging the ancient sword. "Much of the ocean is still unexplored, how did I get up in this treeeeeeeee?~" And yes, as he said it, he had climbed a tree, and as the Templar opened fire, he leapt down, onto the guy, and chopped his head off. FUN!~

"Now I'm over here, now I'm over there, now I'm under this dude, now I'm back in the tree, now I'm hanging out backstage with my very best friends: Alec Baldwin and Tom Petty!~" He stopped fighting ONCE AGAIN, for a dramatic pause.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. W-what!? NOW."

He fell to both knees, back turned to the Swiss Guardsmen, two of whom approached him from behind. "WHYYYYYY WOOOOUUUUULD THEY DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISS ME? I THOUGHT THEY WEEEEERE MY HOOOOOOOMIES!?..." And he then brought the blade down, stabbing himself through the stomach. By some probably improbable luck, the two Guards fell forward, and were ALSO impaled. Except they died, like the endless Redsuit Army they are.

Bowie stood again, removing the sword from its people-sheathe, swiping the blood off onto his pants, before moving forward. By this point, the Swiss guard didn't bother with him, not wanting to be killed by such an implacable man. That, or they didn't like his singing.

"Any problem is solvable, we can feed the hungry and cure disease, but all of that would be a huge waste of tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime!~ Because we live in the matrix!" And at THIS point, he stopped again, bending backwards to an almost impossible angle, and in fact, hearing his spine crack. Eh. He'd be fine. Probably. "What's wrong with me...? I think I'm on drugs..." And at that, he hocked up a wad of spit, and spit at the ground. For no real reason but proper ending to the song.

Somehow, he and Eris were near a bunch of people. Or something. She looked at him and IN HIS MIND, said "Go home, Bowie, you're drunk." before slapping his already ruined shirt with a bloody hand-stump, a final coup de grace on what was once a Vincilinni original, two-of-a-kind, in fact, though he accidentally shrunk the other and dyed it pink in the wash. RUINED. MORE THAN THIS ONE, ALMOST!

"...Kay. Laters, darling~" Blowing Eris a kiss, he skipped merrily away.

As he skipped, he soon came upon a VEHICLE. A vehicle with a machine gun? And some ritualist people! ...Why were there Ritualists in the Vatican? Why was he only JUST realizing this!? Or was he?

...Huh. Cocaine is a one hell of a drug.

Stepping forward, the still-coming-off-his-high rockstar bumped into some guy, and quickly resolved the issue by BEATING HIM TO DEATH WITH A CRYSTAL BALL. "THIS IS SATIN, YOU SATANIC SANITATION WORKER, DEFILING SACRED GROUND WITH YOUR S.A.T. SCORES AND SATING YOUR uh... SATANIC SATAPPETITE WITH SATAN'S FOOD CAKE. CASE IN POINT? Don't touch my shirt. In the afterlife, I mean, because YOU, my friend, are PRETTY DEAD, HAHAHAHAHAHA!~" It was really only then he realized people were shooting at him, so he skipped over towards the Templars fighting these fine chaps. "Hellooooooo~ Mind if I hang out with you guys, those other fellows are terribly rude. Y'know, I used to be a Templar like yourselves, haha. Until I took an arrow to the knee. For serious, too!" Boredly, he sat down on the ground, ignoring the violence, near Amadeus. "Oooohhh, dude, awesome idea. You got any like, weed or something, you spry youngster who looks older than me!? OH! Or ice cream, hey, wanna go get ice cream after all this taking back the Vatican stuff's done with? Would be totally sweet~"
__________________________________________________

DEATH TOLL
Swiss Guard: Somewhere between six and fifty-nine and a third.
Templars: About pi Templars were killed.
Ritualists: Several to many, but at least two. No more than three, though.
Homeless People: All of teh homeless people.
Birds: Somewhere between one and an entire mass genocide of the pigeon population of Vatican City.
David Bowie: Eighteen times, once suicide, and the rest being caused by Honeybadger Disease. It's an STD, which makes him 120% cooler. Unsafe sex is cool. 8D

[Lazarus Carter]

UPDATE

One more round of posting for the Templars optional. This event will officially end on August 2nd. Any Ritualists who haven't exited at that point won't get their points - for all PC Templars, an exit post is unnecessary.

