Jack stepped up off the street. His white, 'drug-baron' shoes rapped quietly against the concrete. The mottled black-and-grey skinny jeans he wore protected him from the wind, while his upper body seemed bare to it. He wore a simple, long-sleeved cotton shirt, a light bluish colour. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, despite the cold. It was just the way he liked it. To others, it seemed he was insane, given his lack of warm clothing, especially in the cold of the rural Australian winter. At six degrees Celsius, the day was by no means warm. However, the athletic, surfy-looking Jack's choice of clothing resonated from the simple reason that he didn't feel the cold as badly as others. It was just something he'd been blessed with. Looking cautiously about him, and into the trees surrounding the area, Jack began to step faster. Despite his insensitivity to cold, he had a rather low pain threshold. Maybe they went hand in hand? He didn't know, but he'd always speculated. Stepping of a low road island; a thin road division, used to separate lanes, he quickened his pace, and almost leapt the last two steps to the kerb.

Jack continued walking, not losing a second, as he began to travel along a lengthy driveway. The driveway, and accompanying house, belonged to an old 'acquaintance.' Jack shook his head. It'd been far too long since he'd even seen the person he was now trying to visit, let alone talk to them. They say that age messes with people. The man he was now planning on visiting was the embodiment of this term. Head down in the wind, so as to maximise his walking speed, Jack continued. His pace gradually become faster and faster, until he was at a near jog. His ears pricked, and he started jogging. A faint rumbling wafted in through the trees surrounding the driveway. Jack began to run. His heart rate started surging. Sweat immediately broke out on his forehead; something that was generally seen as a deformation, but it was just the way he was.

The rumbling loudened. It swiftly turned into a dull roar, as a Jeep rocketed out of the woods, barely missing Jack; he rolled to the side, as he felt the breeze from the huge vehicle that had passed him by bare centimetres. He felt the roaring heat of the overworked engine as it passed. The huge, khaki vehicle slammed into the ground, bouncing around on old, crappy suspension. Kicking up a huge dust storm, it pulled a U-ey; a full u-turn. As the dust settled, it became a bizarre, almost Western, stand-off. The Jeep's wheels spun to life, kicking up dust and small stones, the driver slammed his foot on the accelerator. The behemoth vehicle rushed at Jack. Leaving it to the last second, Jack pulled a combat knife from a small, concealed pocket on the inside of the skinnies he wore. Diving to the side, as the Jeep again narrowly missed him, he began sawing at his jeans. Long jeans were shocking for manoeuvrability and agility. What he really needed were short pants. So he was going to make them. Careful not to slice into his leg, Jack cut his jeans just above the knee, so as to allow the greatest movement. With his heart racing as fast as it was, and the adrenaline kicking in, he didn't need warmth. One of the pant legs was severed, now. Tearing it free, Jack threw the fabric aside. One leg to go. The Jeep had turned again, facing Jack. Standing, looking slightly awkward with one long pant leg and another short, but too focused on the Jeep to care, he held the knife low, at his side. Again accelerating, the Jeep driver had other plans of action for this pass. Just as Jack was about leap, he gave up on the idea, and the driver swerved in the direction Jack's leap was to be. The Jeep slammed into a rut on the side of the driveway. Still turning to the left, the huge vehicle was overcome by gravity. The behemoth came crashing down, still sliding several metres, before coming to a grinding halt. Unaware of the ruts previously, Jack looked to both sides of the driveway. Sure enough, both sides bore a rut, looking more like a trench than a small, lengthy ditch.

The Jeep's right door, at a forty-five degree angle to the ground, came flying open. A black-clad assassin stepped into the doorway, hunched over, standing on the edge of the door. Pulling a small Glock pistol from the dashboard of the Jeep, the assassin fired several shots at Jack. The booming sound of the bullets racing at immense speed caught Jack by surprise. Stunned for a second, before two bullets sped past his chest, one burning into his shirt, leaving a thin, charred trail, Jack dived to the ground. An army roll to the side of the road, and he was on his feet. Running blindly toward the forest, he forgot about the rut. Misjudging his stepping distance, Jack rolled his ankle as he fell awkwardly into the ditch. As he screamed out in pain, the assassin stepped out of the Jeep. Raising the Glock again, the black-clad mystery attacked fired off several rounds around Jack, to frighten him. Death by gun wasn't nearly enough fun for the assassin. The only way he would be satisfied was if he killed the poor sod with his bare hands. Approaching the ditch, it was deep enough to completely hide a person from view, until about two metres away. The closer the assassin got, the wider the smile became. Stopping momentarily, the assassin pulled two gold knuckle-dusters from his pocket. The grin covered the man's hidden face. As he stepped closer to the ditch, he blinked, slowly, wanting to take in the view of.... Nothing. Jack had gone. The assassin swore, loudly.

Seeming to materialise out of nowhere, Jack's fist slammed hard into his assailant's knee. Groaning, the black-clad man fell to the ground. Ripping the knife out of his pocket, Jack stabbed it into the man's back. Trickles of blood emerged from the wound, and the liquid seemed to explode out of the assassin's back, as Jack ripped the knife out. Not quite content, he slashed side of the man's neck. Blood trickled out, seeming to catch itself in the folds of the assassin's clothes. Despite the two massive injuries, the man stepped back up, as Jack backed off. "Doubt it." Stepping deftly forward, Jack swiped the gun from the assassin's back pocket. Quickly throwing the gun up, he pulled the trigger, once, twice.

