A day in the life of Damian Adam Ohne, known as Flippy to some, was one fraught with paranoia, stress and depression, all kept at bay with an unhealthy diet of medication. Something which proved less effective as the quaint joys of suburban life gave way to the gray and cold concrete of urban day-to-day. The clear or sometimes cloudy azure sky became mottled by the general smog and pollution outputted by sprawling cityscapes such as these, and what'd once been close to nothing but familiar faces was now an onrush of strangers. But with this shift in scenery, a sense of relief replaced the constant anxiety looming over his psyche whilst being around his once friends.

Now, at least, he could lay his head down at night without the constant worry of losing control of himself and hurting those closest to him. This wasn't entirely true, however, considering he lived in an apartment complex (see: dingy and cheap) with at least four people he could consider to be neighbors. He could never find true relief from his constant vigil against his more destructive side, not so long as he found himself in close proximity to even a single other human being. These thoughts did give him pause to consider the merits of living out in the middle of the woods surrounding the Happy Tree region, but the lack of access to medicinal remedies beyond herbal was enough to dissuade him.

Besides, the city boasting a substantial law enforcement presence offered him some margin of reassurance in the knowledge that, should he ever flip out, there'd be more than enough people around to ensure he didn't hurt anyone.

The wail of a siren jolted him out of bed, eyes wide and body tense as the world rumbled under the thunder of artillery pounding the dirt. Were they outbound or inbound? He couldn't tell, didn't have the time, he needed to get his rifle and knife. Where were they? Silly question, right next to him: rifle propped up next to his bed and the knife tucked away, up under his pillow. Snapping to attention, the man's hand shot out to the side whilst he flipped over onto his stomach and slipped the other hand under the pillow. However, he was only met with the sudden anguish of both mitts smacking into things that were definitively not weapons.

In fact, following the impact, the siren cut out not long after the sound of a crash and the scattering of many pieces of something.

The roar of metal birds and thunder of artillery were quick to follow suit.

Now nursing either hand against his chest, Flippy's eyes finally adjusted to the dimly lit interior of his bedroom-not his barracks, not back in Nitevam, still in Happy Tree City.

His heartbeat slowed but both his body remained stiff and breathing kept at a panicked pant.

Surveying the room, he spotted nary a single Nitevam Tiger lurking in the shadows to strike when he least expected it: no telltale glints of metal, no hushed breath in the pervasive quietude, no bizarre murkier-than-normal spot of darkness, and certainly no scent of wet plant material or brackish water drying along dirt-caked skin.

Reaching up, the veteran caused the pillow to fold upon itself before running his aching fingers through grassy green hair whilst trying to steady himself. Just remember your breathing exercises, he told himself. He even began pawing around his nightstand in a vain attempt to locate a stress ball.

Flipping out this early in the morning was definitely not on his list of desired starts to a day.

Whilst feeling around the plywood top of the nightstand, he noticed the distinct lack of clutter that'd once taken up the majority of the surface area. Glancing over, he could make out the remnants of an alarm clock, a palm-sized bottle and a square picture frame scattered across the wood floor.

Flippy heaved a sigh before dragging his fingers to the back of his scalp and then off onto the edge of the bed. "Great... no deposit on that," he mumbled.

Shifting out of the thin covers he'd already half tossed off, the veteran stood up and took but two steps forward before crouching down to inspect the damage.

He leaned forward and fingered through the debris.

Sharp bits of broken plastic and the patchwork bits held together by wire or what have you greeted the tips of his fingers. But, really, the examination was naught but a formality. Anyone with half a mind could deduce the riddle of whether the device was beyond repair.

After a moment of fingering, a tight frown creased his lips and his eyes squinted as he pinched the bridge of his nose; he did not have the cash on hand to afford a replacement, even if it were cheap. Maybe he'd be able to convince the guy who'd sold it to him that it got broken in transit and he wanted a replacement? But, no, trying to take advantage of someone kind enough to cut down the price of a product was out of the question. Just thinking about it left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.

Even still, though, he couldn't simply go without a means of ensuring he wakes up on time-military life or not, you could never be certain when you woke up in the morning. And given it took the majority of four months of pay (see: sergeant's salary) to fund the, not so, sudden move, he needed to always be punctual when attending the numerous side jobs he worked from day to day.

He pondered the dilemma before him whilst staying low to the floor, the aforementioned hand wiping down and sliding off his face to then hang limp off the corresponding thigh.

"Maybe..." he wondered aloud "maybe I can... get him to give one on loan?" It was close to the end of the month's second week, after all, so it wouldn't be too long until he'd be able to pay the man? Perhaps even enough to cover the other amount cut out of the first clock's price tag? That'd at least make up for the fact he managed to shatter it in the very short amount of time he'd procured it.

"Yeah... yeah! That should be good." He paused. "God, I need to stop talking to myself before I go fully insane."

And with that, Flippy took a trash can and began tossing the bits in before heading down and outside.

The first step out of the apartment complex was rife with sensations Flippy had yet to acclimate himself to.