[Tatyana Vladimirovna]

Her fist rammed through another Ritualist before her hand closed about their face and slammed their skull into the stone wall behind them, the blood and brain bits splattering across that polished surface.  They dripped down towards the floor as the body slid down slowly to the ground, the Paladin standing tall as she stared down at the body.  Three of her men had returned, leaving her wondering what had happened to the rest.  Anatoly had gone silent, Mikhael had gone silent.  Now that they had found a lull in the enemies before the Grandmaster and Damon's arrival, she turned to them and spoke (off the radio), "Report."  "Two dead.  Ivanovich and Phillips."  Her mouth twitched slightly, "And Alexandrovich?"  "Unaccounted for."  A frown began to form as she turned to face her men.  "We will retrieve corpses and wounded later.  For now, we prepare."  And with that, the doors opened to the right, Damon, the Grandmaster, and their small team stumbling inside with gunshots ringing behind them.  She could hear the dear Reverend shouting outside.  "Kill him, Smith!"  They had arrived in.  Good.  She looked over the small group, noting how few had come with them.  So it would be a small group maintaining this position.  Very well.  It was enough to remain effective.  "Ma'am."  She returned his salute, "Are you wounded?"  While there was still an aching in her body from getting tossed about as a ragdoll, the woman shook her head.  "Negative.  Nothing a bit of rest won't cure once this is all over with."  Not that she was probably going to actually relax, however, for when she returned to Russia she would most likely be ensuring the sweep for anymore Ritualist cells.  There should not be groups of this size with the ability to cause such problems.  "How many casualties did your team suffer?"  "Two.  Mikhael's team remains MIA.  We are what is remaining.  It will suffice."  And with that she turned away just as the revving of engines roared, her radio crackled to life in her ear with Helsing's voice. "The explosion is starting to draw in the rest of the troops. They're going to rush the building."  Her eyes narrowed now as she only had to glance to her men whom already moved for the doors to cover them.  Tatyana remained in the center, cracking her fists as she could feel that grumbling beginning to build within her blood.  

It was time for the war to rage.

Her eyes opened slowly as she burst forward and to cover, quick drawing her pistols just as the machine guns bullets began to explode into the church.  It was moments like this before the storm that she was reminded of those missions with the Spetsnaz, of the front lines with odds stacked high against her men.  She was careful and timed whenever she popped up out of cover to fire off three quick shots, focusing her fire on those that were the bigger threats.  The machine gun.  Her fists would not be useful in this particular instance for they were far outgunned at this moment in time.  Shards of stone were sent flying as the fire embedded themselves into that old building, her teeth gritting within her mouth as she exhaled slowly.  A voice burst out amongst the fire, taking advantage of the the brief distraction to nail one of the men on the machine gun in the head.  "THIS IS SATIN, YOU SATANIC SANITATION WORKER, DEFILING SACRED GROUND WITH YOUR S.A.T. SCORES AND SATING YOUR uh... SATANIC SATAPPETITE WITH SATAN'S FOOD CAKE. CASE IN POINT? Don't touch my shirt. In the afterlife, I mean, because YOU, my friend, are PRETTY DEAD, HAHAHAHAHAHA!~"  She honestly had no idea what that idiot was going on about, but she also didn't care.  He had given her leave to kill one of the men, and that was what was important.  