The assassin's body fell to the ground with an unceremonious thump. Dark red blood splattered onto the ground. The blood was pooling around the body. Jack stood over the body, and raised the gun one more time. This time, the bullet was going straight into the heart. Jack pulled the trigger for a second time, and the 9mm burst to life. It tore straight through the skin, burning it's way through the assassin's body, and buried itself in the dirt. Just to make sure, Jack checked the pulse, kneeling as he did so. His finger lingered on the neck of the corpse, for one, two seconds. There was no pulse. He was well and truly dead. Dropping the gun, Jack stood, turned around and walked back to the house.

He hadn't noticed it before, but the closer he got to the house, the more Jack realised his head was throbbing. Clutching his head with one hand, he squeezed really hard. The throbbing subsided quickly. Shaking the pain out, Jack kept walking. His feet lightly crunching the dirt beneath his feet, he stepped onto the wooden porch at the front of the completely wooden house. Cautiously, Jack crept over to the window. There were curtained by flimsy pieces of cloth, but managed to allow some light to filter in, creating blurry shadows. Aside from a strange, circular shadow in the rough centre of the image, it was basic living room furniture. Satisfied with this basic surveillance, Jack approached the door and lightly rapped his fingers against it. There was no response, even after several seconds. He again knocked, this time slamming his knuckles into the door. The door, completely loose, fell away. As it did, a machine gun was kicked to life. A steady stream of bullets poured out of the barrel of the aging weapon, slamming into and splintering the door as it fell. Jack quickly spun to the left, out of the doorway, and out of the gun's sights. Bullets sped off into the woods, at blistering speeds of 710 metres a second. Trying not to get shot again, he checked the window again. The circular shadow he had seen previously had seemed to retract, and shrink. Odd, he thought. Through the door, a faint click sound emerged. "The hell?" Jack asked himself a rhetorical question, as he usually did. As soon as he finished the question, a huge boom rocked the entire house. Jack dropped to the ground, as a massive log came bursting through the woodwork of the house. The two-metre wide piece of wood tore out a huge chunk of the house's front. On it's way out, it collected one of the porch's beams, tearing it completely free. Jack rolled to the side, as the rest of the four-metre long log cleared the house. The wooden missile fell to the ground just past the porch. The entire window to Jack's left had been torn out, as had much of the surrounding panelling. His ears were almost burning. The ringing in them was absolutely intense. Cringing, Jack laid his head on the porch, shutting his eyes, hard. He groaned, wincing as the ringing began to die out. As it did, he failed to hear the second click. Only the ungodly boom. Another log, slightly smaller than the first came crashing through, barely above Jack. It had been fired from a different position than the first. It too tore down a large piece of the house's woodwork. Splinters, dust and chunks of debris rained down. The log slammed into Jack's side, throwing him forward, off the porch, and onto the hard ground. He felt a rib instantly break, and several others cracked. The air was forcibly ejected from his stomach, as he was driven at speed into the rocky driveway. Stones dug into his back, and a huge log was pressing into his side. The log had lost all its energy when it had hit Jack, and as such was only carried forward by immense momentum. Jack struggled to inhale, and coughed every time he exhaled. He spat blood twice, the red liquid landing on the dusty road. His raspy breathing was almost painful to listen to. Rolling onto his stomach, Jack desperately tried to crawl. His energy drained, all he could do was collapse every time he tried. His entire body was burning with pain. He couldn't move. Only lie, and wait. He rolled onto his side, and then onto his back again. Desperately weak, he flopped his arms out at his sides, at right angles. From above, he look as through he was being crucified on the ground. Eyes bloodshot and red, Jack closed them, and welcomed the silent, black embrace.

His eyes raced open. Sunlight burned into his retinas. Jack groaned, covering his eyes with his arm, blinking sorely. Nothing had changed since he'd fallen into his coma. Well, he wasn't sure whether it was a coma, or unconsciousness, or if he'd just fallen asleep. It didn't matter. He was here for a reason. Dusting himself off, Jack realised how much pain he had been in, before he'd fallen into whatever submissive state into which he'd fallen. Looking up, he saw the two gaping holes in the side of the house. Pieces of wood hung limply from the house. Two massive steel columns, the cannons that fired the logs, were hanging perpendicular to the floor. "How in God's name did they manage to get that working?" Again, a rhetorical question directed at himself. For a third time, Jack began walking towards the crippled building. Stepping onto the porch, again, he checked for traps. "Wouldn't put it past him." Talking to himself was one of Jack's favourite pastimes, though he wouldn't admit it. Click. "Shi-" Jack didn't finish the sentence before a third and final log came spiralling out of the house, this time on the right side of the door, not the left. It too destroyed one of the porch's support beams, and the roof above Jack couldn't deal with such little support. With an almighty creak, the overlooking room came crashing down. Still bearing damaged ribs, Jack leapt off the porch, as the room collapsed into the, also wooden, porch. The sound of wood tearing and scraping against itself was a hellish noise. As the entirety of the room fell, it seemed to explode outward, with a speedy Jack trying to outrun the devastation. Wood, like water, spilled onto the driveway, with large chunks of debris rolling along the ground awkwardly. It was the second time he'd been forced to evacuate the house, due to the seemingly random, albeit, decisively planned destruction. Ever since Jack had stepped into the vicinity of the house, destruction and death had been the object of his life. An omen, perhaps? Nothing, it seemed, could stay intact with Jack around. He looked back at the still smoldering Jeep. Including people's lives. Seeing the broken, bent and damaged vehicle still smoldering left Jack wondering how long he'd really been out. A few minutes? Hours? Maybe a day, tops. But, he thought, that meant that the log firing had been triggered by someone inside the house. Or perhaps it had been his activity outside, on the porch. Or even timed, perfectly? Timing it, however, would imply that the person responsible had an impeccable ability to see into the future, with split-second timing. Highly unlikely.