Unlike the quaint town he'd grown up in, the urban environment of Happy Tree's expansion as a county had already become a hub of activity. Since no one could truly perish, there'd been far more people than homes-this was the prime reason for the city's development. As such, the noise pollution of vehicles making use of brand new streets and pedestrians milling up and down sidewalks was anything but lacking. Walking out into such an urban symphony left his ears throbbing ever so faintly. But the sound was the least of the differences. For example, the light level and air quality were palpably worse than in the old town. It smelt of gasoline with whiffs of coal fumes, carried down into the valley it'd been erected in, and the ever-present odor of garbage and bustling crowds. Having only learned this recently in the years he'd been off-duty, the rapid urbanization of the countryside resulted in numerous oversights regarding the environmental practices of the region's expanding industry.

Life in the military, though, and especially the decade he'd spent on tour in the Tiger War hardened him to such sensory overload.

What city chatter could compare to the deafening beat of M109 howitzers pulverizing entire warzones?

What could rival the broth of gunpowder, blood; fresh and drying, the diesel belched from machines of war, the corpses of your fellows laying at your feet in the field, charred plant matter and up-turned soil, and the napalm-seared flesh of friend and foe alike?

Despite all of this, though, Flippy found the lack of country comforts almost as disheartening as the first time a friend bled out in his arms.

Rubbing rough palms into tired eyes and inhaling as deep as he could, the veteran sighed and adjusted the strap of his backpack before filing his way into the stream of people.

Something he hadn't fully taken into consideration at the time of contemplating moving, of which he'd been considering a while before writing the letters to his friends, into the city-being in large masses of bodies unnerved him to no end.

Now, he wouldn't go so far as to say he had claustrophobia (see: lying in wait in a log). But the sheer proximity of so many bodies dredged up rather awful memories he preferred remained buried. And while his breathing techniques took off some of the edge, it couldn't alleviate the warmth wafting off each person. And it still being in the throes of summer didn't make matters any better, its warmth further compounding an already stressful situation. There were no worse moments than when he had to wait at a traffic light with a bunch of others, however.

As if to spite the skyscrapers impeding the brightening rays of sunshine, the sun baked them in an onerous heat similar to an oven's temperature. Nay, not an oven, not with the shoulder-to-shoulder lack of space. It'd probably be fairer to compare it to a pressure cooker, to an unopen can of sardines shoved into a microwave set on high. The longer they stood there, the harder it was to breathe. Would anyone even notice if they all collapsed into one mound of bodies, would anyone even care?

Eyes darted up to see the red hand still present, the vehicles still crossing over the crosswalk.

"Come on you fucking... turn red-!"

On and on time dragged on, nothing ever changing save for the mounting heat and stagnating air.

He tried to move up from the center-when did he get to the middle?-where he could click the button until it broke and remained on Walk permanently. But any attempt to push his way through was met with a push back and irritated glares. Why didn't it change? Why didn't the people up front press the button again? Why was sweat mingling with ichor and decay to choke him? Each breath came out faster than the last, more ragged, as beads of cold perspiration joined that of its kin.

He could feel their weight pressing down on him, squishing him from all sides.

A pile of desecration hellbent on silencing him, turning him into another forgotten casualty.

Faces of friends and comrades revealed by what slivers of red-tinted radiance managed to slip through the amassed bodies, corpses, bags of meat and suffocating heat.

Oh god, oh god oh god oh god-he isn't dead, he isn't dead!

He isn't just another casualty, another sack of fat and flesh to fuel the pyre!

He is alive, alive dammit!

He won't stay beneath all the bodies and wither away for all etern- then the cars stopped and the light changed, prompting the people around him to start crossing over.

Flippy shook his head, blinking and taking in deep breaths to keep his strides from wobbling; warmth suffused his palms and burning liquid trickled from his fingertips. Whatever reactions this begot from those around him didn't matter, all that did was getting as far away from that intersection as possible. He made a note to take a different route on the way back.

Regardless, it was going to be a long day.

"Thank you again, Mr. Kedar," Flippy called back to the storekeeper.

"Don't mention it-jus' remember, end of the week!"

"You know it!" And just before the automatic doors slid shut, he popped dual finger guns at the middle-aged man.

Turning around anew, Flippy took hold of the bag with both hands before stretched it open to peer inside.

His 'purchase' was a used black digital clock roughly about the size of the last one, wrapped up in the thin matching wire you'd plug into an outlet. Nothing too fancy, nothing painfully simple or barebones. And underneath it, a slip of paper showing proof of the loan as well as the receipt for the item itself. The latter was paired with a receipt for the one he broke. All contained in a helpful little paper bag provided by Mr. Kedar.

A guttural huff and he slipped an arm through the handholds on either side to let it rest in the crook of his elbow whilst he folded both limbs over his chest.

Now that he had the assurance of waking up on time, he needed to contemplate what part-time job(s) he could take from the small list he'd printed up from the library several blocks away the other day. Unlike the ones he'd worked before, he hadn't the luxury of relying on knowing the employer to guarantee the position. That and he wanted to make sure the one he takes had as little risk of triggers as possible; working in that carnival hadn't been the smartest of decisions. However, he felt like city life was going to need more than a part-timer could make to live on his own.

