Al was on the ground before the last bullet tore through the canvas. Achilles had as much discarded the man as thrown him. Unfortunately he moved himself a bit slower and had only just begun to turn when two rounds struck him in the back. He landed on his side and his back arched as his nerves shot white lightning to his brain and he grasped behind him in the air vainly, still temporarily in shock. Had it been a moment later, with his armored vest off, he might’ve had a severed spine and punctured lung. As it was, he was momentarily confused. The sounds of panic welling up from further inside the tent did little to bring the situation into focus. But adrenaline was already flowing and the world was already starting to make sense again: “Humanis bastards!”

Achilles rolled onto his stomach and pushed both hands on the ground hard. He planted his foot under him as the other one pushed off and suddenly he was tumbling through the cloth door as it gave way with a loud rip. He tugged and ripped it from his body and looked over to see Al already standing, starting to take action. He wasn’t too sure what the American was preparing to do, seeing as he was almost naked and apparently unarmed, but his focus was quickly redirected to the small metal canister that ripped through the outer wall and bounced around a bit before erupting in a dark purple cloud of noxious gas.