Probably the only thing that saved me was that the gang boss was looking the other way at that moment. And that gave me an opportunity not to be missed.

  A mental command to ECHO, and the machine gun in my hands changed back to a grenade launcher. Sight, trigger...

  The monkey roared. The bandit turned around unexpectedly rapidly, especially for such a big body; however, the rocket had already go off, and the distance between us was quite small...

  Don opened fire, trying to shoot down the grenade; its velocity is quite low, and its size is not so small, so it is quite realistic. And if he got it in time, the explosion would cover the shooter - me.

  Fortunately, he missed.

  Unfortunately, so did I.

  The grenade launcher I had was not very accurate; the deviation of the grenade from the aiming axis, according to the ECHO evaluation, was a good 20 degrees, and it was unpredictable, so there was no way to correct it, and I had to rely on luck.

  And I had only two rockets, the ammunition of the grenade launcher itself, there were no additional ones in the arsenal.

  Of course, I didn't stand still, especially knowing that. Dash behind the remnants of the walls that provide some cover. Changing guns.

  Grenade!

  As soon as I noticed the dark object flying over the wall, I changed my direction of movement - reflex again, ahead of thought.

  I was still on a roll when a monkey - bullywang - jumped over the wall. Smirking at me, it picked up a bun and stuffed it into its mouth, which was visually somewhere in the middle of its body, and then tossed an actual grenade in my direction.

  Fuck.

  I got lucky again. First of all, while the grenade was definitely more powerful than the ones the bandits used, it wasn't very powerful, and it wasn't fragmentation either (maybe so they wouldn't kill themselves in the corridors?). And secondly, the explosion was still powerful enough to throw me aside - from a double line of corrosive bullets scouring the air nearby.

  I fired a short burst from my own assault rifle, but the movement and the powerful recoil caused only one bullet to slip more by accident than by chance, just missing her shield. Uh-huh, she had a shield, and it seemed to be more powerful than mine. If mine was fully charged and stable.

  For the next few seconds, I had no opportunity to counterattack. All I could do was maneuver to avoid being hit; fortunately, the ruins of the buildings provided ample cover. Explosions and corrosive bullets kept destroying them, but the bullywang was primarily a problem: the small, agile creature leapt over the walls without noticeable effort, and its grenades seemed to be endless. The explosions didn't really hurt me, and what did hurt me was absorbed by the armor, but it didn't allow my shield to regenerate. And I was afraid that time wasn't playing out for me: if I didn't run out of cover, either a couple of enemies would catch me - one mobility-limiting wound might be enough - or they'd get reinforcements, and that would be the end of me. I obviously didn't have a few seconds to set up the turret, either.

  A shot came from somewhere above, and it wasn't the hissing pop of Don's machine gun. The bullywang that had jumped onto the next wall was thrown aside; its shield sagged, and then disappeared completely, along with part of the red bar representing its physical state - "health".

  The animal roared in pain. Where the shot had come from could only be judged by the direction of the recline; and it seemed to have been fired from the roof of the former Dahl outpost.

  I had just had time to think of this, when

  - Mary Jane!

  The nearest wall shattered as Don slammed into it like a truck out of control, nearly sending me into the next world... again. Luckily, he didn't even seem to notice me.

  Boom! The third shot finally brought up the right association from the depths of my character's memory archives. A sniper rifle, from Jacobs - only they're so loud.

  Don covered the bullywang with his body - or rather, his shields. The blue streak shrank by a power of a quarter.

  - SLIPPERY ON THE ROOF! GET HIM, BOYS! - roared the bandit, firing two lines toward Jim's presumed location. I, however, did not look closely; Don had emptied the magazines of his guns, and now, while he was reloading and covering the bullywang, he was a perfect stationary target.

  Fire a clip from my own machine gun at him. Immediately roll over, changing weapons, and empty a clip from the shotgun. Repeat with the SG... Don's shield went down, but he returned fire.

  I was hit; the corrosive bullet quickly penetrated the armor on my leg and began to eat away at my flesh, but I felt almost no pain. Don certainly didn't either.

  ...When the next bullet from the sniper rifle pierced his arm, however, he still couldn't hold the machine gun. Wrenched by the recoil, the gun flew out of the bandit's grip and fell to the ground.

  Given my previous experience with local bandits, it would be difficult to penetrate this mountain of meat with small-caliber submachine gun bullets, but Jim's shot gave me an idea.

  My accuracy, especially in these conditions, left a lot to be desired, but the rapidity of my weapon and the fact that Don still had his pet's back played in my favor.

  ...Shit. Don's thick, long-sleeved overcoat seemed to be providing him with a good amount of protection. A high-powered sniper rifle pierce through it, but my pea-shooter....

  And yet it all worked out as planned. Well, almost.