"Hellooooooo~ Mind if I hang out with you guys, those other fellows are terribly rude. Y'know, I used to be a Templar like yourselves, haha. Until I took an arrow to the knee. For serious, too!"  So when the oddly dressed man came skipping towards the Basilica, Tatyana could only grimace more while she looked to her one man whom had moved to approach from where he had been.  "Goncharovich, rifle.  Watch Silver Hawk."  She called, holstering her pistol as he tossed the gun to her which she caught perfectly.  She popped out just in time to wound one of the men that had moved to take over on the machine gun for his fallen comrade, her bullet whizzing past the man that was skipping about.  Only the arm.  Shit.  Goncharovich, on the other hand, had put himself between the Grandmaster and David Bowie, now wielding a pistol and combat knife.  "Oooohhh, dude, awesome idea. You got any like, weed or something, you spry youngster who looks older than me!? OH! Or ice cream, hey, wanna go get ice cream after all this taking back the Vatican stuff's done with? Would be totally sweet~"  

What was that mans deal.  She exhaled slowly and waited for a couple of seconds before she popped up again, a rat-at-at-at  ringing out which took down two more, leaving the machine gun unmanned and unguarded for the moment until they decided to send some other fools out.  A figure suddenly leaped down at the window and tackled her right in the face, sending her flying backwards onto the hard ground.  Her already hurting back screamed out at her as she growled and glared at the enemy on top of her.  The woman had a pistol and a sawed off shotgun in one hand.  The shotgun was haphazardly about her body having been sent about by her crazed antics.  She was pressing down with her knees on Tatyana's rifle, the pistol shoving itself in her face, but the Paladin only snarled as she wrenched the womans wrist away.  The bullet fired into the ground next to her head.  And with that she crossed with a left hook across the Ritualists face, causing her to lose her balance.  Tatyana took advantage of that, adrenaline pumping through her as she wrenched her body over so that she was on top.  But the woman apparently had some brains as she screamed and clawed, hitting with the blunt end of the pistol against the seasoned soldier.  

A rumbling shot through the Basilica that she had to force herself to ignore. She knew the sounds of explosions, and there were at least several ones of a larger variety. The fucking Ritualists had C4?! Her attackers other hand went for the sawed off shotgun, eventually just throwing the pistol at Tatyana whom was fighting with her to keep that damn shotgun aimed not at her fleshy bits.  Unfortunately the gun did go off, and the pellets went right into her right thigh.  FUCK THAT HURT.  With a roar worthy of all of Mother Russia, Tatyana finally freed her right hand and pulled it back, punching downwards into the face of the masked woman.  Pain, fury, and anger sent it crunching into her face as blood and brain matter flew up her arm.  You could say that she was pissed.  And with that the Paladin rolled off of the dead body, panting and gritting her teeth hard in pain.  She would not shout, she would not cry out.  Instead she was applying pressure, her eyes scanning to make sure no others had come inside.  Her pistol made a return appearance as she hissed out a breath, feeling just how spread out the pellets had gone into her flesh.  She had to have some in her hip, left leg, and stomach as well.  Dammit.... These bastards were going to kneel and beg for her forgiveness.

Ritualist Death Count: 4

[Jean La Croix]

Tears. Tears where the last thing Jean had expected from this woman who was jaded enough to treat sex as nothing more then a job. After all it took a certain sort of detachment from ones self to do what she did on a daily basis. And while it was true she had just been fighting for her life , the tears still caught him by surprise. After all, this was not some tender flower of a girl that had never seen strife. Oh no unless Jean missed his guess she had been through her own trials and tribulations that had shaped her into a strangler rose... A pretty flower of that there was no doubt, but it was in no way delicate or fragile... And of thrones well it had plenty. So as he looked down at the woman who was clutched to him and for the first time saw weakness there, a weakness that disturbed him. A weakness he had never seen in her before. "Free dances for life sugar." With steady fingers he calmly wiped the tears from her eyes, his smile still present if a tad strained. He hated to see anyone so vulnerable, but he hated to see women like this least of all. Maybe it was backwards, maybe it was sexist. But in the end he was his Grandfathers kid and his grandfather had been a gentleman and a saint above all other things and he tried to mimic him as best he could.
'
"If you ever need a place to stay, or money, or help, or whatever it might be...for whatever reason... You'll have it in London." With a chuckle he gave her an ever so gentle squeeze, his eyes never leaving hers. "Well I will keep that in mind love... "  She nuzzled into him and that brought a fresh smile to his face. "Thank you Jean..." He shook his head and put a finger to her lips after she spoke. "Don't thank me just yet... We still need to get out selves out of this death trap." With that he started off, his eyes locked on the doors on the opposite side of the station. And now that he had a few moments to look around well, he was sure that was what it was. After all the train on the other side of those glass doors was something of a give away. "But after you manage that... Im sure you can find a way to show me just how  thankful you are." There was a hunger in his voice that surprised the man, but for once it didn't scare him. He was growing used to the rising beast that made his home in his soul.