Of the options, he recalled seeing and writing down an opening as an electrician when he was perusing with a question mark next to it.

War-Mur Electric, if he remembered right.

Maybe he could give that a try?

Messing around with electrical wires didn't seem too flip-out hazardous, and it was certainly better than being a librarian again.

He was still ashamed of losing his temper as he did with Mime.

At the very least, it was worth a shot.

Rotating his shoulder, he let the backpack slip down to his elbow and hang there before going to undo the first zipper. Once open, he placed the bag inside and closed it back up. Then he opened and rifled through one of the front compartments, retrieving a series of papers he'd also printed from the library: a resume, a general cover letter and a copy of his CO's written permission to procure civilian employment. Everything was present and accounted for save for an actual application-that is if they even require one.

Flippy glanced over the documents for a moment to make sure everything was in order, then grinned and neatly folded them before readjusting his bag onto his back.

War-Mur Electric was rather new to the electrical maintenance game, but the sudden and rapid urbanization meant their business opportunities exploded in direct correlation to the city's growing needs. As such, they had a few buildings spread throughout the urban sprawl. The one Flippy knew about was smaller than the buildings flanking either side of it, perhaps even a tad smaller than his old house.

Gray walls mostly devoid of features save for blocky letters on the front and the occasional window on the two floors composed the entirety of the structure. The door had a sign hanging on the inside that read, "Open," in big blocky green letters. There was also space left between the buildings on its flanks so as to allow the company cars access to whatever laid behind it. And he had to duck through the door on the way in.

Inside was more of the same function-over-form aesthetic with the only difference being the presence of personal items left by employees.

The room you entered upon walking in could be described as a studio apartment deprived of living amenities and furnished with several plain metal desks pushed together with simple swivel nameplates plates propped up on the corners, some personal paraphernalia and the stray paper or folder. There were also some bulletin boards and even a few lockers too. Deviating from this trend, though, was one corner in the back left which had an oaken coffee table and large couch pressed up against the wall. Connecting to this clerical lounging hybrid space was a room filled with more single-person lockers, all lined up in rows with a bench of sorts acting as a dividing line.

Few people were inside at this time of day since Flippy woke up and set out rather early in the morning, but those that were took note of the towering man for a moment before glancing over to one in particular and then returning to whatever work was at hand. Said individual leaned back in his chair for a moment, closing the laptop in front of him and then getting up to approach him.

A portly uniformed man of middle age and balding head with clear laugh lines, warm eyes and bushy eyebrows that compliment his bushy mustache, he placed his hands on his love handles and set arms akimbo whilst looking up into his emerald eyes.

"So, what's yer story kid?" he inquired, voice a rich baritone.

"Hiring, right? I saw the uh... the ad and thought I'd come and apply?"

He smacked his lips once, twice, thrice, and then proceeded to look Flippy up and down.

"'ve got a bit'a time before my shift takes all mah attention... sure, why not? C'mon, pop a squat across from me."

Doing as instructed, the veteran left his bag on the couch and unfolded his papers to place on the desktop, thus prompting a raised brow from the portly man.

"See ya came prepared? That's good, saves me a bit'a time-hand 'em here and lemme check 'em over real quick."

There was only the clacking of keyboards and ticking of the wall clock to fill the silence ushered in by the portly man's perusing and crinkling of the papers.

Why did he feel so tense?

After a moment, the man reached down and pulled a drawer out to retrieve an empty file folder to place the papers in. Then he set it aside before procuring yet another folder. Only this one was full of sheets Flippy could only assume to be application forms.

That was a good sign, right?

He took a pen and clipboard out from his desk to hold the several pages he selected from the top of the folder.

"Name?"

"Wha- oh! Damian Adam Ohne, sir."

"Damian...Adam...Ohne-peculiar name ya got." He then turned it around to show him the first page, even going so far as to hand Flippy the pen. But not before pointing to several blank spaces at the top of page one. "Fill out your address, cell phone and home phone number, email, ZIP, all of that right here."

The veteran did as he was told, refraining from looking further down past the indicated area. And then he passed it back.

"Okay, 'm assuming yer a born resident of the country?"

"Yessir."

"Current employer?"

"No civilian one, no sir."

"Years of work experience directly related to this line of work?"

"Nothing beyond what I learned in basic and beyond, sir."

"'kay... education level?"

"High school diploma, sir."

"No college, technical school, anything?"

"No, sir."

"Uh huh..."

The rest of the interview proceeded in a very similar manner, only some questions required more than a mere no or yes answer.

Those were few and far in-between, however.

Towards the end, the portly man took the note of permission out again and looked it over anew to ensure its validity, although, from the look on his face, it seemed more like he was trying to confirm it really existed given the circumstances of the county. He also confirmed whether or not Flippy had access to his own vehicle and if he had internet wherever he lived (see: yes and no).

"So, lemme ask ya something," the portly man said after a while.

"Yes, sir?"

"The whole next slew of pages are boxes asking what yer familiar with, and Imma go out on a limb here and say ya ain't too familiar with what electricians do, 'm I right?"