For the fourth, and 'what bloody well better be the last', time, Jack approached the house again. The collapsed room was now strewn all over the ground. Huge pieces of splintered and broken wood poked out from the wreckage like spears. It looked like a grisly, unnatural formation, resembling that of the Greek phalanx. A breeze blew in. the most disturbing thing about it, was that Jack couldn't feel the temperature of it. He felt the breeze, but no heat or cool; nothing that is generally associated with a breeze. Rubbing his tired eyes, and shaking out his tired legs, he stepped toward the house. Amazingly, the room had not collapsed over the doorway, at all. For the 10 or so centimetres either side of the doorway, there was no evidence of any destruction at all. However, the door lying at an awkward angle on the floor spoke otherwise. It was covered in bullet holes. Beyond it, was a mounted AK-47; the gun that had fired when the door had fallen. Now that he could see inside the house, Jack realised it was all a big set-up. An engineering marvel, to be honest. Wires and electrical connections had rigged all the traps to be set off. The gun was rigged to a small pressure pad on the floor, and the door now lay on top of it. The first log had been set off by a motion sensor on the right side of the window, which Jack had looked in prior to the door knocking. It was timed, too. The second log was timed to go off exactly 12 seconds after the first log was fired. It was absolutely ingenious. But that still didn't answer Jack's question of how in the hell it was all arranged. It was a wooden house. How where these traps connected to power outlets? There were none in the room. Jack kept looking around the room. Something on the other side of the room struck him as odd. It was stone-walled fireplace. In a wooden home. Seemed like an odd decision, but whoever lived here obviously enjoyed it, as they had left several bottles of wine and other alcohols in bottles underneath a nearby table.

Just before turning away from the fireplace, Jack was struck by a thought. "Fireplace. Wood home. Extremely flammable substances." He paused. "Another trap." Shaking his head, Jack ran to the other side of the room, as quick as he could. But the fire was quicker. The fireplace fired a small block of grease at the table in the middle of the room. It knocked over a glass of whisky, and the liquid spilled out. It caught fire. What Jack couldn't see was that a small hole had been drilled in both the table and a bottle of wine. The trickle of whisky, aflame, reached the bottle. Instantly, the bottle exploded, as did the other bottles of fairly expensive wine. Molten glass fragments were flung across the room, in every direction. One struck Jack in the back of the left thigh, and he fell to the ground. Reacting quickly, he managed to almost leap forward to the other side of the room, and throw himself against the wall as the entire other side of the room exploded in a spectacular alcohol-fuelled reaction. Bricks, mortar, wood and glass were flung at incredible speeds around the room, and out into the open air. The roof had caught fire, and Jack could barely walk, let alone escape. Cinder burning all around him, and the smoke filling the already thick air, Jack shut his eyes and began feeling the way around with his hands. The seemingly endless wall gave way, suddenly, to a thin doorframe. Clutching the right side of the frame, Jack jumped to the side, landing on one foot, and swung himself, backwards, into the room. A huge explosion of glass and flame tore out the rest of the overhanging roof. The wood was thrust up and out, clattering to the ground, still smoldering, several seconds later. Ripping his eyes open, Jack dived to the black and white checkerboard tiled floor. The room was tiny, and filled with appliances. It was the kitchen of the wooden house, and it was the only thing not comprised entirely of wood. In fact, there was no wood in here at all. It was all metal. Which, theoretically, meant it could stop the flames and the ensuing explosions. Looking around, Jack desperately sought an escape. There was a large windows at one end of the kitchen. It sat a metre off the ground, and a metre from the roof. Two metres in length, it was perfect for Jasan to jump through. He stepped quickly over to it, and pushed against it. A massive fireball tore through the door frame to the kitchen. Instantly, the wooden frame caught fire, and the metal around it turned yellow, almost pulsating with heat. The tiles were charred beyond recognition. It was all a big, black mess. The heat was becoming unbearable. The air around him was getting distorted, as it did in immense heat. His arm hairs stood on their ends, erected by the heat. Stepping backwards, Jack ran up to the window.

With a quick, almost insufficient run-up, Jack leapt onto a nearby stool, and jumped off, curling into a little ball. Arms covering his face, he slammed into the window. The glass pane shattered under his weight, and tiny transparent splinters dug into his arms. Glass clattered onto the driveway, which was covered in pieces of debris and smoldering wood. Uncurling from the ball, Jack landed on his good leg, and tried to bounce, before he fell, rolling a metre or two. Clumsily getting to his feet, Jack began to limp hurriedly away as the remnants of the house exploded in a gargantuan fireball. Huge pieces of flaming, burning wood rained down around Jack's ears. Covered in dust, debris and a little bit of blood, Jack was a complete mess. But he wasn't down and out, yet. Stepping slowly away, a piece of wood that had sailed tremendously high came crashing down on his back. Too weak to resist, he collapsed instantly. The wood charred his shirt, and singed his skin, but he didn't notice. He'd slipped into unconsciousness the moment he hit the ground.

However, it was offline.

So it won't show up Xbox.com.

I'll jump online when i can next.

See below.