His foot steps where hurried, almost frantic in his pace. Or as frantic as he could be as he held Ceri to his chest. The doors slide open as he walked  across the cold grey and white tiles, his heavy foot steps echoing about the expansive and mostly empty room. The doors slide open almost silently as they approached, and out he walked into the cool night air. There before them was the Papal train. Now, being a bright yellow bullet style train holiness was no something that it invoked. But it sure as hell looked fast, and more then a tad fancy and that right then is what they needed. So with quick feet they approached the unguarded train and with his free arm threw open the unlocked passenger car door.

Now there was only one significant problem with his escape plan... And that was the simple fact that he had NO idea as to how to get this train moving. He did't expect it to be to difficult after all trains where rather simple machines able to go only one of two directions. So as he hurried through the unoccupied cars he felt confidant that he could control this behemoth with just the tools he had on him... Of which simple logic and luck where the most important.

It seemed to take ages for them to traverse the cars between them and the engine, ages in which anything could happen if they didn't hurry. After all they where in enemy territory, surrounded by an enemy that wanted nothing more then to end their lives with what could be called extreme prejudice. Jean couldn't blame them to be honest, after all they had shown up at their most holy of cities, killed their people and caused massive damage. Jean knew that no mercy was coming their way. But in reality it took mere minutes to make their way to the front of the train, all the while the sounds of battle echoed towards them.

Pushing open one final door, Jean stepped into the engine room of the train and set Ceri down gently on one of the seats before turning his attention to what he hoped was a simple set of labeled switches.... "Oh fuck me." The set of controls before him where anything but simple, in fact there where hundreds of buttons and switches, and more levers then he had ever seen in a single place. Also of note was that to few of them had any sort of markings. "I... Don't... Hrmmm...." Well, it seemed his luck had run out.

With slightly shaking hands he reached for the controls... Then it hit him. Thrusting his hands into his pockets Jean fished out his iPhone and quickly googled 'The Papal Train" then taking the model of said train he ran another search. This one being 'How to operate a train'. It seemed that the internet had come to their rescue, because there on the first page of google where exact instructions as to how to get their ride in motion. Fallowing the easy step by step instructions, the train lurched into motion, and while he wasn't sure exactly how to stop they had some time to figure that out. The train slowly picked up speed, and as they pulled out into Rome proper a sense of exhilaration filled him. Then suddenly, the world behind them was filled with fire and noise. Then, one after another more fireballs filled the night sky... The city of god was on fire. The Vatican was in flames.

EXIT THREAD WITH CERI

[Damon T. Ruger]

"The joke has always been on you!"

Click. Click. Boom.

It was as he drew back the bolt on his UMP that the significant explosion rang out from outside; Damon Ruger was no stranger to hand grenades, but knew that the right thing to do, even from this distance, was throw himself back behind cover. And he was glad he was - for it was only moments before a sequence of almost simultaneous, absolutely deafening crash-like explosions rang out from outside. As equidistant was possible. Omnidirectional. The Basilica still riddled with bullets. The Chapel falling to their left. And... now... now... the whole of the Vatican was burning.