"Well, I learned a bit about how to handle electrical stuff back in basic, as well as what I had to learn and pick up on the field, but no, no real official study at a school or anything. Will that be a problem, sir...?" He felt a dry wad get caught in the back of his throat as sweat moistened his palms.

"Not 'less ya wanna get higher than an apprenticeship..." The man scratched the back of his neck absentmindedly, before looking up from the clipboard for the first time since getting it out. "Ya free for the next few days?"

"Yessir."

"'kay... well, think I gotta guy that can help ya out a bit if yer willing to put in the hours to go through a lil crash course." And with that, he took all the pages from the board and placed them into the same folder as before. Then stashed both away back in the same drawer. "Come in at eight tomorrow morning, I'll introduce ya to him, and, for now, welcome to War-Mur Electric, name's Wilber, glad to have you on board, Damian." Flippy grinned as Wilber extended a chubby hand towards him, standing up and taking said mitt to give a firm shake.

"Thank you for your time, sir-I won't let you down."

"Yea, yea..."

And with a wave to the others who weren't paying attention, Flippy left to continue on with his day.

Said day was a blur of familiarizing himself with the surroundings, trying to find people sociable enough to give him directions; mostly unsuccessfully, and acquainting himself with the lifestyle he'd need to assimilate into for the foreseeable future. He also made a note to notify his CO about his address change, since he forgot to do so the day before. But it wasn't until close to six in the evening did he recall needing to do so, and since he was already going to be on his way home, decided to settle the matter as soon as he got back.

Getting back wasn't easy, though, especially considering how off the beaten trail he'd gotten during his trek around the city.

At least, it'd of been difficult for anyone else-not a man who'd already navigated more confusing urban layouts back in Nitevam.

That being said, Flippy's refusal to wait at or even approach any intersection crossing with more than ten people did hamper his progress. As well as avoiding crowds in general on his way. Oh, and not to mention taking detours whenever he came across construction sites for fear of having an episode, of which there was quite a few spread throughout the urban center.

Night had already snuffed out the last ray of sunlight by the time he entered his apartment complex.

Once inside his place, Flippy pressed his back against the front door and huffed.

"What a day..." he murmured.

Pushing off the door, he began the sluggish process of stripping down whilst approaching a lone chair positioned in front of a TV. A thunk resounded as heavy combat boots impacted the floor, followed by the groan of the cushion as he collapsed back into the chair's soft embrace. It was strange, the softness-ever since coming back, soft things never really felt right anymore. Cool fabric felt foreign against his bare skin which had grown accustomed to rough leather upholstery and hard plastics and metals. Those felt like the only things he was meant to touch, the only things he deserved to feel.

He pressed his head into the back of the chair and stared up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes, mouth cracked ajar and head full of white noise.

It was too late to call his CO now, although this didn't stop him from having fished his phone out from his back pocket when he was undressing. Now it hung limply in his hand, dangling below the armrests where his arms rested idly.

The quiet pressed in on him like a hydraulic press, squeezing his head in a vice-like grip of static.

Busy, he needed to be a busybody.

Phone, he had a phone in hand, what could he do with it?

Up, rest the back of his hand against the armrest and turn the phone on.

The screen lights up like a beacon in the night, piercing through the dark interior like a truck's high beams.

One tap, two taps, each resonant like the beat of a drum.

Now at his contacts.

Glassy eyes glaze over at numerous names and faces and profiles, friends he'd scared off and inspired fright in.

Did anyone get his letters?

Perhaps he should call them to make sure, let them know he moved? Where he moved even?

His thumb hovers over a name and face, blonde hair and cool demeanor-Cuddles.

There it remains and there he stares.

Tap, the information is pulled up.

The screen reflects in the emerald pools of his eyes.

A breath through his nose after a moment longer before tapping the button at the bottom, then once again on the confirmation popup.

Then, like if he'd never been there, Cuddles was gone.

"...better this way..."

And thus began the purge of his contacts, erasing each number and each face of people he only terrified.

Pink, gone.

Purple, gone.

Blue, gone.

Orange, gone.

Maroon, gone.

Green, gone.

Cyan, gone.

Red, hesitation.

For once during the whole process, his eyes lost their dull glaze and glimmered with apprehension as his final phonebook contact was displayed before him. Her hair a wild mane of scarlet and skin like freshly fallen snow. Anxious eyes like rubies set downcast from the camera taking the photo, face equal parts nervous and elated. A familiar arm around her shoulder leading to someone that's cut out of the profile icon on her right.

A snapshot from happier times.

He moved his thumb to delete her as well but stopped short of it. Then, after a second, forced himself to only to then hesitate yet again when the confirmation window popped up. Moments elapsed and he still couldn't bring himself to so much as hover his digit over the confirm button. So he canceled the action and resumed staring at Evangeline's picture. Was she smiling in it? Yes, she was-it was the faintest of grins only she could muster.

He felt a grin try to creep up on him himself.

But he caught himself and returned to the neutral expression from before, resuming his one-sided staring contest.

Then his thumb reached over and tapped the rectangle containing her number, thus prompting the phone to commence a call to Flaky, before hesitantly holding it up to his ear.

