It was supposed to be so easy...

  Climb the wall up to the cloister.Gloves only - neither pick nor grapple.Commit to the craft and distress the enemy.Terminate the leadership, hexers, the lot of the "jargha-watamba."

  Simples...

  Until the besieged revealed that they couldn't be arsed to keep it together for one more night - right in the middle of us calibrating.

  [Right when the others found out we were all on the same predicament...]

  Much good it did to those raising the white colors on the roof, given an impromptu HALO course as recompense, feet first. How generous of them to extend the courtesy to whatever family they had nearby...

  Still, just enough cover for Magic-Man, Eddy Maci, and myself to sneak in. I'm sure the other two managed well enough on their own.

  [And they're still cutting each other down, aren't they?]

  The Magpies found three paths, none of which lead to an expected route, much less to the tower. To the south, a heavy doorway only accessible on the other side. To the west, a flight down a somewhat custrophobic sub-level between two main ones. Around the corner, a flight going up before heading down two levels proper.

  [I feel my fingers, and I think blood is tendering under my thighs...]

  Rather difficult to remain inconspicuous when everyone is running around with torch and sword at the ready.

  It didn't took too long before I encountered a group with their families heading for my direction. There were two mara-mara trying to raise their hands in surrender, edging close to their children and wives, cautiously pushed towards me amidst the screaming and the crying.

  The mentalists nevermore. Did they not think I would not notice the one with the crossbow and the one with the ratchet-pattern machete behind them?!

  [At st, I turned my foot!]

  At least the next encounter was a more regur affair.

  A jirga-watamba, his bodyguards, and a retinue of warriors holding up two rooms with a stairwell in the middle heading down. The ferocious melee taking pce for each bloody step involved only fellows of the trade.

  I'm sure those a couple of steps below might have their senses under merry hell, but the concussion grenades performed their function. A few more rounds into the jirga-watamba, and his mandate underneath vish tunics concluded. There's no time for proper trophies, so his chain of office will do.

  [It doesn't seem that my neck cracked when I turn it, so perhaps it was just a bad bump.]

  No clear path ahead to the gatehouse. No secret rooms or anyone practicing dark arts.

  Nothing but an absolute mess of clothes and furniture spurred all over the floors, absorbing streaks and pools of red ichor, terrified women with daggers pointing at the doorways, sometimes protecting children tucked in some corner. Bald servants in tunics scurry bringing quivers or miscelneous projectiles of such to their masters.

  Best to take position behind an abandoned barricade or a corner and observe them do their best to disembowel each other when they run into their opposing equals - they make up their ck of drill with bestial initiative, and bugger me if I can tell one side from the other.

  [Time is being wasted, move your arse!]

  Ah, yes - the gatehouse...or at least the path leading to it inside the citadel's walls. Even through the hacking of axes and the crash of battering rams upon the heavy doors, I can hear the faint squeals of children, though some of them clearly old enough to know what was happening.

  That does nothing to determine who is who...but what does that matter, really?

  In the hallway facing the entrance, there's a room with a stairwell on the opposite side, and the mara-mara are too busy to bother...

  Until one turns around and sees me almost inside, javelin fast rising up.

  Damned cliché, and so was my three-outburst response.

  Too many and too close. Best make their acquaintance with Sir Willy Pete.

  [Fold the knee...that's it...fold it up once more...]

  How I got here...slipped my mind for a moment...

  Up another level, past a rge room, everything becoming more custrophobic. On one of the walls, a flimsy ventition shutter. Click-cck, the mass approaches roaring bloody murder. The light torch beams away the empty bckness, neither path leading anywhere desirable. And the one I follow brings me back close to the west...the tower! Perhaps it's not all for nothing...

  With a momentary clumsy effort, Becker brought himself back up, gun barrel aligned with his shoulder and body rapidly twisting and adjusting as he secured his surroundings.

  The other occupants were closed chests and wardrobes, rich natural red wood and metal of kaleidoscopic translucence when illuminated. In the direction of the south, a heavy door with a simple key hole.

  Alone in the room, he allowed himself to stretch his back and rub himself under his thighs and between the shoulder bdes as much as the armor would allow him. He noticed that he slid a few meters above a chest, and immediately patted the back of his head, relieved when no blood smeared on his gloves. Taking out his watch, he realized that he was not out of it for as long as his mind made it out to be.