*****

5:32AM, GMT+1
APRIL 13TH, 2002
DEBRIEFING ROOM
GSG-9 HEADQUARTERS
SANKT AUGUSTIN
GERMANY

The entire affair had moved so fast. It had been 0230 before the Hind they'd rented from the Spetsnaz touched down in the bloody field outside Wetzlar, with the lone GSG-9 agent sat there slumped against a bullet-riddled hay bale, waiting patiently for his evac to arrive. The chopper's rotors sheared through the air with vigour as the Oberst ran through, beret and all, in his own camouflage fatigues, shouting through the air. "UNTEROFFIZIER RUGER! WHERE IS YOUR TEAM LEADER?"

Damon scrabbled to his feet, the Gewehr hanging on a sling on his shoulder swinging idly in the air. "Dead, Oberst Schmidt." He replied matter-of-factly, though the weariness in his voice was very much evident. "They ambushed us. The entire team is gone." And to utter a sentiment that would apply to him for years then to come, the marksman continued. "I'm the only one left."

The debrief had begun as soon as they touched down back in Sankt Augustin: Damon explained the entire affair as if it were textbook. Though he mourned for his dead friends, there was nothing to be done about it now - some had fallen before his eyes in other Gruppe operations. Death was a part of this life that he'd come to expect a time ago. But what he hasn't come to expect was this: all drained from the room bar Oberst Schmidt, who spoke very briefly and very gravely. "There is a man here to see you, Unteroffizier Ruger." With that, he got to his feet and left - opening the door for a huge tank of a man to step in.

"Unteroffizier Ruger." Came the voice belonging to this titan, almost a full seven feet tall. "I am Knight-Commandant Darius Magnus. You will not know the people I work for." Damon blinked stoically and waited as he skirted around the room and pulled the blinds shut, before returning to the door, closing it with a click, and slapping a dossier on the folder. "The file my superiors have on you is an impressive summary of your accolades." The GSG-9 agent nodded slowly, still silent. "Three years in the Federal Police. And now another four working for GSG-9, with two training between."

Magnus took a seat. "Your reputation does precede you, Unteroffizier Ruger. You are a talented and capable marksman, and you take after your father in the old SEK. And you've taken only nine years to put yourself on our radar, when it takes most state police candidates at least fifteen." Damon was confused. What... what was this man talking about? But his idle flipping through page upon page of classified documents that should have had the black strip of censorship through - yet were completely accessible - ceased as he slammed the hefty dossier shut. "But that's not what I'm here to talk about."

Damon arched an eyebrow again as Magnus continued, the British accent heavy in his voice, but a faint... middle-eastern tone there still noticeable. "There's a threat out there that's bigger than you can imagine. A threat that I and the people I work for have devoted our entire livelihoods to suppressing the existence of." Leaning forwards, his voice lowered to little more than an emphasised whisper. "And we want your help." Naturally... "I can't tell you any more until you join. But... are you interested?"

Now - it was Damon Tomasz Ruger's turn to speak. And he only had one question.

"Do I get to pick my own gear?"

*****

And with that memory come full circle, Damon recovered from the explosion in a matter of moments. Tatyana was dealing in her own way with a shotgun-cradling Ritualist trooper - but whilst the lapse in fire was presence, the now-Templar sniper knew he had to act now. Reaching over to the body of another of his fellow troopers unfortunately felled by the barrage of LMG rounds, he pulled an all-too-convenient bandolier wrapped around his thigh off, still commando crawling through the silt, yielding a strip of M84 flashbang grenades.

Only three of them were left of the full six that the bandolier could hold - and so, all at once, Damon, pulling himself up now he was behind yet another pew, tugged the three circular pins out, and flung the loop of flashbangs through the completely shattered Basilica window, letting it clatter down, equidistant between the two heavy troops. "FLASH OUT! GET DOWN!" He howled, burying his head in his hands, still holding the UMP as the reliable, echoing, high-pitched thunk of three simultaneous flashbangs detonating rang out, along with the clattering of two hefty M60E2 machine guns to the floor.