He blinked once, twice, thrice, "What...?"

It rang and rang, the icon of Flaky present above the symbol of a phone.

"Why'd I..."

There was a brief pause after a while, followed by the sound of a fan in the background and a familiar voice.

"H-hello...?"

Hearing her voice stopped his heart for a whole moment, far too caught off guard to have been prepared to hear any of his friends again-especially her. For this reason, he could find no voice inside his chest to muster a response.

"H-hello? Who is this...?"

Why did he dial her number? All he had to do was press a single button to remove her contact information.

"I-I... don't recognize this n-number..."

She still had the same stutter as always; his fingers tighten around the phone.

"...L-Lifty, S-Shifty, is this you? Are you-"

"Wrong number, sorry," he interrupted.

"F-Flippy? Wai-" She was cut off by a curt tap of his finger, then, still in a daze, Flippy tucked the device under the seat cushion just as it began to vibrate and ring.

His posture slouched farther as the sound repeated again and again.

'Lord,' he thought, 'I'm such a fucking idiot.'

The next week passed by in a haze of activity and busy work, although that's how Flippy spent a majority of his days even back in the suburbs. Now, though, there was a louder background noise of anxiety about experiencing an episode, but immersing himself in learning the ropes as a maintenance electrician kept it from becoming too grating. Keeping his head down and trying to remain out of the public eye was even therapeutic, though he knew not how or why it felt as such. But nowhere near as much as learning the ins and out of working with electricity, grids, wires and so on.

Having always enjoyed working with his hands, the veteran found comfort in familiarizing himself with tools he hadn't seen since basic training-the moments when he wasn't working with guns or other weapons were actually quite enjoyable. Though he had to be careful and not reminisce too much on the time he'd spent with similar tools for fear of recalling unpleasant things.

Even still!

And to converse with someone again, in general, without the obvious undertones of fear was a breath of fresh air.

You never really realized just how much you craved social interaction when you go without or with very little for five consecutive years. Though this did have the consequent of the silent pauses being quite unbearable.

Despite that, though, he found himself smiling and enjoying life more bit by bit every day-so long as he didn't dwell on the past, then he could grin again even if it was only slightly.

But come the following week's first day, a funk of sorts pressed down on him: it was an arduous task to pull himself out of bed; the cup of coffee and microwave dinner breakfast tasted bland and unappetizing; the sun shone dimmer than days past; the footsteps and chatter of the people he passed by were both too loud and muted at the same time; and the sensation of his lined gloves and electrician's uniform felt incredibly uncomfortable against his skin. He was distracted without anything but white noise to tug at his attention. And increasing frustration muddled his state of mind at his inability to place the cause for such a spontaneous slump, especially with how great things had been leading up to it.

"Tighten the bolts here."

Maybe that's why the wrench slipped out from between his fingers?

A soft gasp as all the acknowledgment he gave to the loss of grip, as well as a look down to watch the tool plummet to the cement far below.

"God-!"

Its clatter was like a gunshot ricocheting off metal.

"Dammit, be careful!"

His partner and mentor's chastisement sounded far off, vague, as if Flippy had dunked his head in a bowl of water.

"What if someone had been down there, huh? What if it'd been someone you cared about?"

Looking up to the source of the voice, the soldier saw a slit-eyed man wearing gray-tinted blue combat gear, goggles and a gray-blue pointed helmet with a yellow military symbol on the front. He was gripping the handle of a bowie knife in one hand whilst the other held him up on the pole, face twisted in malevolent bloodlust that evinced itself through the layers of gray, black and blue face paint.

Without a moment's hesitation, the soldier lunged forward to clasp either hand on its shoulders before jerking back at an angle to ram the other's right eye into one the many sharp bits jutting out from where they both resided. Crimson and clear ichor like shiny resin burst out of the socket, now rendered to a mere bowl to hold and spill chunky white-and-red salsa. But there wasn't a scream of agony, the soldier didn't give the bastard the chance. For immediately after, the soldier reached back to yank out what he thought to be his knife and slammed it against the squamous of its temporal bone. Thus whatever voice it'd been mustering to alert its allies died in its throat as a soft breath.

Surveying the situation, the soldier concluded no other Nitevam Tigers caught on to their fellow's expiration. Had they managed to capture him and bring him into the heart of one of their cities? Where happened to the village he was posted in? He'd need to get back in order to get a sitrep of the situation.

He took hold of what he thought to be his knife's handle and drug it out from the corpse, only to find what he'd plunged into the Tiger to be a simple screwdriver.

That's why its handle felt all wrong.

Curiosity piqued, he took the chance to examine himself and took note of his missing gear and uniform-had the Tigers taken off with it? But what perplexed the soldier more was how what he wore now resembled that of an engineer's outfit, only if it was de-militarized and meant for a civilian to wear.

There wasn't time to ponder the matter, though, as it wouldn't be long before another Tiger passed by and noticed the corpse.

No time to dispose of the body, either.

So he settled for propping it up in what the soldier assumed to be its working position and began climbing down.

Once on the ground, he discarded the rope that'd been helping him keep from falling and took off the heavy gloves he had on.

