Graphite was a medic. He was a doctor. A scientist, even.
He still wasn’t convinced that adrenaline wasn’t some mystical fluid that had the capability of replacing blood.
However, he wasn’t checked out enough for the orders not to register. Words formed in his throat, grating out with a choked harshness - it felt like there was at least a centimeter of soot caking the insides of his throat still - “Sir, yes sir!”
Cursedly, he hesitated, unsure of whether to turn his back on the hostiles, but after a split second’s indecision, he began to beat a hasty retreat, doing his best to use cover to his advantage…
Graphite felt the chest-crushing soundwave of the rocket firing, before he saw the rocket itself.
It was a wreckage, but it was a hanger. The rocket was horrifyingly close to Graphite when it passed him. While he may never have been in danger, he dove to the side anyways, as the rocket passed overhead and to the left a handful of meters.
He picked himself up quickly, eyes wide behind his visor. He didn’t know what to think or feel. The action was so outrageous as to be beyond outrage. Even as his thoughts were drowned out by the damaged vulture’s laser fire, an utter disdain for the rocketeer suffused his subconscious.
But that was the subconscious.
Instead of exposing himself while so close to laser fire, he again did his best to reposition in the hangar, and then glanced around to assess the proximity of both the incoming party and the vultures.