"MY FUCKING EYES!" Came the scream - it was close-range, which was never healthy - but this all proved that in and of themselves, even with the risky guerilla tactics, the advanced planning, the copious amounts of explosives littered around the Vatican in preparation, and the vicious will to sacrifice themselves in the name of a Satanic cause, the Ritualists had one thing the Templars didn't. Preparation. Leaping up to the front-most window, and took aim with the silenced muzzle of his submachine gun, peppering the helmet of the first EOD-wearing Ritualist with a burst of subsonic rounds that sheared through the air with nothing more than a light chatter, leading to the heavy slumping down not moments later.

Pulling himself the UMP back around on the sling, Damon vaulted through the door and shredded the skin up the side of his arm on a jagged piece of shattered glass with a sharp intake of breath, but made an immediate beeline for the fallen M60, running in front of the unmanned technical whilst the other troops behind still fretted over their leader, who had been reduced to nothing more than a bloody spatter on the pavement and a few minuscule chunks of flying gore and viscera. Instead, the sniper cradled a weapon unfitting for his particular battlefield role, still half-full in the box, and brought his elbow down around the heavily-padded torso of the final heavy, dazzling him somewhat as the Templar silently brought the Ritualist into a chokehold, and took a one-handed aim with the machine gun, doing his best to prop the stock against the heavy troop's stomach, so the recoil would thump back into him instead of forcing the sniper to drop it.

As the other troopers popped up from behind the Jeep and realised what was going on, they began to pepper "Damon" with fire, instead every bullet striking and glancing off the human shield he himself had taken, as he fired with what little accuracy he could with the M60, firing round after round off into the framework of the vehicles, mainly as suppressing fire instead of any real hope to hit anything. With a few lugging steps, he dragged the still-stunned EOD unit back into the entrance of the Sistine Chapel, armour perforated a couple of times as the marksman set him down behind cover, lowered the barrel of the M60 to his head, holding the foregrip steady, and with a quiet snarl, unleashed a short barrage of high-penetration LMG rounds through the bullet-resistant glass of the disposal suit, and into the Ritualist's skull.

That was both of the heavy units down. Skirting back around to the window with his newfound weapon - Jaeger still propped up against a wall somewhere, and pressed his back against the brickwork, before popping out of cover and firing onto them. Even with their superior preparation and tactics - the Ritualists had the advantage in numbers. And looking back now to Paladin Vladimirovna, he could see that they were taking casualties. How much longer could they hold out here, before they all died?

[Heiwa Karasu]

Ka-booms and bullets. Sweet beats and rhythms. Heiwa watched, singing still, as the madness unfolded. But where had she been? Much of a path had been laid out of her destruction: building missing bricks, corpses missing parts, stuff like that. But Heiwa...had better things to do honestly. As Gron had THOUGHT this was to be an exciting day, it just turned to a repeticious string of killing and surviving, like any button masher in today's gaming markets. So, Gron decided Heiwa could do as she pleased. But really...she didn't want to be here anyway, least of lie her skin down for a cause she didn't understand nor care about. With the crumbling structures visible from her safe, quiet perch in the Vatican Museum, she wondered what had happened. First the Sistine Chapel went boom. Then alot of gunfire. As she sat there, she looked back at what she had done. First, she cleared her way to the vehicles and seeing as how the reinforcments arrived, fire was distracted away from her as she grabbed a case from the back of on of the vehicles. Then, she had to clear her way BACK to the Museum, strings wizzing through the air and bones of more Swiss Guard. How many had that been? Twenty? She didn't know. She climbed up to the roof and opened the case. Inside was a guitar. Cherry Bomb. Her baby. Inside the case was a small, pocket sized amp, like a one of those new compact stereos. She pluged it in, switched it on and began to play, fingers flying on the fretboard.