Why was he dressed like a civilian technician? Had the brass assigned him an infiltration op?

No, they'd of allowed him at least his knife if not even a small sidearm.

Glancing back, he took note of the vehicle parked not far from where he and the Tiger had been. It was a civilian truck, too, one meant for some electrician company judging from the logo on the side. Had he come here with the Tiger in this? A quick rifle through his pockets produced a set of keys on a small iron keyring.

'Can't afford to use this vehicle anymore,' the soldier concluded before tossing the keys.

The soldier looked around once more to identify the best possible route out of the open, locating one and making a note of the crowds of Nitevam Tigers marching by at the two ends of the sectioned off street he was on. With this many Tigers, he had to of been in Huế gathering intel for a future assault.

A malicious grin crept up the sides of the soldier's face.

If he was here to perform reconnaissance, why not show some initiative and add sabotage to his to-do list?

He'd have to be quick about it now, though, given the recent casualty.

The soldier flicked his wrist, splattering the ground with blood, bits of bone and grey matter, before then running his hand down the screw's shaft.

"Let's make it easier on them, eh, coward?"

Off the hat he wore came, screwdriver placed in his mouth, and dash away he did into the nearest alley he'd spotted before.

It was as dingy as you'd expect a secluded path to be, only different from the ones he'd grown familiar with in Nitevam. Whereas there'd be debris from the numerous shellings WAR conducted on the city or trash clutter from the Tigers' disregard for hygiene, the animals, there were broken bottle fragments and the occasional dumpster pressed against the wall of a building. There weren't even any corpses of WAR soldiers or hapless civilians that'd been summarily executed, nor the stench of feces or urine. Traces of alcohol were present in the odor of garbage, though.

This wasn't how the higher-ups painted Huế as in the slightest.

But the soldier didn't let that distract him from the task at hand; it was just something he'd make a note of asking his CO about when he got back.

He turned the different surroundings to his advantage by using trashcans, dumpsters and what not to cover his advance up the alley. Each footstep was like a mouse darting from one furniture leg to the next, a nonexistent sound heralding shadowy death. The screwdriver he claimed as an improvised shiv pointed down in his hand from how he held it, glinting whenever a stray shaft of light hit it as he kept it ready to use at a moment's notice.

Crouching down behind a set of trash cans, the soldier's bulking frame all but remained visible.

He peaked his head out for a half second, scrutinized the area ahead, then moved up to a dumpster that'd been placed under a fire escape. If he looked, he'd probably see visible lines trailing up from the opening pushed into the lid by its brimming contents. Yet another oddity he seldom saw in Nitevam cities. Then he repeated the process before shifting and hugging the front of the dumpster whilst he crept up to the opposite end.

A glance around revealed nothing waiting to ambush him.

He took this as an opportunity to rush forward and roll into position behind a large pile of cardboard boxes not but five or so meters away from an opening to what looked and sounded like a plaza. Tigers passed by every so often on their patrols, yet none seemed keen enough to check the alleyway-good. The soldier adjusted his grip on the screwdriver, stealing a look down at it for all of a moment. If he waited, he'd likely find one that was off on their own or lagging behind. Then he could take that one out to steal his uniform and ditch the one he had on. But he'd have to get closer to the mouth of the alley first.

So he inched forward to the edge of the boxes and prepared himself to time his advance.

Then something clanged behind him, little feet scurrying in his direction.

The soldier whipped around, shifting his grip to hold onto the tip of the screwdriver, and flung it end over end.

It whistled through the air for a second before metal screamed in pain alongside a tiny voice-he'd pierced through the dumpster's side and pinned one of several rats that'd jumped out of the overflowing receptacle.

He swore at himself under his breath.

Something heavier rustled in the boxes next to him-a disheveled Tiger was rising up out of the cardboard.

"Waaa...?" It was the last thing it'd ever utter.

Wasting no time, the soldier lunged forward and smashed it into the brick behind him.

There was something of a dry wheeze as the air was forced out of the Tiger who couldn't even begin to catch his breath due to the jarring impact against the wall. He could feel the grime of its soiled clothes, even wet spots here and there. And at this proximity, the stale alcohol on its breath was clear as day. But it wasn't immediately apparent given the rank odor wafting off its entire person.

What jar-headed mongoloid of a commanding officer allowed such a slovenly soldier to exist?

A wicked grin creased the soldier's lips as a hand darted out to grab a handful of the Tiger's hair, then jerked to crack the back of its head against the wall once more. The copper tang of blood greeted his nostrils with its acrid embrace. It wasn't enough, though, for the Tiger hadn't collapsed into an unconscious pile at his feet. He spotted motion out the corner of his eye on the right. No time to enjoy the moment, it had to die.

He clasped a hand around the side of the Tiger's head before spiking it toward the ground.

His knee was digging into its sternum the moment it hit the ground, and he was knelt down in the deteriorating cover of cardboard in a second.

