#--gregg--

Slicing and punching his way through a horde of cannon fodder, he does his best to stay in front of city guards and protect them, though they were much better off in terms of gear than he was. Doesn't matter, it's in his mind to protect the ones who are fighting with him. His sword skills are that of a rookie, but having been thrown into the chaos, he was improving rapidly. He was no samurai, no Viking warrior. No Sephiroth, no Travis Touchdown. What was he, you ask? A very, very angry young man with a very, very large, very very sharp sword. Cleaving the head off one large Cyclops monster, and running a wolf creature through to the hilt, he lets out a beastly roar, along with a blast of fire, hotter than a dozen blacksmith's forges. This power boost had boosted his fire breathing ability, letting him set fire to a sea of enemies in front of him.

It was a battlefield for sure. Venom Snake, however, was never more at home than he was in combat. Dirt, blood, and sweat were the smells that often caked him when he came back from a sortie. This time, however, he had no sortie to return from.

Zipping through the battlefield as his Battle Gear engaged larger threats, he used his Parasite Suit to the fullest, the reinforced armor enhancing his durability, the mist confusing his targets for an easy strike, and the cloaking allowed precise sneak attacks. Sometimes, however, direct engagement was necessary. He braces himself, before launching his signature Rocket Fist and steering it expertly through the field, right over the head of one fox man and socking a larger opponent right in the face with superhuman force. It ricocheted off and rolled on the ground as Snake slid under a projectile attack and recovered it, sticking it back on his arm.

"I got your back."

He’s just about done dragging this one pair of rioters away when a brick hits the back of his helmet, and he whips around and clangs his fists together.

“Alright you son of a bitch, you’re taking a fist-nap.”

He starts marching towards the offender, before catching a glimpse of an energetic figure doing a familiar arm wave. Is that...oh no. He goes running over, turning his back to shield the other from a shower of debris, before lightning starts to build up in his right hand and he turns around and unleashes it, catching a couple choice rioters in the arc and knocking them out. The visor on his helmet opens.

“Gregg, it’s me, Steve, we don’t have time, lets get the hell out of here!” His gauntleted hand still smoking, he gestures for the other to run in the other direction.

“Listen here you wannabe tough guy!”