[INITIATE WASTING TIME]

Heiwa always used her private practice time to reflect. She took several hours out of her scheduele, a plane ride, and being cramped in with people she had no interest in (except maybe Jean) to come here and what happens? Gron decides he doens't want to be here so he leaves Heiwa to her own devices. And even though she had already killed several Swiss Guard, no point in throwing herself in the middle of combat. Besides...she had string. Incredibly strong, slicing string, but still strings. Heiwa had much to do if she was going to get what she wanted and by damn, she wouldn't do unneccesarily dangerous and stupid things to get to it. I mean sure, anger blinded her at times, but nothing had her on edge today. She was feeling...mellow. Strange how the world works: on mundane days, Heiwa was almost compelled to shake things up, but with all this chaos...she couldn't help but feel chilled.

Soon, as the song started to top itself off, explosives were set off. Two being very close to her, off to the left side. Must've been some Ritualist trickery; no compitent Templar would've spread explosives around like this. She started to pack up, quickly, quickly she thought; the dust cloud would only stay for so long. She climbed from her perch and down and out of the Museum, through the rubble of the explosives' wake. Her feet were quick, tip-toeing through falling rocks and crumbling walls. This scene was becoming more and more familiar with every passing instant. Soon she found herself at the outer wall. And would you look at that? The walls had brick that had fallen in the after shock of the explosion, creating the most convienient foot and handholds. Just a hop, grip and grind all the way to the top. Now...how to get down? OH LOOK! Convienently abandoned matress truck. Weeeeeeeeeeeeee, down she went and with a springy bounce, onto the ground she fell. As she stood, she hissed in pain and rubbed her backside. Not only was this green shit-stain of a truck abandoned, it still had keys~ And so, down Via Leone she went, the puttering of her little, beat-up, pick-up truck amidst the sounds of gun fire and violence. Heiwa smiled to herself as she licked her hand and rubbed off the blood as she drove. Today was going to be fantastic, as soon as she got a cheeseburger in her system.

[EXIT THREAD]

[David Bowie]

Well then. This was simply... Dull. He'd done SO MUCH. SO MUCH STUFF. But still, nobody so much as, oh, BATS AN EYELASH, AT THE LEAST. It's like nobody cared, or even noticed his presence! The gall! And apparently, Amadeus didn't even have any ice cream, OR any weed, or at least, Bowie hadn't listened to him drabble on, if he even did, to find out. Puh. Lame. "You guys all suck. I was going to give you free concert tickets! And an autographed guitar! And let you be movie extras! And snort coke with you all!" He sniffled a single, quite overdramatic, sniffling tear, before standing. "F-fine... I know when I'm n-not w-wanted!"

And, as was actually pretty standard-issue of a man who, outside the public eye, was truly melodramatic and insane, he ran away, bawling like a baby. WELL. Attempted to run away. He actually ended up tripping over his shoelaces not too far away from the Templars. He fell flat on his face, rather promptly, with an odd sort of squeak, before inhaling deeply through his nose, and passing out. Too much cocaine, perhaps? Maybe. The world will never know, only infer! Not wishing to babysit the coked up celebrity, somebody eventually dragged him off to the side, out of the fighting. By the time all the fighting was over, he was taken to London, and woke up on a street corner, missing his shoes and a kidney, not that he really cared; whoever got THAT sucker was in for a world of pain.

"Hrng... Never going to burn down a city again. I loved those shoes..."

[EXIT THREAD]

[Something Has Happened]

A thick Cuban cigar sat clenched between the teeth of a man wearing Aviator sunglasses and bearing long, blonde hair. The canopy of this particular assault-fitted expansive British Westland Lynx AH.9 land-assault helicopter was, as such, filled with a particularly pungent screen of smog. Dispatched from - fittingly - the Templar base in London barely forty-five minutes ago, the trip across the Channel had been uneventful; but with a continual radio update from scouts and overwatch on the evening chaos unfolding upon the Vatican City in this night in February had kept this particular pilot almost thrumming at a cellular level for a taste of the action.