Either hand seized hold of the neck like a stress toy, nearly encompassing its entirety with how frail the bastard's throat was. It'd be like snuffing a baby in its crib; that thought put a frown on the soldier's face. He shook his head and pressed down on the Tiger, jerking an inch lower as something audibly cracked beneath his knee. The Tiger's hands came up to paw meekly at his, trying to work its fingers beneath his palms whilst his thumbs pressed into its larynx. But it was pointless, nothing alive had ever managed to wrench his hands off of his prey when he got his hands on it.

Warm essence suffused his fingertips as their nails bit through dirty flesh, his digits ever tightening like a vice around his throat.

Blocking the airway would take too long, he needed to compress the jugular veins and carotid arteries and stop the flow supplying the brain with oxygen.

The Tiger seemed to realize this as its efforts shifted to the sides where said vessels were, or perhaps it was starting to feel the effects?

Its whole face grew increasingly red and spotted-looking, and it started to thrash around and kick its legs in a vain attempt to prolong its life. That malicious smile returned to him. 'Does it hurt,' he thought, 'does it? Does it hurt as much as it did when my squaddies died in your fucking rice fields?' He pressed down ever harder, leaning into it as the Tiger's increasingly frantic visage began to swell around the eyes and lips. The soldier watched as red blotches cropped up in its sclera and spit foamed up at the corners of its mouth. Snot bubbled and oozed from either nostril. And tears streaked down the corners of its slanted eyes. Yet the light remained, so he kept his gaze anchored there. Nothing else could enthrall him as much as watching the life drain from the Tiger's eyes.

He felt hot pinpricks along the sides of his hands as the Tiger's nails dug into them, trailing down where they then raked across his knuckles and the backside of his palms. Flecks of spit sprayed his face as the foam slipped down its cheeks.

An amused chortle breezed past his lips.

Soon the frenetic zeal of the Tiger's spasmodic thrashing waned as, bit by bit, the color of its face was tinted blue.

Snot pooled in the upper lip's dip whilst runnels trailed off down the side, some even cresting the edge and dripping into its filthy mouth.

It arched its back to try and throw him off but only expended the last ounce of strength it had in doing so.

Then, at last, the Tiger's body fell limp and eyes rolled back.

At this, the soldier smirked and rose up from the corpse, flexing his fingers and removing his knee from the Tiger's now concaved chest.

Upon full inspection, though, the soldier couldn't help but cock his head at the downright bizarre dress of the Tiger soldier. It wasn't wearing a uniform or any military hardware whatsoever, instead covered by what could best be described as the rags of a man down on his luck and drowning in the drink. Someone who was definitively not of Nitevamese ethnicity. Maybe it was just a trick of the light? Or the rush from ending its pathetic life making him see things? But, no, it seemed less and less insubstantial the longer he observed the corpse.

No time to make sure.

"Freeze!"

The soldier's head drifted upward to regard an armed Tiger pointing its pistol at him, flashlight held in its opposite hand to illuminate the dark alleyway.

But, no, was it a Tiger? The uniform and helmet were off-more of a royal blue while resembling that of an MP, only less militarized. And the symbol that'd been emblazoned upon each Tiger helmet was replaced by the acronym HTCPD.

Whoever they were, they inched forward several steps before glancing over to the corpse left in the disturbed pile of cardboard. Or, rather, the groaning and shifting body.

'What?'

"Sir! Step away from the man and put your hands where I can see them!" they barked.

The soldier's eyes narrowed, head turning away from the miraculously living Tiger(?) to regard the armed individual once more.

Their hands were trembling, and their eyes were extra wide.

They were unsure, uncertain if they could pull the trigger.

Uncertain if they could take a life...?

He blinked and stepped forward, spooking the individual back a step.

The way she went with her left leg was telling.

There was at least six stories to the building on his right and three to his left, but the left has no means of quickly scaling it.

"FREEZE!"

There was something wrong going on here, but the soldier could never figure it out if a fledgling like them was hounding him with a gun.

So he'd make sure they couldn't.

"SIR, IF YOU DO NOT COMP-"

In an instant, the soldier had crossed the distance between them and laid a hand on the firearm. Their finger twitched on instinct, discharging a round into the right side wall of the alley as he smacked the gun to the side. Fourteen. His fingers curled around the barrel, locking it in a death grip that resulted in the woman jerking forward into his fist. There was a resounding crack as his knuckles connected with her nose and upper lip, staggering her back. And upon her backpedal, he wrenched his hand back and to the side at an angle to tear it free of her hand. Then, for good measure, he planted a swift boot to her gut before aiming and unloading a round into her left knee.

The proceeding scream confirmed the hit, but it also alerted everyone who'd not already stopped and been staring-the droves of Tigers were replaced by civilians? All of whom, having heard the gunshot, immediately began to scream and flee from the soldier.

He backed away from the woman as she writhed on the ground, clutching at her bleeding knee, and backed into the alley just as several other voices began shouting above the chorus, all seemingly directed at him.

No time to stick around, he could ponder this matter when things were quieter.

The soldier dashed away from the opening, clutching the pistol till his knuckles turned white, towards the dumpster and fire escape.

He leaped and tucked his legs before slamming both feet down onto the lid, using what little rebound it offered as a springboard to then jump and grasp the first rung of the ladder with his free hand. This, in turn, caused the dumpster to roll several feet out of place beneath the bottom-most platform.