A grenade tore a massive hole in the giant reflective glass wall ahead of them. Jasan dived behind an overturned mahogany desk. Bullets slammed into and through it. Jasan pulled another grenade from his pocket. He popped his head up momentarily, and hurled the grenade.
"3."
Bullets slammed once more into the table, splintering the wood. A tracer burned it's way through.
"2."
Two or three more tracer rounds penetrated the table.
"1."
Jasan's grenade exploded. The men in the hallway had not seen him through the small explosive, and failed to notice it lying at their feet. The explosion tore the men apart, and they died instantly. Those across the long corridor where thrown off their feet. Several men clamped down involuntarily on their guns triggers as they fell. The sound of shattering glass, smoldering, collapsing metal, and the roar of gunfire. It sounded to Jasan as though the world was ending. For him, it was.
"Go."
Jasan bounded over the table, and ran down the corridor. Glass fragments and blood and wood was spiralling around in the fiery maelstrom that was the grenade explosion. Arm up, covering his face, he began sprinting. The men that survived the explosion watched helplessly as they either died, or reloaded. Jasan reached quickly into his pocket, pulling out a smaller lighter-esque device. He fumbled with the red flick-top. The opposite glass wall was getting closer. Lowering his head, looking down at the floor, Jasan kept running. The flames from the grenade had began to subside, but massive scorches marked the roof and the remnants of the floor. He used his now free hand to grab a small grenade lying on the floor, and, looking momentarily up, threw it.

The grenade shattered the wall, and huge glass fragments cascaded down into the floor, and then out into the air. To the people who bothered to look up, they saw a huge shower of glass, that soon became a beautiful display of lighting as the midday sun glistened upon it. The people on the ground screamed and began running for cover from the man-made storm. Jasan just ran forward. Then he hit the cascade and began falling through. One of the men had just reloaded his gun, and, slightly dazed, opened fire. The automatic fire of his Steyr AUG assault rifle tore through the glass.

Jasan fell quickly, on an angle. He needed to fall quickly. Arms rigid at his side, and his legs straight back behind him, he fell like a bullet. But his eyes were fixated on a nearby rooftop. 12 more feet... The rooftop was rushing toward him VERY quickly. 10 feet. 8 feet. 5 feet. 3...

In a single, fluid, fast movement, Jasan had his hand outstretched in front of him. His hand hit the roof first, and he bent his am at the elbow, and lowered himself. He quickly moved himself over the hand, and lifted it, landing on his forehead. Rolling once, twice, then thrice, he stood, and dropped the gun in his other hand. He realised he'd left the lighter on the building. He shrugged. A good thief comes prepared. He pulled a second, larger object from his backpack. It was a detonation device, similar to the one still on the building. He quickly jabbed a small spark plug into the side, turning the device on. As his finger hovered over a small orange button, the huge building behind him exploded. To the untrained eye, it seemed that an entire floor; the kitchen, conveniently, had spontaneously combusted.

"Run." Jasan's whole body was trembling. Something was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. He began moving backwards, dropping the device and his backpack. Huge flames spewed into the open air, as hundreds, possibly thousands, of civilians watched, all horrifed. Many were concerned for the dead. But there were no dead. Today, that floor was vacant. The only casualties were the soldiers. And there it came. The rythmic whump whump of rotor blades.

"Shit." He spat. 'Run, run, run, run...' His body told him to run, to flee, but he stood still rooted to the spot. But why? The whump grew louder, as Jasan was rooted to the spot. A German-made Tiger UHT came slowly into sight. "Run." As the helicopter's tinted, glass cockpit came into view, he finally did. Awkwardly dropping his backpack to the floor, he sprinted. The helicopter rotor blades drew a heavy wind, and his messy, blonde hair flew in his face. As the entire helicopter became visible, Jasan reached the edge of the roof. He took a long step, stood on the edge of the roof, and leaned forward. 90 degrees. 80. 65. 45. 20. 0. He was on a 180 degree angle to the roof now, and gravity took complete hold.

Deacon hung by a tiny thread of high-tensile rope, launched from a pneumatic grappling hook; the same hook that had hit me, and left four bloody holes in my stomach. Jasan was slipping, I could see that, as he sturggled to keep Deacon elevated, and tried desperately to keep him alive. Then the second bomb. A white contrail rose high into the bleak, Amazonian sky. Towering above the green expanse of rainforest, it detonated. Flattening the trees, it's shock wave headed straight for us. And this was the second one. It hit the chopper, and Jasan let go. Deacon plummeted. Jasan grabbed Troy, the pilot and tore him from his seat. They both dived for the rear, as the chopper crashed.

Pain surged through my body. I couldn't stop the blood. I was dying. And couldn't do anything.

Carlos lay dying, bleeding on the ground. Deacon's gun, an M16, had torn up his chest with it's burst-fire. Three huge, bloody bullet-holes had torn his chest apart. Jasan and Troy were already on their feet, running toward Deacon's body. From the darkness, Troy had fired a single shot. With spot-on aim, the bullet had hit his forehead; an instant kill. "Move, Troy!" Jasan screamed, picking up Deacon's M16.

The huge cavern came to life almost instantaneously. Gold-coloured men rose from among the huge piles of the gold. The second most precious metal on the face of the planet sat in seemingly infinite amounts, within easy reach. But it was run, or die clutching the gold. Jasan decided to run. More men streamed in from another of the holes, the Incan side. They weren't clad in gold paint. And they had guns. Then the reality struck Jasan. The Spanish conquistadors had never truly destroyed the native Americans. They had hunted them to near extinction, but they were by no means dead. Here, they could see, was where they had thrived.