The twilit sky was almost perfect, flying through Italy in a southern approach to Rome. Between drags of the cigar stub remaining, the grizzled, middle-aged blonde man stroked at the makings of a beard and sighed in awe. Tonight, the skies were clear; the clouds had parted; Hell had broken loose; and an emissary of order was en route to the Vatican proper. The noise was just as awful in here as it was outside; the rotors were somewhat relentless and unforgiving, so the blonde man turned to his co-pilot and weapons operator, and hissed through the microphone on his headset after taking another drag. "Get ready, Jimbo." Came the deep, tenacious growl. "Shit's about to well and truly hit the fan."

"You're tellin' me, Dominic." The operator grinned in kind and the pilot killed the speed somewhat as they took an approach over Rome; it was a precarious affair, trying to be somewhat subtle about it, but that essence, that already-cracked veil of the peace would be completely shattered in a matter of moments. The GPS transponder was reading their coordinates loud and clear; and as its altitude lowered and its speed dropped tremendously, Dominic and Jimbo pulled the Lynx over the inner walls and into the Vatican proper, following the last set of coordinates to the location of the transponder signal.

Flicking onto a local Templar-recognised radio frequency, Dominic began a calm, grinning announcement into the nearby microphone. "All friendly forces, be advised, Big Bird is inbound, and we are coming in hot, repeat, coming in hot." Click. That Texas drawl never got old. Then another for good measure. "Evac is here, gentlemen. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the fireworks." With that, the chopper pulled down and over the last set of buildings and into the fabled St. Peter's Square proper, looking upon the troop of Ritualists, with their now somewhat meagre-seeming three trucks in the presence of an aerial behemoth. "Jimbo, we're cleared to engage."

A grin slipped onto the gunner's face. His gloved thumb eased up the cover to the trigger button as he grasped the stick controlling a pair of twenty-millimetre rotary-barrel GAU-8 Equaliser cannons at the base of the Lynx. "Roger that." And then, one final vindictive smile as he began to spool the slowly-heating barrels with a gentle thumb press... "Firing." A great cacophony of rapid-firing gatling rounds tore through the comparatively quiet ambience of the invaded and ruined Vatican. A single run across chewed, with ease, through the metal and flesh below indiscriminately. Those that ran were cut down in an instant, as were those that took cover. There was nowhere to hide from the Templars. Not now. They'd poked the lion in the cage; and now, finally, after all this time, it was retaliating.

The guns fell quiet to a spooling once more and there was only a collage of strewn flesh and torn metal below. Dominic whistled. "Couple more down by the technical, Jimbo." The gunner inclined his head and realigned the cannons, taking another split-second to pepper the area with the GAU-8s, before the pair nodded at each other with a set of triumphant smiles. The pilot chuckled back onto the local frequency once more. "Templars, this is Big Bird once more, LZ is clear, repeat, landing zone is no longer hot. Setting down now." Then, one final, reinforcing remark. "It's over."

It wasn't long before the rotors were killed and the Lynx settled down upon the once-exquisite ground of the Vatican with a dull thunk, and Dominic killed the engine, leapt from his seat, and moved back to open the rear passenger doors and poke his head out. "We've got specific orders to load up Silver Hawk and Paladin Alpha. Other than that, we'll fit as many as we can on, but they're priority cargo for the moment." The dark-skinned, UMP-clutching marksman was the first to arrive; someone Dominic had no real recognition of, stoic and almost completely devoid of emotion. Jesus, who shoved the stick up his ass? "There'll be a few more choppers comin' down soon."

Glumly he turned back to the crowd of people - Amadeus and Tatyana included - from the chewed-apart front of the Basilica, the Sistine Chapel still crumbling to its side. "No need." He conceded with a sigh. "We're all that's left." And with that, the pilot arched his eyebrow - and the pair silently ferried all the troops they could fit onto the Lynx, before pulling the doors shut, and departing for a harrowing debrief in the London base. They were all that was left: but through some stroke of blind luck... they had survived.

[END #3 - VIGILANT IN THE VATICAN]

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