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Smoke spreads, fire crawls along the burning husk, and the Woodsies busy themselves with recovery and medical care, tending to the broken and the burnt. A rough crash, warheads and collisions. The fire. The smoke. These things leave scars in tissue and in soul. Looks like we lost a few in the warhead detonation, in the fire, in the rage. Might still lose a few more.
The carriage is cramped. When we had two, it was easier to find footing and space to move, but a tribe of Woodsie Ones, a gaggle of Kronin Specimen, psionicists, robots and bio-mutants, it's half a jungle down here, a village in motion on the rails, and space is at an inordinate premium. It's hard to find the elbow space to even perform triage care, as the cramped confines and the jostling and rustling cause minor collisions and acidents.
And then, at the other end of the line, Hibiscus, keeping a rear-guard look out, sees it. The incoming headlights of another wagon on this railsea.
>[2/2]
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But we've ... lived? Mostly. Coughing, straining, stretching, burnt and hurt and bruised, and the only way to ever suffer all those blows is if somehow, surprisingly, we remain alive. Imagine that.
>4 Woodsies lost to the fire and warhead
>1 Petri lost to the fire and warhead
>Subject Nadir KIA (?)
>1 Woodsie lost to heroic self-sacrifice due to frag grenade
>All *surviving* Subjects gain +5 CP and 1 Volatility Point
>Anyone who spent the last *two* turns fighting the fires and rescuing their allies can add +2 CP, as a free action, on their turn.
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The trailing carriage rolls in slow. Its lights sweep across our shelter. Up the other end of the tunnel, the fire roars. It sounds vague like . . . laughter. With a shout, Fox tries to muscle her way out the rubble but by now the fire has all but destroyed the structural integrity of the whole pile and with a soft woosh that sounds like punch-line to the a mean joke, the whole thing collapses on top of her !
>CLAUSTROPHIA PHASE