  The bullets knocked sparks out of Don's gun, and the weapon jammed.

  The next moment I was thrown back by a powerful blow as something slammed into my chest... a machine gun. Don threw the ruined machine gun at me.

  The impact was quite sensitive; something crunched in my chest. And, of course, Don was not unarmed; a new assault rifle was formed in his hand from blue lines and rectangles.

  I, too, however, had time to change weapons. To a pistol, a Jacobs weapon that had come from the Dahl's arsenal. The smooth black metal of the two barrels, the polished wood of the curved grip, and a drum for four shots. Two shots by two bullets at a time, mediocre accuracy, and a very awkward and long in-fight reload.

  And a powerful recoil, as I immediately found out - stronger than the Dahl shotgun had.

  Still, I held the weapon, and immediately fired a second shot.

  I guess I'm lucky today, after all. I aimed for the arm to disarm the enemy, but when the barrel twitched, the bullets from my thunderstick went higher and to the left. Right in the neck.

  Don's neck was covered by the armored coat, too, but the caliber of the pistol was larger than the SG, and Jacobs wasn't a Dahl, the killing power was much higher. The bandit wheezed and fell, clutching at his neck.

  The bullywang screamed, and forgetting both her own wound and the grenades, rushed at me. I didn't have time to reload, but the shovel was still at hand. A blow, and the beast's leap was thwarted; another, and the sharpened blade sank into flesh. A final sob, and Mary Jane froze; her status bar drops to zero.

  Perhaps I might even have felt sorry for the pair if it weren't for the set of human skulls on Don's belt (and a couple at bullywang's), each with "Death to meat-eaters!" written on it.

  "Level up!"

  The pain in his ribs and leg disappeared. However, as much as I wanted to quickly invest the skill point I had earned, there was no time to do so: the boss was finished, but there were still the usual bandits.

  And as I looked up, I noticed several human figures appearing in the distance, on the roof. Jim had my back, now it was up to me to cover him....

  ...Or not. Rising to my feet and making sure that the leg damaged by the corrosive bullet was actually working properly, I ran towards the outpost, reloading my assault rifle as I went and taking in what was happening on the roof. The bandits surrounded a figure with a long-barreled rifle hiding at the very top of the domed roof; I took aim, as best I could at the distance and with a mediocre gun, but not in time.

  The bandits rushed forward, apparently trying to take the enemy alive - and then there was an explosion, the epicenter of which was the figure with the rifle.

  ...Nah. I instantly calmed down. Slippery is definitely not such the man, even the nickname implies. I don't know what exactly happened, but I don't believe in the heroic death of this rascal. I've only known him for a short time, but I've made an impression.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  In general, I'll assume that he's unharmed, and quietly continue to fulfill the task: to save Claptrap and take out everything of value.

  First of all, I found a shelter and opened the status of my character - where, to my surprise, I found not one, but two skill points. The level, accordingly, was also 7, not 6. At some point I took a level and didn't even notice it; probably when the turrets were shooting off bandits. Well, or they gave me two at once for the "sweet couple".

  Either way, I was once again in the throes of choice, compounded by the continued urgency. And the fact that there were two points made things worse rather than easier.

  ...Ah, fuck it. Basic military training and Field Medic. After all, you need to evolve harmoniously, and it's not always possible to set up a turret. I put in the points, and...

  - And what will you do if your comrade's leg is blown off, eh? - hummed the instructor. - Medical engineers.

  - No way... - my neighbor ahhed, lowering his gaze to the holster with duct tape.

  It would probably be most accurate to compare it to an explosion in my head. Almost instantly - or even actually instantly - the discomfort disappeared, but the year and a half of training that had suddenly appeared in my memory left a strong impression.

  - Harsh... - I muttered. - And useful.

  The ECHO also beeped, announcing an incoming e-mail.

  "Sender: Vlad's Supply Service."

  It made me nervous for a moment, but I immediately calmed down when I read the next line.

  "Subject: Field Medic graduate starter kit." It probably not because of the turret ammo, but because of the skill taken.

  "Vladoff's Supply Service apologizes for a minor technical issue that delayed your receipt of the starter kit you were entitled to upon completion of your Field Medicine course. We hope that this 1 year 2 months 3 days 4 hours wait did not cause you any serious problems. We strive for the fastest delivery!"

  - At least they would compensate somehow, heirs of the Russia's Post - I hummed. - Although if it's because of skill, it's not their fault....

  Actually, it was already a bonus. I expected that I would have to purchase resources to digitally build a first aid kit first, but everything I needed was attached to the letter.