Three words echoed throughout the cavern, all different. All the men standing upon the gold held something up. Bows. The tiny metal tip of the arrow head glinted in the counterfeit light. Three more words. Bows twanged, and arrows soared. Only six or so arrows flew in Jasan and Troy's direction. Raising his gun, Jasan was about to fire, when he saw the men on the other side of the cave get impaled by a frighteningly accurate hail of arrows. Dashing forward, he grabbed Deacon's corpse. The gunmen opposite them recovered from the withering hail of volley fire. Now they were prepared. Nine more words echoed around the cavern. Three sentences. Three words per sentences. As he dived into the blackness, Troy realised what was happening. "They're Aztec, Mayan AND Incan." he unintentionally said aloud. Jasan jerked his head in the pilot's direction. "Really Sherlock. You're a-fu--"

Gunfire erupted from the Incan tunnel. The white flashes of automatic gunfire lit up the darkness inside the Incan cavern. Several Indians dropped to their knees. Others went sprawling backwards, thrown off their feet by the withering volley of arrows. An Indian roared something in Aztec. An arrow was sent flying high into the cavern. The thin, wooden projectile shattered a thin piece of grass rope, high up above the door the gunners had charged through. Two of the Indians fell face first onto the gold, blood pooling around them. One of the others was hit in the shoulder, and spiralled backwards.

The mighty Amazon rainforest. It stretched for hundreds of miles, like a green gargantuan stain on the face of the Earth. Hovering over it, at about an altitude of roughly 12 000 ft was a Bell 430, a commercial helicopter, manufactured in 1996; one of only 123. 13 years, and thousands of dollars in upkeep later, it still flew.

Over 6 hours of travel in said Bell 430 had tired the passengers. The pilot stared dutifully out the cockpit window. Jasan was wide awake in the passenger area. The passenger area was stripped bare; only two beds nailed to the floor for Jasan and his partner. He sat on his bed; it was stiff and uncomfortable. His back ached every time he slept on it. Still, some sleep was better than none.

"Descending." The helicopter's custom built PA system dinged. "Door opening." Jasan faced the speakers, embedded in the floor of the chopper. That, at least, was unique. The door to the cockpit opened, and the co-pilot strode out, stretching his legs. Jasan's partner, Deacon, awoke with a huge yawn. Eyes fluttering, he was still tired. The sleepy man sat on his bed also, staring into Jasan's eyes.

The eye contact lasted a mere moment. Deacon turned and grabbed onto a latch in the wall. Above it was a grappling hook, for easy escape. Or, Jasan reflected, for pulling unlucky enemy men toward you. Jasan stood, and stretched his arms, himself still tired, and slightly sore. His arm reached out and opened a locker beside him. It contained a gun; his prized M16A4. A silencer was affixed to its barrel. Grabbing it, Jasan stepped toward the door, as it opened.

Wind hit Jasan hard, and he stepped back. Suddenly, he was cold. The buffeting wind, combined with the cold Amazon atmosphere was penetrating Jasan's thing singlet easily. His khaki pants were providing more heat and comfort though. The helicopter's PA dinged again. "Second door opening." They were prerecorded, digital voices. Cold and emotionless.

The opening of the second door was also accompanied by an influx of cold. Jasan began to shiver, outwardly. Deacon stood, also, covered by his light, fleece blanket. "Watch that doesn't fly out." The co-pilot chuckled. Deacon turned to face him. "Huh?" He yelled.

As they watched the endless expanse of green, admiring the river that seemed almost carved into the landscape, a tiny contrail of smoke rose high into the air, almost to their altitude. Jasan squinted. "What the hell is that?" The co-pilot stepped toward, seemingly unaffected by the cold. Jasan pointed. "I'm not su-"

Suddenly, the tip of the contrail exploded. No fireball. Just a massive shock wave. The air seemed to split like the ocean. Trees beneath the contrail were uprooted and flung around the area. In an instant, 100 square feet of forest was cleared. But the wave didn't stop. It lost power on the ground almost immediately after the 100 foot radius. But not in the air.

The wave struck the chopper, and the cockpit glass shattered. Forsted fragments of glass bombarded the pilot. In the same moment, the chopper was thrust backwards, it's nose rising higher than the back. As the wave passed, it fell back down. But the damage was done. Deacon was sunsteady on his feet in a helicopter as it was. As the wave struck, he was flung sideways. With both doors open, he couldn't stop himself.

Deacon fell back onto his left foot. His right hand reached out for something to grab; there was nothing. The co-pilot reached out, but too late. Deacon's blanket caught a guts of wind, and he was dragged further backwards. Jasan turned to watch his friend get flung from the helicopter, out into the cold Amazon air.

The first thing that hit Deacon was the cold. Winter, it seemed, had settled on the Amazon rainforest like a cold, harsh behemoth. The air was buffeting him, hard. Suddenly, drops of water fell from the sky. In Australia, rain falls slowly at first. Then gets faster and faster. In the Amazon, it falls in one downpour. The rain pelted Deacon hard. Then he realised he was falling. "God!" He spat. Deacon panicked, adrenalin pumping through his frozen veins. Frantically, he searched for something, anything. Then he found it; his hand hit it hard. The pneumatic grappling hook.

Hurriedly, he unfastened the hook from his belt, and held tight. Squeezing the trigger, he looked down. Gasping, and rain stinging his face, he looked back up. To his surprise, the Bell 430 was lowering itself down toward him. Jasan stood in the open door, rain pelting him as well. The wind and the rain made for an unbearable combination. Jasan's voice came to him through a tiny earpiece he'd had inserted three hours earlier. "Fire it now!" He screamed. In the chopper, the co-pilot, still in the centre of the chopper, and mostly dry, tapped Jasan's shoulder, and his arm was pelted with freezing rain. "Uh.." All Deacon heard was the mutter.

