When he turned the street, a burning, half vandalized Titan and at least twenty corpses, laying in a pool of blood and gore, were left on the street's berms. A few civilians were also rotting away in the remnants of an old cafe, now riddled with bullets and the scars of the TW2 bombings. An old man, whose legs layed not far from the rest of his body, a woman, her brains blown off, still holding a half burned baby against her chest... "I don't want to." Darien tought.

"I don't want to." he said, tears starting to flow from his dusty face.

"I don't want to!" he screamed into the now empty street, falling on his knees, now crying, crying for everything, his sister, the people in the Orca, those two thugs he shot, for the gang members dead in the street, for the old man, the mother, the baby; the baby whose life had been violated, taken even before it began.

"AAAAGHHH!" something heavy suddenly reached the sky, coming from the deepest of his bowels, and kept coming, so strong it seemed to tear him apart.

When he came to his senses, he didn't know how long he stayed like that. Seemed to him like a lifetime. He suddenly became aware of his surroundings, and his self-preservation instincts kicked in. He had to go... where?... right, Callaway Ave, number 12, for shelter, food, water, bed... rest. Where was he? He looked around. A row of decrepit, orange 2 story houses lined to his right. To his left, across the street from the cafe, the dacaying ruins of a convenience store, looted a long time ago, stood next to the ruins of a 6 story office building. According to a half destroyed sign, it had been the "Harris...ular Bank". Paving the sidewalks, a few leftovers of white bricks stood in the middle of the ashes and dirt.

From the woman's description, this was Callaway Avenue. He started looking to the houses. Some of those still had the number hanging from their lamps, over the doors. He noticed a lot of those doors seemed to be made of gold colored armor composite, probably looted from downed GDI aircraft. He started checking the numbers.

"2, 6, 8, ah, here we go, 12."

He looked at his new home. It seemed to be the average in that street. An old orange house, the painting half burned off by the bombing that had ocurred on the other side of the street. The windows were boarded up, the stairs to the door seemed to no longer exist, and trash along with human and animal waste filled the sides of what probably had been a small front lawn. A tree, seemingly dead for a long time, stood on the left side of the improvised landfill.

"Well" he said, "at least it's not the slums."

"Ah!" he tought. "More like a ghetto."

Darien walked towards the door (wich, along with a few of the other houses, was made from a looted GDI steel plate locked with a large chain. A lock hanged from the chain. Darien unlocked it and entered his new home.

On the inside, the place looked even more miserable. The second story seemed to be reduced to the outer walls and the roof, and the floor had long disappeared. In the ground floor, the remaints of an old life remained scattered around: a cracked bathtub, that looked like it hadn't been used for the last 15 years, some half destroyed furniture in the living room, made of a burned up sofa, a TV stand (no TV, tough), and a coffee table missing a leg, with a 2032 Time magazine with half of it's pages ripped off. In what used to be the kitchen, a Nod style generator, running on some form of liquid tiberium fuel, provided the place with electricity.

The basement, however, seemed to have been turned into some sort of air raid shelter, containing a good looking bed that seemed to be military-issue, a steel armoire with a few clothes in it, and there was a small, old-fashioned boxy TV in one of the corners. No toilet, and no shower. Darien turned on the TV. The emission was blank. He kept pressing the eight buttons, one by one, picking up a very shaky GDI transmission (probably NYBZNN, the New York Blue Zone News Network) on channel five and a clear brocast from ARRTV, the Nod sponsored Alabama Revolutionary Republic Television. He turned the TV off, went upstairs to lock the door behind him, and layed down on the bed.