Atticus could smell motor oil. Propped up against the bumper of the ULTRA AP, he could see blood coming from his leg, but he was lucky. Sure, he couldn't walk, but from the year of med school he took, it didn't look like he'd lose it. Or at least lose much of it. But he needed to get out of here for that prediction to ring true. His only hope was climbing into the cabin of the armored truck, and hoping it'd still work. Pulling some of the cheap faux fur out of the trench coat belonging to one of the dead men in the back, he wrapped up his leg and flipped over. His face hit the ground, but the helmet absorbed the blow. Reaching for anything, anything at all to grasp, he moved slowly, sufferingly, toward the cabin. The driver's door was open, thank God. Trees around him fell from the artillery; probably on the American side, those cowards. A Quarrovth like him would go face-to-face, until you either died or retreated. Surrender was not an option for a Quarrovth. Good thing this kept his mind occupied, because now he was clutching the step into the cabin, and climbed in. There were dice on the rear view mirror, and N'wah Killer scribbled in makeshift italics on the dashboard. He flipped himself over, and threw his helmet into the passenger's seat. Yes, the key was in the ignition still. Atticus prayed and turned the key. It didn't start. Again. It didn't start. Again. It didn't start. One more time, and it turned over, expelling tons of exhaust into the atmosphere. It must have been the adrenaline, or the idea of getting back to base, but he somehow pulled back the gear stick and continued to drive. He hit holes made by artillery, but he didn't care about the thrashing. He could see pillars of smoke ahead. The war was over.
