Krestov kicks in the 'front' door. Torrent pops the rear. Krestov's heavy, heavy shoe connects with all the force and anger of a man woken at balls'thirty can muster, and combined with his body weight, turns the heavy oak portal blocker into nothing but splinters and bits and pieces which splatter the room. The doorway frame cracks visibly as the hinges are ripped from their resting place. Not a half a second later, Torrent makes his entry and in less than a second, the wide open space is completely under team control. There used to be offices in here, that much was certain, until the old dry wall fixtures were ripped out, and likely reused elsewhere to save money. Old computer terminals and wall fixtures still remained, like a wallphone so old it beloned in a meseum, and a timetable outdated about twenty years ago. There are old stacks of boxes that stand around, as if this building had been repurposed as storage and then forgotten about some years later. The cobwebs are thick and fierce with a place like this. If it weren't for the desperate call for backup, you'd have put good money on being the first people to enter in a long time.
Some of the old office equipment remained. A table here, a chair here. Torrent sees it first as clears to his left. The rigger, the source of the flatline. Back rested against the wall, a trail of blood from where the orc stood when he'd been hit to where he lay sitting now. A bloodied hand rested against the wound in his chest with a rag, clear sign that the man had bled out trying to keep his drones in the air at the same time as trying to keep himself breathing.
Krestov splits to the left around the main stack of boxes. Shell casings lay scattered, in a thick sort of line leading further into the boxes to his right. But six steps in was where they ended, the cause of which is clear. The team's first troll and machine gunner with his M202, still smoking and barrel glowing a soft red lay with two holes in his flak jacket... And a third execution style to the skull to put him down for good. A glance back where you came from reveals what might be why, a line of chunks missing from the wall, three or four were bloody, like confirmed hits on an attacker, by his facing.
Breaking to the right behind Krestov was Slobbertooth, his heels crunching over dust and long dead spiders the whole way down. A quick 90 degree turn to the left when the 'hallway' made of boxes and wooden crates. The rustling of metal lifting brought his attention quickly to the ground, a raised SPAS-22 shotgun aimed downrange (And right at him!) before the bleeding form of Wasteland was able to ID the target and lowered it a slight. "You're late," Came the out of breathe introduction before the shotgun clattered to the floor, clattering like it was completely empty. There's soft whiff of smoke rising from her vest, probably a commlink, smoking from the round that had penetrated it and gone into her shoulder.
bnc, in the wide open digital world that is the matrix, you find that helicopter nevermore. You *know* it's there, you can just feel it. But, it's gone, and you've no idea where it is. More heartening though, is you can locate four of the army of Wasteland's team drones, Idling, hovering Optic-Xs with cut down Protector SMGs strapped on. Waiting for master's orders that would no longer come. But aside from their drones and their equipment, you locate two more bodies, the remaining of Wasteland's team with further, deeper searching. The other machine gunner was killed at the northernmost corner, two tracks in, on the opposite side of the trainyard where you entered it from. His commlink his smashed, likely by enemy fire, his attached devices hanging threadless and pinging now and against for their host device no longer operating. There is nothing else in the trainyard. Beyond the carnage and the loss of life already evident, whoever did this had already cleared out. There's nothing left in the trainyard at all. Just you... and the corpses, and the barely alive Wasteland.
