It's on.

"Fawkes, Josepha, suppressing fire! Hector, Kate, with me!"

It's hectic - he can't make out exact numbers, all he knows is the bad guys outnumber the good guys right now. He moves from cover to cover as he works his way around to the flank, shoulders squared with his targets as he lines them up and knocks them down. Except he's a little too slow ducking down into cover one time, and a round grazes his cheek, eliciting a grunt from him as he drops to the deck, glove clamped over the cut.

"Fuckin' shit- asshole!"