  The Vladoff's field first aid kit was not what one might expect: it was a flexible metal bracelet. A case, a computer with a rudimentary AI specialized for diagnostics, and an equally simple and specialized module for digital constructing drugs. Plus an injector. Simple, reliable, and efficient - much more efficient than one might think. This thing, combined with the biology and physiology of the modern man, is able to raise even a dying man to his feet, in general. Pure corporate economy: it is cheaper to heal a soldier - a qualified soldier, not just cannon fodder - than to train a new one. Plus no equipment is lost.

  Other corporations have slightly different math, but Vladoff's economists calculated it this way. Mostly because we have historically cheaper medicine.

  In any case, this is an extremely useful acquisition, especially since I am now capable of something even without a first aid kit (and clearly realize the importance of hygiene on unexplored planets).

  The second skill is also very useful, though less straightforward. A year of "basic military training" has taught me to shoot more accurately, to take cover better, to avoid shots better... A lot of things.

  Lots of little things that can save my life and keep my enemy from saving his.

  Bonus - paint mixing and painting skills. For applying camouflage coloring.

  With all of this, and with my shield restored, I felt much more confident, and confidently headed away from the outpost. I left bandit leader's corpse still unlooted, after all.

  Unfortunately, I was disappointed - partially. Don's shield was damaged, as was the machine gun I'd shot; I used both for materials. From the left I got two assault rifles, bullywang's shield, and Don's ECHO, which I was sure had something useful in it.

  Unfortunately, the device was locked after the owner's death, and I had neither the skills nor the equipment to unlock it at the moment. Still, I took the device. It's small in size, and it might be possible to open it. At the very least, I could hardreset it, deleting all its contents, or sell it to someone as is.

  I never figured out where bullywang got the grenades from.

  Finished with the arsenal replenishment, I cast a glance in the direction of the most likely caved in by explosion underground passage and headed towards the outpost. After the turret massacre and the rooftop explosion, plus the death of their boss, it wasn't likely to be crowded. Rather, one should worry about the remaining ones scattering, taking everything of value. Better hurry up.

  ...Here we go.

  A car of familiar design flew out of the open gate; I didn't see the shooter this time, only the driver. I couldn't see him either - the car sped away.

  Hmm.

  In front of the entrance, behind the wall, were three more buggies. Probably all the guards were busy - or dead - so I took the opportunity. The turret could be operated from the driver's seat, but I took position a more comfortable for shooting.

  Just in time. Two bandits ran out of the building at once; one of them had a shotgun and an axe, the other one had an automatic rifle. And an axe.

  Both turned into mincemeat before they could do anything - maybe even spot me. My stance doesn't do well with defense, so the best defense is elimination before they jump.

  What happened next was surprisingly easy. Every now and then one or two bandits appeared, I shot, using the almost inexhaustible ammunition of the turret, repeat.

  Eventually a stream of exp... uh, why am I being so dismissive about them. Experience and trophies, I mean. Anyway, the bandits eventually ran out.

  Everything comes to an end. Even Pandoran bandits.

  In fact, it was quite possible that they were still inside the building. Either they'd realized something was wrong and decided to be cautious, or like that time I'd met Jim, they were drunk and had completely missed the whole mess going on nearby.

  Just in case, I set up my turret near the entrance to the building and cautiously made my way inside.

  It was inside that I appreciated the value of Basic Military Training. Where before I would have passed by without a second thought, I could now see possible ambush sites.

  And once there was one.

  The two dwarves with sawaxes would have stood a good chance if I didn't have that skill. One tried to chop my legs off, while the other jumped down from above, aiming for my head, but their combination failed. A couple shots, and Jacobs' gun proved its killing power again, piercing through heads.

  ...I'm becoming completely desensitized to killing. On the other hand, it's self-defense, and there's no other way to survive on Pandora. And there's some doubt about the reality of this world and its inhabitants, despite the Almighty Bastard's letter.

  - What's taking so long?! - Claptrap asked indignantly. I cracked him detachedly with my shovel, looking at the other two "inhabitants" of the room in which I had found the noisy robot. From the look of them - the barrels in their mouths - they'd killed themselves.

  I glanced over at Claptrap.

  - Oh! I mean, boss, I knew you wouldn't leave your treasure in the hands of dirty bandits!

  - Something like this, - I said. I looked at the bandits again, and decided I didn't want to know. - Let's get out of here and get out of here.

  - It's Loot time! - shouted the robot with joy. - This is what I was born to do! Well... Not exactly born, and not exactly for this, but STILL!

  Shouting happily, he immediately set about the task; the pistols disappeared from the corpses' hands, and then Claptrap pushed one of them to the floor from the crate he was sitting on and started pulling cartridge blocks out of it.

  - It's loot time - I nodded in agreement. And then... What was it Jim's ex said, Moxie, like?

  Yellowrock?

  That's where I'll head if I can't find Slippery.