DAY 2: Lost down river, without a paddle

I found my contact...

It was a few moments before I could leave my room; some of an opposing faction had taken shelter in the hotel, and were taking potshots from the windows.  When the hallway shooting ceased, I hoped for the best and peaked out.  Indeed, those who took cover inside the hotel were dead... civilian and soldier alike.  

My contact was just a few feet from my door, shot in the head.  His stuff had been rummaged through, but nothing was taken (I'm not sure if he had any money or electronics on him).  His bag contained everything I needed; maps, passports, names and so on.  I took his bag and made a break for the front door.  No sooner had the light graced my eyes was I under fire.  Both sides were shooting violently, and each were pushing forward.  I went back to the hotel, up to the second floor to find an alternative route out.  There was a back-exit, so to speak, in the form of a window leading to the back of the hotel.  Not far from this window, were the remains of an APR thug (the symbol on his shirt was spray-painted and stained with dirt).  He didn't have any lasting equipment on him, but it would be enough to last.

There was a small sedan not far from the hotel, it's owner just a few feet from it.  No sooner had I started the car, did the windshield become victim to a hail of bullets.  There was no point in looking where I was driving, so stepping on the gas pedal and hoping for the best was my only option.  When the bullets stopped hitting the car, I found myself lost in the jungle with a smoking car and no idea where I was.

Down the creek without a paddle? That's the expression, right?

Were it not for the fact I have a GPS, I'd most likely be fucked.  Turns out I was not too far from a place called "Mike's Bar".  I've heard of this place; mainly a hangout for private contractors to get their shit together.  For now, this seems like the best place to get started -- maybe this clusterfuck can be salvaged afterall.

I tried calling the number I was given in case of emergency.  No service.

I'm on my own out here.

DAY 1: NOT AS PLANNED

I got off the plane today; dropped in the middle of Leboa-Sako with whatever I could carry.  The PMC payed off the cab and the hotel stay, but I was on my own -- if I fucked up, the troops wouldn't come to recover my body.  If I died out here, Africa became my grave.  Besides the dossiers of others working for the company (who might help), vague contact information, and some outdated equipment, I was walking into this hellhole blind.  The contact in Pala should have more information, but I find that trusting locals with directions is about as wise as sticking your hand in the Lion cage at the zoo.  At least the view is nice.

The cab driver was unusually friendly, considdering his situation.  He was more than willing to talk about how crappy and violent his country was.  From my look of surprize, it seems I wasn't the only one who found his situation unsettling.  In fact, I wasn't his first foreigner either; according to the driver, there was another "like me" who had come under similar circumstances.  Not really a shocker, mind you, as the mercenary count, since the collapse, has inflated to preposterous numbers.

I got some basic information about the current events from the driver, as I have voluntarily ignored Africa's "problem".  After the recent government collapse, two local factions have been vying for control.  One of these factions, the United Front for Liberation and Labour (commonly referred to as the UFLL) and the APR (the Alliance for Popular Resistance, the last vestige of the government left).  So far, they've reached a cease-fire -- meaning my job has a countdown before the casualties mount.  

When the driver saw my camera, he laughed.  Seems that the number of mercenaries are only rivaled by journalists; freeloaders mining for a story that has long lost its luster, just like the diamonds that come out of this festering pit of hell.  Humidity and heat, this place isn't worth a front page; it's old news.  Relief efforts and missions are all for naught in this forsaken country, as its' people are either running away from it or adding to the problem.  Where these money-deprived warmongers managed to get all the weapons they have is a question that puzzels not just me but the factions themselves, no doubt.  

We passed a large group of locals, attempting to catch the plane I was on; they'll be disappointed.

I brought up my contact's name to the cab driver, hoping to get any sort of an idea what he may look like.  I think I butchered his name, so I just gave him the slip of paper with his name and meeting place.  The driver hadn't heard of him but, then again, there were a lot of people in Pala; it can be pretty easy to forget someone.  The road to my destination seemed to drag on forever.

When we reached a y-intersection, the cab was nearly flattened by an oncoming hatchback.  The car blasted past us, as if running from danger; worse yet, he was coming from the direction I was heading.  Were it not for the payday, I would hauled ass with him.  

When I enquired about the other foreigner who he drove, the cab driver was at a loss for detail.  Just like in my case, he was given money and told to drive some guy to the hotel in Pala.  When he arrived there, the guy just passed out -- sick or something.  Whatever his reasons, he was most likely trapped in this place... just like me.

I arrived at the hotel less then an hour later.  

When I got into my room, I received a note from the proprietor that the contact was on the way.  According to the note, he was held up due to some previous engagements.  I had a feeling this meant something, but the jetlag told me to get some sleep.  I woke up a little while later, but not to the sound of a door knocking.  The sound of assault rifles, explosions, incoherent screaming -- the cease-fire had been broken. 

 

Disclaimer

Far Cry 2 and all its characters belong to Ubisoft.

This is done as a test project, and not intended to be used for profit.