"Don't worry sis, I know mama's mad that I had to leave, but people need me," said Evan into the mouth piece of his beaten Nokia 361. He paused momentarily to gleam a wide grin at the AAF soldier. "Well, you tell her she's just going to have to put it in the oven; don't worry, I wont be long." He hung up, chucking the mobile phone lazily onto the vacant passenger seat. "Mothers, eh?" He said to the soldier, following it with another overcompensating grin. 

"I bet she's real nice," the soldier said. He was an ugly man, short and stocky with a stupid handlebar moustache. His fatigues were jumbled, and the large mass portruding over his belt told Evan that this guy was another reservist. "She'd have to be, to have a good looking son of a bitch like you." 

Evan laughed, masking his deep seated pain with a genuine happiness. "Yes," he chuckled, "she sure was a lovely lady."

"Was?"

[i]SHIT.[/i]

Two rounds rocked the technical as Evan discharged his sig saur point blank against the inside of the driver door. The soldier took both rounds to the stomach, and stumbled backwards clutching hopelessly at the bucket of blood pouring from him. His face was a thing of horror and shock, and the freedom fighter enjoyed every bit of it. The soldier's partner, a better turned out fellow, emerged from the guard shack. He took one look at his fallen comrade, eyes wide, and then thumbed to relieve his M16A2 from his shoulder. Evan casually pointed the sig saur above the door, took aim, and fired. The guy's head exploded in the top right, and he spun to the ground with a trail of gore chasing after him. 

He slammed the gears into reverse, and spun the technical in a tight 180 degrees turn. Dust flew up from the bald tyres as they struggled to grip, and then he was away in the direction he had come. No one followed; there was no one else present at the check point except the two men he'd killed, which was fortunate. Most of them had a great deal of troops, either stationed at them or nearby. However, with the action over in Stratis, it seemed the AAF had done away with caution in a bid to get as many troops in the battle as it could. 

Seagul had said [i]Faros[/i]. This meant Evan had driven in the wrong direction and braved death several times for nothing; typical command fuck up. With the check point guards dead, it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed and raised the alarm. Coming back the way he came was not an option. A sign read 'Ifestonia', and so Evan banked hard right, taking the smaller country road by storm. Ifestonia was a small market town of no significance, he doubted the check point there would be manned, and if it was, well, he guessed he'd shoot his way through. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that; his nine lives expired months ago. 

Speeding down the road, he spotted two Humvees coming the opposite way. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror; saw the specks of blood dotting his face. No doubt the outside door of the technical bore an even greater testament to his actions. As the lead Humvee waved him down, he pulled to the side, clutching his pistol and expecting death to fall upon him shortly. 

Clambering from the Humvee were three AAF professionals. Flak jackets, tactical formation with assault rifles held high. This was about right, Evan figured, he had lived things far too dangerously. 

"Out of the car!" Screamed one of the soldiers, thrusting his assault rifle at Evan. 

"The check point, the Americans are at the check point you fools!" replied Evan, hoping beyond hope that his bluff would work. 

The soldier halted, "they are?" 

"Fucking you bet they are, a whole god damned platoon of them. I'm getting the fuck out of here, I suggest you guys do the same!" 

They didn't seem to hear him, and already were remounting the Humvee. They accelerated, wheel spinning their way towards an absent enemy. Evan didn't think twice about hesitating, and sped off, pressing the technical to its extremes in his haste. Once they figured he had lied, they'd be back down the road with a whole God damned convoy with assault choppers to match. He didn't want to be around for that, he needed a new ride. As Ifestonia came up in the distance, he made the abrupt decision of bailing from his technical. Reaching underneath the rusted chassis, he fumbled for a clip-release on the fuel tank - found it - and snapped it open. His F2000 fell to the floor, along with three mags, a grenade, his binoculars and a satchel of clothes. He wasn't carrying all of it, but the F2000 was priority. As he clambered back to his feet, a beat up Ford Mondeo was heading towards him from the town. He cocked his weapon, fired in the air three times, and directed the occupants - a young couple - to get the fuck out. They had a screaming baby in the back, and he made sure they got it out of there along with its duffel bag of hygiene supplies.

"Sorry, brother and sister, but Altis needs this car more than you," he apologised as he lowered himself into the driver's seat.

"Fuck you, you FIA scum, you've wrecked this country, you fucking cow boy," came the man's angry retort. "Take the car, I hope it ends up being your fucking casket."

"Obliged friend," laughed Evan, turning the car around and speeding off at a grand 100MPH. This was more like it.