There is, theoretically, a level of unit cohesion that would allow a squad to function perfectly in sync despite the presence of a colossal insult to both biology and common decency. You have not reached that level.
The room absolutely erupts before Ludwig has even had a chance to finish screaming. The cannon's boom drowns out the whirr of the Gatling gun and the hiss of arrows. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, you yank out a salvo of explosive bayonets and take aim at the pulsating mound of stink eye.
Simon wasn't kidding; this thing can cover an enormous amount of distance in an instant. The cannonball, aimed at its chest, lands a grazing blow before slamming into the wall and Djura's shots thud uselessly into its massive rear rather than into its head. Just two of your bayonets connect with their target, the rest foiled by surprisingly-fluid upper-body movement.
The four of you leap in separate directions as a massive overhand right, unhindered by the oncoming fire pouring in, sweeps across the blood-soaked floor, clipping Steffon. At this range, you can make out the festering lumps of flesh surrounding Simon's old shafts, presumably from their earlier encounters.
Steffon's fall is thankfully cushioned by the nearby piles of bodies and he scrambles madly back to his feet as Ludwig rounds on him. Djura, meanwhile, makes a beeline for the rear of the room, ammo belt flopping wildly and occasionally conking him in the jaw. Simon's still plugging away from a nearby corner.
It's definitely gunning for Steffon, though, and you know he's got no chance in close quarters. Luckily, if there's one thing Alexander Anderson does well, it's draw attention.
"Whosoever sheds man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed, ye Seabiscuit-lookin' fuck!"
This does not manage to draw its ire. The laser you rake across its assorted appendages, however, does. It buckles and turns on you with a screech, thumping Steffon with a deformed hoof in the process. The explosion bit deep; you can see muscle and sinew, and even slightly-blackened bone at points.
You anticipate a slower charge; Hell, you'd settle for a stumble or two. Instead, it bears down on you in an instant. Though the tangle of limbs makes diagnosis difficult, you're fairly certain it's using its extraneous appendages to compensate and doing so brilliantly. You have a brief moment of appreciation before it clobbers the shit out of you in an impressive fist-based recreation of your earlier adventure with the boulder.
There's just so fucking much of him, you think, once the customary thoughts of JESUS FUCKING OW FUCK RIP YER NUTS OFF AND SHOVE ONE DOWN EACH O' YER FACE-HOLES subside and you crash into the far wall. He's so fast and has so much shit dangling off of him that the odds of hitting something important are slim and none. That's not even mentioning the defensive instincts and aptitude for improvisation that somehow survived the embiggening.
Oh, hey; from this angle, you can see its sheathed blade, resting atop the blood-soaked cowl on the thing's back. That must mean you're pretty high up. Good thing most of your bones are already broken, or you falling out of your impact crater might be a problem.
As it turns out, you think to yourself in a twisted heap on the ground, your logic was somewhat flawed. You try to ignore the sounds of your everything de-bungling itself and shake off the lingering cobwebs to assess the situation. Djura's reached the corner and gotten enough space to rev the Gatling gun back to speed, while Simon's started picking his shots. Steffon's to your right, as best as you can tell with your neck at an inconvenient angle, and has managed to reload the cannon while Ludwig deals with the Gatling fire.
You might be able to whittle that thing down before you all run out of ammunition. Might.
[] Write in...
