[ Blasterfire sounds overhead and Boba has to grit his teeth not to react. He's not used to working with others—blasterfire not coming from his own weapons is usually a threat, not cover. Still, as he glimpses the bodies of the other infected fall to the ground further out, he can't say he regrets the help.
The remaining infected have by now realized that they're fighting on two fronts and roughly half the group turns on their new prey while the remainder continues their assault on the survivors. Galvanized by the charge of the two clones in front, some of the other recruits leap from the transport as well, adding to the fray. Boba focuses on following through with the momentum of his own attack, meeting the charge of an infected woman with a low swing that smashes into her midsection. She staggers backward, coughing violently, puffs of yellow spores erupting from her mouth with every wheeze.
Boba should keep up the offensive, but for the briefest moment, the sight of the contagious clouds make him falters, stepping back from the woman—only for another infected to slam into him from the side. They both go down and in an instant, Boba's vision is filled with the man's howling face, yellow fingers clawing at his mask while the other hand fends off defensive blows from Boba's stun-stick. Somewhere beneath the layers of practiced detachment, Boba feels a dulled stab of panic. Fear is energy, his father had always said and Boba uses it now. Heedless of his lack of a true helmet, he lets his head fall back against the soil beneath him—and then slams it upward, headbutting the infected man square in his face. He feels the crunch of bone—he always had been taught to aim for the bridge of the nose—and then a sudden release of pressure as the infected reels back, clutching his face. It's enough space for Boba to finally land a blow from his stun-stick and the man falls, one hand still clamped over his face as he convulses.
Boba picks himself off the ground, wiping the infected's blood from his eyes. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he tries to remember whether blood was an infectious agent or just the fungus. It was just the fungus—wasn't it?
There's no time to think on it further. The tide is beginning to turn against the infected, but the battle is still raging and the enemy still dangerous. Boba blinks rapidly, vision still blurred, now on the defensive. He'll have to hope his cover—from the clone and the other recruits—will hold for the moment. ]
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The remaining infected have by now realized that they're fighting on two fronts and roughly half the group turns on their new prey while the remainder continues their assault on the survivors. Galvanized by the charge of the two clones in front, some of the other recruits leap from the transport as well, adding to the fray. Boba focuses on following through with the momentum of his own attack, meeting the charge of an infected woman with a low swing that smashes into her midsection. She staggers backward, coughing violently, puffs of yellow spores erupting from her mouth with every wheeze.
Boba should keep up the offensive, but for the briefest moment, the sight of the contagious clouds make him falters, stepping back from the woman—only for another infected to slam into him from the side. They both go down and in an instant, Boba's vision is filled with the man's howling face, yellow fingers clawing at his mask while the other hand fends off defensive blows from Boba's stun-stick. Somewhere beneath the layers of practiced detachment, Boba feels a dulled stab of panic. Fear is energy, his father had always said and Boba uses it now. Heedless of his lack of a true helmet, he lets his head fall back against the soil beneath him—and then slams it upward, headbutting the infected man square in his face. He feels the crunch of bone—he always had been taught to aim for the bridge of the nose—and then a sudden release of pressure as the infected reels back, clutching his face. It's enough space for Boba to finally land a blow from his stun-stick and the man falls, one hand still clamped over his face as he convulses.
Boba picks himself off the ground, wiping the infected's blood from his eyes. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he tries to remember whether blood was an infectious agent or just the fungus. It was just the fungus—wasn't it?
There's no time to think on it further. The tide is beginning to turn against the infected, but the battle is still raging and the enemy still dangerous. Boba blinks rapidly, vision still blurred, now on the defensive. He'll have to hope his cover—from the clone and the other recruits—will hold for the moment. ]