  Becker: [...but zero-time is closing in fast.]

  The lingering pain numbed itself when he realized where he was. So much to loot, not enough time. And not enough of a will - the job had more president than naked greed.

  Except for one spot of bother.

  Opposite the door was a table with seemingly useless junk all over, odds-and-ends of many small shapes and composites, segregated into separate piles with nothing to identify what their purpose is. In a corner were three items that stood out above the rest - a short tube, a pair of pearlescent fingerless gloves, and above all, a folded white fabric with the appearance of a bath towel but the tact of a therapeutic pillow. It was this fabric that made him recall days of going into the fray against armored hulks in far-off shores.

  Becker: [If he has figured it out by now, best he never gets inspired. Then again, I'm still not sure how this padding works as intended, much less whatever these extras are.]

  He pced all three items in a sack in his bag before moving on and picking at the door. Much to his worry, not one soul was found in the rotund passageway, neither while was picking at the lock nor as he was securing the area, all the more so since the tower was rge enough to accommodate the rge cannon above, guessing it to be about half or less of the diameter of Sant'Angelo. Stands to reason he should have stumbled upon someone, anyone.

  The rest of the floor had varying types of storage and two stairwells, with a section on high from where the air vent runs along serving as a directional guide.

  Clearing one of the stairwells, Becker went up until he found himself in a different yout - a maze of half-open small rooms, some of then cutting through the passageway. Cautiously going through, Becker slowly ground his teeth as he checked every room and every corner, but as, all were empty with the burning mps flickering as he moved by. The only rger room he encountered so far was the bathroom with an empty wooden tub in the middle and a separate section for what he could guess was exactly what first came to his mind. Working his way to the middle, he found the rgest room in the floor with two entrances and light still coming out from inside.

  His heart raced when he moved close to one of the ajar doors, and entering with violent intentions, he was confronted with solitary luxury - a soft and ample canopied bed with sturdy support pilrs, personal effects upon eborately carved furniture, heavy colorful chests rger than the ones in the treasure room, and heavy screens further dividing up the room around the bed.

  Not a single secluded soul to be found, neither under the furniture or in the wardrobes. Not one waiting to ambush, nor found wanting.

  Becker: [But the room is befitting for someone in charge of all of this. There's still much to cover and so little time...]

  Passing briskly on his side a shape made for the chest near the bed, quickly unlocking it and taking out a thick bck glove with ptinum colored segments on top of the hand. The man had peak pauldrons and a cape covering his back.

  And the only reason why the stranger had not noticed Becker was because he was blocked off by the screens pocketing him away.

  Becker: [Nichos Suebi - you are THIS closer to getting yours!]

  Ukwan-gana Eldahtarak, the "jarghadi" of Na-Geski and Na-Bano - almost a year ago he was anointed with command over the isnd, a few months ago was forced to contempte the necessity of taking sides in a brewing civil war by the sons of the former ruler. Deyed to do so as long as he could until, one morning, emissaries from Harko arrived and made the choice for him.

  It was that mandate that compelled Eldahtarak to ravish Na-Bano when the banner of Sarjenko was raised over it the morning strange ships arrived. To press the civilians between his ever demanding authority and the uncertain future in the face of a rapacious host. To be confined in maddening custrophobia after the city was taken over in one night.

  It was all this that led Ukwan-gana Eldahtarak to walk straight into a torrent of 9mm tearing at his back, perforating his lungs and his muscles, making his strong body contort and twist with pain.

  *AHHH!*

  With fight in his soul, Eldahtarak extended his gloved hand towards Becker, sending him flying to the wall and knocking out some of the screens along the way. Slumping onto the ground he struggled to get back up, slipping upon his dripping blood.

  Getting back up quickly, Becker closed the distance with cool professionalism at the leadership target, his finger reaching to push back at the trigger and sure that his aim was true.

  *RAAAH!*

  From the corner entrance at the opposite end, a fast blur of fury ran towards him, with a glint in front shining bright and aiming towards his center mass.

  There was no doubt in Becker's soul when he reacted to the new danger, pointing the barrel at the maw of the oncoming beast.

  *Click* *Click*