Without a second thought, he fired the hook. It soared overhead in a marvellous arc. The air was becoming colder and colder as he fell, and the rain likened itself to frozen pin missiles. The first struck Deacon's face, and he cringed. The pain was extreme. The Bell continued to descend. Suddenly, the hook punched into the helo's stomach. Horrified, he watched it fall limp out the other side. Deacon swore, loudly, over the pouring rain. Then, quickly, it retracted and got caught.

"What!" Jasan yelled to the co-pilot, striking the man with fear. "Look." He said quietly, pointing. Then, Jasan saw the tensile rope of the grappling hook line the floor on the chopper. He kneeled, as it began to reel back. He hadn't even looked past the co-pilot's hand. The hook clamped on the wet underbelly of the helicopter. A loud groaning noise filled the tense air. "The shi-?" The co-pilot asked, cut off mid-sentence, as the grappling hook came loose, and slammed into his chest. The hook burst open, it's claws sticking into the co-pilot's body. Screaming with agony, he began to be pulled backwards.

Deacon felt the tug, and his arms felt as though they had been torn from their sockets. They nearly had. Then the hook slipped. He fell once more, horror overwhelming his body. He stopped again, and one of his shoulder's rippled in pain. "Jasan!" He screamed over the comm. "What'd I catch?" No reply for a second. The static. Then Jasan's voice, accompanied by a pained groan. "The co-pilot."

Deacon's eyes grew wide. No man could hold the hook in himself for very long. Nor could a corpse. He had two choices. Climb now, or let go. He didn't make a choice. He didn't have time. The hook came losse once again, and he fell a little. There was still a tug, however.

Water now lined the floor of the chopper. Blood mingled with it, dripping off in some places. It was a gruesome sight. Jasan now held the rope in his hand, dragging it toward the nearest bolted-down object. Deacon's bed. Slowly, he stepped one foot at a time, toward the bed. The wind lashed the chopper. For all they knew, no-one was piloting it. But there was someone. Though, he was bleeding severely. His blood covered the controls, dripping from wounds in his hands that had been received from the explosion of glass. Every movement was painful. But he knew Deacon had fallen, and he knew he had to save him.

Deacon just held onto the rope with one arm; his right shoulder had been severely damaged in the fall. Jasan was sweating like crazy, the huge weight on the end of the rope was a struggle. The rain was soaking Deacon to the bone, and he was becoming heavier with every drop. Several red lines marked his body; areas where the frozen missiles had bombarded him. The cold was almost unbearable. Shivering uncontrollably, he looked back up. He was slowly coming ever closer.

Jasan breathed heavily, and the co-pilot watched him struggle. Running out of breath and energy himself, he stood weakly, leaning against the wall to the pilot's cabin. Four red blotches of blood stained his shirt, and pain racked his body. A huge gust of wind entered the helicopter and turned the world into chaos. Hidden flaps burst open, and supplies swirled around the cockpit. The pilot's door burst open, and the chopper veered dangerously left. "Fu-!" Jasan began, as the slipped on the wet floor. He fell hard, landing on his chest. He grunted, trying to vent the pain. He felt the rope pull taught, and he began sliding, unable to stop himself. He had to let go. Either way, Deacon would die. Desperate, and paining, Jasan opened his hand wide, and the hook slid.

Deacon felt the rope fall completely loose, and knew there was no going back. In his teeth he held the blanket that had been the cause of this falling. He was breathing through his nose, and was shivering violently. The rope in his hand began to fall, and so did he. He'd never been more scared in his life. Free-falling at 10, 000 feet, with only the Amazon rainforest beneath him. And only a blanket and useless hook to accompany him. He shut his eyes.

Jasan stood immediately, ignoring the pain, and grabbed a nearby cloth. The helicopter was still a scene of chaos. Leaning against the wall for support, he stepped toward the co-pilot, now free of the rope. In the wind, a flap ahead of him opened, and smashed hard into the wall, centimetres from his face. Jasan slipped again, his right knee hitting the metallic floor. He grunted. The co-pilot groaned, and stepped forward. He was too dizzy. Blood stained his shirt.

Still holding the cloth, Jasan stood again. Rain buffeted the two men. The cloth was wet and heavy. But he made it. Jasan stepped right next to the co-pilot. "Shirt, off, now." Puzzled, the co-pilot followed his orders. Jasan quickly wrapped the cloth around him, tight. The blood pooled on the cloth, now. But eventually, it would stop the flow of the blood, and make it clot. "Now, what did you want me to look at?" Jasan asked. The co-pilot pointed. "Oh God.."

Another white smoke contrail. Then, the tip exploded. Jasan dived for one of the doors, and grabbed the handle. As the huge sonic wave closed in, he slammed the huge steel door shut. "The other one!" He screamed. The co-pilot turned, but too late. The wave slammed into the chopper. Already on an angle, the Bell 430 began to fall.

"Close that damn door!" Jasan screamed. The co-pilot ran for the door, and slipped on the wet floor. The chopper spun in a circle, slowly heading for the forest floor. Jasan sprinted across the cabin, leaping over the co-pilot and slamming into the door. His right arm throbbed, and he grabbed the door hinge with his left hand. "Help!" Pulling hard, he shut the door. "Drop!" He screamed.

Both men hit the ground. Anything that wasn't screwed down was spiralling through the air. A loud screeching filled the air. "What the hell is that?" Almost in response, one of the beds came off it's hinges, and smashed into the wall near the pilot's cabin. "Stay down!" The helicopter kept spiralling. Suddenly, it became shaking violently. The blades could be heard constantly slicing through something thick. Virgin wood; untouched rainforest.

