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You heave a sigh. No getting around it. You're either climbing up those steps or getting ferried out, and damn it, you don't have an arm or a buster or a lance or your conduits but you still have your pride.
"Let's just do this," you grumble, making for the steps. As you stagger onto the first crate--ow damn shit FUCK--your support-Beret puts a hand to his ear.
"I've got comms, sir. 15th is requesting our status."
"Alive, is a start," you rasp. "Let them know not to open fire, job's done." He relays your message as you slowly start to haul yourself onto the second box. You look up at the next fifteen crates, stacked high like Satan's Tetris, with the sun starting to reach through the haze from outside.
Third stair. Okay, easy, you can do this.
"Officer Kiloton asks for a status update, sir."
"Severely injured, natch. Enigma cannon...probably fucking fried. Several casualties, enemy combatants likely KIA."
Next stair damn it ow. IT KEEPS HAPPENING.
Getting you fixed is a fun adventure. Your teleporter is completely slagged and half your insides are melted, so they have to send in a couple Lifesavers to do some fieldwork. Kiloton refrained from heartily clapping you on the back when he saw you, so there's that, at least. Once they've done some emergency triage, you're fitted with a teleporter (normally used to transport freight, someone cheerfully tells you) and finally sent back home. Your gear is collected and sent along after, along with that sole phase pistol. You can worry about that after you're done being mostly 'armless.
>Repairs. You're owed that much, at least.
>Medbay can wait. Debrief.