"YOU!"

"HALT!"

"CEASE AND DESIST OR WE WILL BE FORCED TO OPEN FIRE!"

Letting the butt of the gun drop into and rest in his mouth, the soldier swung around to plant either foot against the wall and secure himself by grabbing onto the rung with his other hand. Then he dug the toes of his boots into one of the white runnels between each individual brick for purchase, promptly deadlifting himself up to the fifth rung. When he did, he snapped his legs up so as to smack against the back of his thighs, so then his heels caught on the first. That's when he started climbing up to the first landing, to which three of the four, similarly outfitted to the first he'd shot, didn't take kindly to and started putting rounds down the way.

The fourth was preoccupied with taking care of their wounded comrade-the soldier respected that.

He'd refrain from offing her first should she come back around to help her fellows.

Bullets ricocheted off the railing and grated platforms of the fire escape three at a time, four managing to find their mark over the course of three volleys. Two were grazing shots that'd nicked his hip and the corner of his left ear, but the other two went straight through his left calf and the palm of his left hand. Warmth oozed from the new orifices, but he paid them no mind as he continued to ascend one flight of grated stairs at a time. Suffice to say, the windows he passed by had a few people staring out from behind them in stark shock.

After several more volleys and several more grazing shots, he reached the final landing of the fire escape-it didn't reach up to the roof as he'd hoped, or even high enough for him to cover the rest of the distance himself.

This was something he expected, though, and had a heavy tool from the belt pouch around his waist pulled out just in case.

Reeling back, he launched it through the window closest to where the stairs came up to before diving through the shower of glass himself.

The room he found himself tucking and rolling into was small, no more than 140 to 160 square feet yet still far larger than any he'd seen in the larger buildings erected in Nitevam. Its walls were painted seafoam green with deep blue waves along the bottom where the occasional sailboat crested the highest ones. There were pint-sized pieces of colorful plastic furniture along with wooden furnishing, their childish nature complimenting a rather childlike puzzle piece patterned carpet. There were even crude crayon drawings taped to the wall here and there. And then he saw the frail-looking boy bundled up in a brown blanket with a picture book and box of crayons in front of him, who stared back at him with what could only be described as petrification. Yet despite his frailty, he didn't have the emaciated appearance so many children the soldier saw in Nitevam had.

Wordlessly they stared at one another until the click and whoosh of a door interrupted the moment.

"Jackson g-" It was all the man managed to get out before the soldier whipped around, leveled the gun and painted the doorway with cranial gore.

Thirteen.

"DADDY!" the child cried.

His nose wrinkled and he drew the gun back.

"SHOTS FIRED, SHOTS FIRED! GET UP THERE DAMMIT!"

No time.

"Sorry kid."

Without another word, the soldier leaned over and took hold of the large plastic table pressed up into the corner nearest the window he came through so as to wedge it into the window frame. It didn't fit smoothly and the frame didn't come out intact, but he made it fit. Then he dashed past the corpse, son now crying over it, and through a quaint living space where he made a B-line to the front door.

He didn't even bother with the handle, just braced his arm and rammed his shoulder against it.

Cheap wood buckled like a rotten tree trunk after a forest fire and sent a spray of splinters out into the hallway of the apartment complex. Lights lined the walls and illuminated the modest interior, there being no real indication of which end went where aside from the number plates on the face of each door. Footsteps and shouting came from behind, motivating him to sprint down the right end where the numbers counted down from whatever one he just burst from.

He could feel the eyes of other residents on him, some more obvious and bold than others, as he rushed by.

At the end of the hall, the stairs connecting all six floors to each other evinced themselves when he heard rapid footfalls coming up from the floor below.

They'd of called in backup by now, the route to the bottom was no longer an option.

The soldier leaned over the edge of the railing and took aim at where the bottom landing rounded out of view. He countered the steps, counting down from ten. And once he hit zero, he pulled the trigger.

Twelve.

It shrieked through the air and plunged into the gut of a familiar armed man that rounded the corner.

Once he collapsed to the ground in agony, the soldier ran up to the fourth, fifth, sixth and then rooftop two steps at a time.

He rammed a door open for the second time that day, stumbling out onto the roof due to the difference between a metal door and wooden one. The light was blinding for all of a second before being able to make out detail again. To his credit, the cover he'd hoped to find on the roof was present in the form of ventilation systems jutting out from the ceiling. Behind him, there was another pair of footsteps and coming from far below was the sound of sirens.

What was his plan?

Why, if he stirred up enough trouble, then they'd call in something capable of aerial support in order to render his cover on the rooftop null. And when that happens, if it happened, he'd hijack it and use it to find an LZ away from whatever city he'd found himself in where he could sit down and have a moment to ponder recent events. And if that didn't pan out? Well, he had other escape routes in mind. Here's to hoping those sent up to their death had ammunition to spare.

So the soldier ran over and crouched behind the ventilation, Glock 19 at the ready, and waited for the first fool to pop their head out from the cover of the staircase.

Next thing Flippy remembered was waking up on the banks of the river that flowed through the center of Happy Tree City in the middle of a forest.