For an inexperienced person washing clothing on a stone tablet one might smash a finger upon the ridges of the tablet. More rustic folks might insist on going hard and fast no matter what as anything else is too weak. While one could wash clothes at a sufficiently slow pace that the grime still comes off, it is still time consuming.

  Once the clothes and pair of gloves were done, Becker hung them in the empty room next to the one he was occupying, both facing the east side of the city. The window's shutters were left open, as the wind began to pick up through the remainder of the day.

  On the inside of the washed coat there was a red bel sewn just below where the neck would be with white script on it - Col. Becker.

  He did not wanted anything to identify him on his clothing, but as, it was a gift, and a rather resilient one.

  His boots were tight and high enough to wade trough some a heavy rainstorm, but they needed to be thoroughly cleaned. The only thing avaible to wash were locally made soap and whatever passed as vinegar, which thankfully there were still enough in the merchant-house. He left them to dry in the same room as the clothes after he was satisfied, along with his emptied body armor and bags.

  Heat would have been a preferable method to dry them all but that would have to wait until the morning.

  Warm water never felt so good in such a long time, where he could just fall asleep in the tub. Just as the undry soap bar ripped off the filth on his clothing so it did to his rough skin, even softening it when he scrapped off the grease and grime. Even his hair felt slightly scorched after washing it in the soapy water.

  While he had a second pair of clothing, Becker opted to just be shirtless. One would not be in error to guess he was nowhere young, as even his clean skin had a soft orange hue and leathery texture. His muscles and posture still hold firm, but he was not going to be featured in any modeling catalogue, especially with the old scars, soft patches of bruises, poorly looking rub-offs, and dried red pokes covering his skin. If it gave some people a tingling sensation in the back of the brain and a need to scratch goosebumps, Becker did not care.

  In the room he was sleeping in, first one up the stairs, his gear and material was neatly id out on the bed.

  With the yellow sun with red rays beginning to set, Becker worked on weapons maintenance under candlelight by the simple table next to the bed.

  First was his Fairbairn-Sykes Commando Knife, completely tinted bck from the small pummel to the tip. When Becker finished sharpening it, he mented working it so much that the bde gleamed under the fme, but it had been some time since the knife was polished sharp. He flicked it and moved it about with his hand as if wanting to cut up butterflies in flight. At least the bde would slide into flesh like it were cheese once again.

  Leaving it on the bed, he took apart his Webley Mk VI Revolver, also painted bck, in order to clean it and inspect the parts. Despite its age, nothing yet seemed worn or rusted. After oiling it and assembling the parts back, he brought it close to his ear to listen to the wheel spin slowly. Satisfied, he pointed towards the door and cocked the hammer.

  *PING*~

  Becker had it sent to the shop so that the decibels were louder when fired...or so that was the idea. He had not been present to witness the work, but so long as the revolver's noise pyed merry-hell in the eardrums of those around him he trusted the gunsmith's craftsmanship. He loaded in six .455 Webley bullets in the wheel and switched the safety on.

  Putting the revolver on the bed, he continued with his main weapon - a modified H&K MP5SD. What made it unique were not just the detachable accessories it featured, principally the slide to side magnifier, rather that it was bulkier than it should be as standard, even on its butt. Despite this, he did not felt it needlessly cumbersome.

  Like his coat, it too was a gift, but it seemed to him like a downgrade from what he was accustomed. That it performed its bloody work well was what mattered in the end.

  The torch light, ser pointer, and magnifier were in working condition. The butt showed no sign of springing off of the body. The attached silencer was serviceable. Once oiled and reassembled, he fired empty in single shot, three-burst shot, and fully automatic, listening to the racket of the weapon as they fired on...

  *Rack-a-tack* *Tack-ta-ta-ta-ta*...

  Becker brought himself back to the present before he was overtaken with cholera.

  He clicked the safety on and loaded in a set of tapped magazines with 9x19mm Parabellum into it.

  The st thing to do was make inventory of the remainder of his contents. He still had a fairly stocked medical kit. There were also enough dosages of "vapori" crushed pnts, the stuff he smokes in his pipe. His ammunition was still adequate, though given the circumstances, Becker reasoned that he would have to do plenty to keep it so until stable employment could be found...

  *ahhh!* *aahhhh!*

  *BOOM* *RACK-TACK-TACK*

  Quickly grabbing his revolver, he flicked the safety on and headed towards the window, which had only two wooden bars crossed. Somewhere further east of the street a building burned ferociously. Some silhouettes attempted to put out the fire but it was a hopeless endeavor.

  In adjacent streets, muzzle fshes lit the dark streets, and even when they could not, their usage was noticeable by the sound of their clunky mechanisms.

  Closer towards the merchant-house, Becker noticed other ravagers going for each other. A mugging here, a scuffle there.

  The wails and cries were dispersed around the neighborhood, though he was certain that he could listen to them further west of the street.

  Looking a few buildings closer, Becker observed a most repugnant dispy.

  There were four silhouettes - two had one pinned on the ground and another one was clearly on top of it.

  The painful screams and indignant wailing were so inhuman Becker could not make out the sex of the victim, never mind be able to see clearly.

  The three men commanded their helpless prey to shut it and accept its degradation amidst curses and smacks on the head.

  Out of nowhere a fifth figure came out and whacked the lead rapists in the head, spttering liquid on the ground and bashing him off of the victim. He swung his club again and neutralized one of the other rapists, with the third throwing himself out of the way.

  Any notion of street justice one could perceive vanished when the club wielder reached for the ground and took what appeared to be a bag, scurrying off into the alleyway.

  The unharmed degenerate took a moment to recover before continuing with the merciless rape his now bleeding companion started with.

  And the screams began anew.

  The shadows in the visible street come and go, savaging each other as they pass by. If there is an authority left in the city, they are not present. Those trying to put out the fire are no longer seen.

  Through the door, Becker hears wheezing and grinding of gears.

  Confident that no one will be barging inside, he lights up the st dosage of vapori still looking out the window.

  *sigh*

  From the looks of it, this was a localized butchery. The rest of the city might have been on alert, but did nothing to stop what was going on in this area.

  Slowly, the violence died down as suddenly as the clouds blocked out the baleful moon.

  Finishing his inventory check, Becker immediately took his things to an empty chest nearby. While he felt a long while to finally fall asleep, when he did, his trail of thought abruptly end, his st musing trailing off in a slurred fade as if he was enduring a vicious blow.

  While he slept, Becker kept his sub-machine gun on top of his chest with the muzzle pointing down but away from his foot and his hands almost hugging the weapon.