Jasan stood, and tried to walk. Losing his footing, he took a huge step toward the pilot's cabin. The chopper hit a huge fallen tree trunk. The entire helo buckled, and tipped forward. The co-pilot slid into the nearest wall, as the chopper began to dive nose first. Taken completely off guard, Jasan slipped into the pilot's cabin. There sat the pilot, his hands and controls bloodied. Jasan hit the control panel. Despite the pain, he groaned. "How high off the ground are we?" The pilot strained to see his companion. "100 feet."

"Out, now!" Jasan tore the pilot from his seat, and began dragging him up the chopper. Now on a dangerous angle, the chopper was headed straight for the ground. "How long 'til collision?" Jasan yelled, the pilot now crawling beside him. "Three."
"What?!?!"
"Two."
"Co-pilot, move your ass!!!!"
"One."
All three men leapt for the rear of the chopper.

The Bell 430 didn't hit the hard ground. It hit even harder river. The already shattered windscreen stood no chance. Neither did the cockpit. Crushed almost instantly, Jasan, the pilot and co-pilot were all huddled together in a group at the rear of the chopper. Jasan held his gun, the M16A4. The co-pilot had Deacon's M4 Carbine. An ACOG scope rested comfortably on top. Everything else was the site of pure chaos. Bent and buckled metal. Explosions erupted from several core components of the Bell 430. It's blades, already damaged from the slicing on the way down, were completely buckled and smashed. Water burst into the cockpit and spilled out into main cabin. The right-side door was completely smashed open, torn down the middle by a huge tree. Jasan recognised nature's power. It could always destroy anything man made. But those contrail bombs. Were they after him, or for the purely commercial purpose of tree felling. Either way.

All three of the men were bloodied, bruised and totally exhausted. Jasan had cuts from the glass in the cockpit, the co-pilot had the holes from the grappling hook and the pilot had the slices and lacerations from the glass explosion. A small trickle of blood marked his face. Water kept gushing into the sinking Bell. Huddled up in the very back corner of the helicopter, all they could do was wait, and hope.

Suddenly, the chopper hit the bottom of the river. It lurched forward slightly, then stopped. They were safe. Unaware of the dangers of the Amazon's waters, Jasan sprinted forward, and slammed the cockpit door shut. No surprises. The destroyed right wall lay angled into the air. In the cabin, the water sloshed forward and back, and crystal clear, with the motion of the chopper. A warm, tropical air filled the chaotic area.

Jasan stood thigh deep in the cold, beautiful water. It sloshed at his feet, soothing his wounds. His legs were paining more severely; intensified by the healing properties of water. The liquid cleaned the gashes and soothed his legs, numbing the veins. He sat down in it, almost completely immersed, and lay his head back, wetting his hair. There was nothing quite as refreshing.

The pilot, bleeding and sore joined his friend. Groaning, he also sat himself down. Jasan closed his eyes and kept his hair under the water. "Names?" He asked. The pilot also shut his eyes, and took a full body dip, for a second. Resurfacing, he addressed Jasan's question. "Matthew. The other guy is Carlos." Jasan nodded.

The co-pilot ignored the water, and began to scavenge the wreckage. Huge pieces of shrapnel lined the chopper's main cabin. Official looking papers were scattered across the floor. Jasan stood, and left the water and headed for the right hand door. Suddenly, a huge burst of flame erupted from the cockpit.

Water gushed into the stomach of the steel behemoth. A huge alligator, carried by the tide, swept into the cockpit. It's bulky frame couldn't fit through the tiny corridor, built for humans. Carlos was stunned, momentarily. He sighed. More chaos. All three men leapt into action almost immediately. But, everything went wrong. Another huge burst of fire and shrapnel erupted from the left side of the chopper. It came from within the pilot's cabin. Essentially the entire part was torn open, freeing up the space of the deadly alligator. The flames lightly scorched the huge beast's scales. It didn't seem concerned.

It floated lazily on a tiny wave. It's eyes flickered gently. A false sense of security. Lovely. Jasan, still holding his gun, swam toward his tiny locker; a section built into the chopper itself. The door was torn off, and some scrap metal rested on it's hinges. But, still magentically fastened, was his knife. A huge hunting knife. Pressing the button in the centre of the magnet device, it came free. Right as the gator lunged. Knees bent, and feet planted on the wall, Jasan kicked away. The huge beast flew straight past him, coming to a grinding halt right in front of the wall, and then swimming lazily. Jasan gasped. Air. He needed air. The water was flowing in like crazy now. Barely a metre of space sat uselessly between the air and the chopper's roof. He didn't have much time. Kicking frantically, he broke the surface. Carlos was huddled right up against the rear section, still dry. His wounds would have seemed to ignite themselves on fire had he touched the water. Matthew surfaced near him. "Gator." Was all he said. Jasan nodded, watching the animal's raw strength and massive bulk carve effortlessly through the pristine water. Another huge burst of flame. The entire left side of the chopper fell away, heated intensely.

Most of the open space was filling with water. In about five seconds, they'd be trapped. Panicking, Jasan kicked harder and faster. Beneath the aquatic chaos, the alligator felt Jasan's kicking. It turned, and in the space of a second, rushed forward. Unable to stop the charging beast, Jasan simply dived under, heading straight down. He narrowly missed the beast's stomach, as it broke the surface. What it didn't know, however, was who held the knife. In the single spare second, Jasan threw the sheathed knife to Matthew, who now held it, unsheathed and glinting, in his hand. Without a pause for thought, he thrust down, with tremendous force. The blade pierced the alligator's brain, and it died instantly. Eyes wide, and blood leaking from the hole in it's head, the corpse of the massive beast was floating harmlessly.

