Evan depressed the accelerator of his technical gently, edging the rusted hulk away from the AAF check point. He released a deep sigh of relief, thankful to whatever Angels were left to watch over him. The AAF soldiers seemed not to care that he was a male, bruised and cut, and driving a suspicious looking Toyota with a hasty white paint job. They'd searched it, sure, but their efforts were half hearted. After the attack at Abdera, he had at least expected them to have detained him, ran a background check on his fantasy life, taken most of his innocent luggage and then given him a slight beating. Maybe they were just sick of opening a car bonnet to find a nail bomb waiting for them, or maybe they just did not care. Either way, they'd sent him on his way without incident. 

It had been two hours since he destroyed the AAF 7th Reserve Company as it made its way from the airfield north of Abdera, and the enemy's activity was notably non-existent. Normally after such a brazen attack on Government forces, the FIA could expect to be forced into hiding for weeks, whilst special forces and gunships scoured the North West mountain regions of Altis for traces of them. Whatever was going down in the south east must have been big, Evan figured, if the AAF were unwilling to respond with their usual tenacity. 

Leaving Galati, and being clear of any AAF patrols or check points, Evan floored it. The technical's ancient engine roared to life, and the bald tyres squealed against the tarmac as they struggled to get traction - but eventually they caught up with the speed of the cylinders, and he was away at a fair 50mph. The air smelt clean, molested only by the faint whiff of Imperial Leather that the freedom fighter had used to cleanse himself of battle half an hour ago before he attempted his trip across the country. It was a crafty move, and brave, to take the roads as he was. Orders were orders however, and his cell had been dispatched to Chalkeia. Why? He hadn't been told, but he figured it was part of a larger FIA mobilisation. Even now, seven other members of his cell were making their way there, using various methods of transport. Public buses, if they were running, cars, motorbikes - whatever was available. They had to travel alone though; a group of grizzled men in a disguised technical would rouse the suspicions of even the most unenthusiastic AAF checkpoint guard. Fake identification would only take one so far, after all. 

Slamming a badly mistreated Led Zeppelin CD into the player, Evan cranked up the volume and started singing to his heart's content. It was going to be a bit of a drive, wrought with peril, but he'd made the trip a thousand times before. His tattered civilian suit, a briefcase full of nonsense documents to say he worked as a doctor down in Kalachori and some tactically placed sunglasses were all he needed to get past the worst of it. As long as no one at the check point saw it fit to open up the technical's fuel tank and find the hidden compartment where he kept his gear, things would be fine, just fine.