[ Later, Ashe will have gone over the moment when the bullets started flying dozens, hundreds of times in his head. Ways he could have been faster. Ways he could have been better prepared.
Assuming he makes it to later. As it is, there's a single table between him and the enemy, and his cover is looking more and more like Swiss cheese by the second. Dimitri is next to him, and the sound of his barked orders over the din of the gunfire draw Ashe's gaze.
Oh. Oh hell. There's a stripe of bright red painted down Dimitri's face, sliding out from beneath the palm pressed to his face. There's enough rage in the one bright blue eye Ashe can see to easily make up for the absence of the other. It's a startling sight, but to take even a second to gawk could mean death for the both of them, and if nothing else, Dimitri needs to make it out of here alive.
All he does is nod, not bothering to shout over the report of automatic gunfire. His pistol is in his hands already, has been since the moment everything went to hell. There's a small dip in the noise, a split second of quiet that cuts through the din as their assailants dip back behind cover to regroup or reload. It doesn't matter which.
Ashe takes the chance and pokes his head around the ragged edge of the table, and the instant a masked visage peeks over the side of another overturned piece of furniture, Ashe fires. The man's(?) head snaps back, rifle clattering to the floor from limp fingers.
That starts it all over again, the spray of bullets against their waning cover. At least one shot gets too close for comfort, carving an angry red line across one of Ashe's freckled cheeks, and he's forced to shift his position, slinking past Dimitri to pick off a couple more from the opposite end of the table. A stream of bullets slam into the ceiling as one gunman dies, finger still on the trigger. Waste of ammo, Ashe thinks grimly.
It goes very quiet after that. Either the enemy was not very many at all, or he's thinned their numbers enough to have them second guessing themselves. Green eyes flick back toward Dimitri, questioning. ]
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Assuming he makes it to later. As it is, there's a single table between him and the enemy, and his cover is looking more and more like Swiss cheese by the second. Dimitri is next to him, and the sound of his barked orders over the din of the gunfire draw Ashe's gaze.
Oh. Oh hell. There's a stripe of bright red painted down Dimitri's face, sliding out from beneath the palm pressed to his face. There's enough rage in the one bright blue eye Ashe can see to easily make up for the absence of the other. It's a startling sight, but to take even a second to gawk could mean death for the both of them, and if nothing else, Dimitri needs to make it out of here alive.
All he does is nod, not bothering to shout over the report of automatic gunfire. His pistol is in his hands already, has been since the moment everything went to hell. There's a small dip in the noise, a split second of quiet that cuts through the din as their assailants dip back behind cover to regroup or reload. It doesn't matter which.
Ashe takes the chance and pokes his head around the ragged edge of the table, and the instant a masked visage peeks over the side of another overturned piece of furniture, Ashe fires. The man's(?) head snaps back, rifle clattering to the floor from limp fingers.
That starts it all over again, the spray of bullets against their waning cover. At least one shot gets too close for comfort, carving an angry red line across one of Ashe's freckled cheeks, and he's forced to shift his position, slinking past Dimitri to pick off a couple more from the opposite end of the table. A stream of bullets slam into the ceiling as one gunman dies, finger still on the trigger. Waste of ammo, Ashe thinks grimly.
It goes very quiet after that. Either the enemy was not very many at all, or he's thinned their numbers enough to have them second guessing themselves. Green eyes flick back toward Dimitri, questioning. ]