Carlos felt the panels behind him rumbling, and he stepped forward. The water was lapping at his feet. Then, the entire tail section fell away, leading to a three- or four-foot drop to solid ground. Jasan watched it drop. Surfacing in a bare fourteen centimetres of water, he called to Matt. "Out, now!" He yelled, pointing. Beneath the water, the pilot nodded, and began swimming. His head pressing hard against the roof, and struggling for air, he dived. Carlos stood in the gap, not willing to jump onto super-heated metal. No-one blamed him. Simply because there was no-one there to do the blaming. Jasan and Matt surfaced behind him. They trekked out of the watter slowly, like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean, water falling in rivulets off their faces. "Go!" Jasan called. "Hot." Was Carlos' single word reply. Pushing him out of the way, Jasan threw off his shirt, scrunched in into a ball, and threw it at the large metal strip. The cold water hit the hot metal, and steam poured out from the shirt. Matthew did the same, with the same effect. "Jump."

The three men all leapt simultaneously. Landing on Jasan's now outstretched shirt, they leapt over the metal and onto the green grass. All they could do now was watch the Bell 430, after 13 years of excellent performance fall to nature's raw power. Nothing quite like it, Jasan thought. Sprawled on his back, head cocked up to watch the chopper, he looked around. The area was, certainly, a massive clearing. But it was what was at the far end that puzzled him. A cave. Huge, and with a circular shaped entrance, it was decorated with carvings. "Look." He said, sitting upright. It was about 30 metres away. The three men stood, and began walking, slowly. Only now, in a moment of peace, did they realize how tired they were. Carlos' wounds had stopped bleeding, yet not paining. Jasan felt his cuts and grazes flaming up occassionally. Matthew simply ignored the pain of his. A moment later, they were up against the wall, staring at the glyphs, completely dumbstruck. They were Aztecs symbols.

"Jesus.' the three men were standing in complete awe. "The final resting place of the Aztecs." Matthew stroked one of the carvings. An air of mystery emanated from the cave, like no-one had set foot in here for over 300 years. "In." The three men ducked in, and stood tall. Behind them, the light of the light forest tried to penetrate the obscene blackness, yet failed miserably. Ahead of them, was nothing they could see. Only black. They kept walking, arms flailing out in front, trying to grasp something, anything that will aid them.

The thin light completely vanished. Slightly nerve-racked, yet determined, the men pressed on. One more step, two, three, into possible oblivion. For all they know, it could be a trap. Four steps. Five. And light. Light flooded into their eyes as they kept walking. Twenty-three steps into the hellish black and there was light. It was unnatural, and slightly unnerving. Still walking, they rounded a corner. What they saw their took their breath away.

Gold. Piles upon piles of gold. TRILLIONS of dollars worth of the stuff. A small group of huts surrounded a tiny pit in the centre of the massive cavern. Two other gaping holes, exactly the same, pocked the cave. They were borne with Mayan and Incan symbols. Matthew examined the rim of this hole. More Aztecs carvings. "Oh my God." He said.

"This is THE final resting place of the Native Americans. But what about all this gold?" Only then did he realise how his voice carried. It echoed throughout the cavern. Anyone in here knew he was there now. "And the pit?" Then it hit him. The huts were of different make; Mayan, Incan and Aztec. The pit was a battle ground. The victors would have claim to the gold for a period of time. Then their would be more battle. Completely brutal, but strangely fair. The Aztecs, he guessed, were entitled to most of the gold.
Out of nowhere, three men stepped, all holding M4 Carbines. Jasan stepped back. Carlos ducked back into the dark. "Hello. Jasan."

"Deacon?" Jasan asked. "Sure enough." Deacon stepped into the light again, revealing his face. "How did you survive?" Deacon laughed at the comment. "Magic." He taunted. Suddenly serious, he held his Carbine to Jasan's head. "You see, Jasan. I've always envied you." He faced the gold. "So, as a final adieu, welcome to El Dorado." Jasan raised his hand. "So this is all about envy, then?" Deacon nodded.

Inside the rock cavern, two guns were fired, illuminating the cavern slightly. Shortly after, two corpses fell limp, to the ground.

An explosion rocked the dirtied, white Toyota Landcruiser. Debris hit the metal sides, denting it severely. The car swerved, as one of it's tyres was scorched by the flames. Smoke trailed behind the Landcruiser as it left the explosion remnants. The driver, a sniper by the name of Python, brought the car back under control. Another eruption of debris, smoke and flame shot up from the other side of the thin, dusty road. Dust, dirt and tiny pieces of rock pelted the car. The passenger, another sniper named Tread, lay two rifles;one battle and another an automatic. The AR-10 belonged to the driver, a more experienced soldier, and the M14 automatic rifle belonged to Tread.

A third explosion rocked the Landcruiser. Tread spun around, notcing a thin, white smoke contrail. "Shit! RPGs!" The driver kept his eyes on the road, as another RPG slammed into the dust. "If these are RPGs what were the other two?" Python screamed over the explosion. "Landmines!" Yelled back the passenger. "Fuck." Two more RPGs flew in from nearby rooftops, as they entered Baghdad. Machine guns also opened fire on the Landcruiser. An RPG launcer rested behind Tread's seat. "Grab the launcher!" Python screamed. Explosions erupted all around them, and bullets hammered the now bitumen road, and narrowly missing the car's tyres.

A corner. Python screamed to the passenger. "Hold on!" He hit the brakes. hard. The two back wheels of the Landcruiser died, momentarily. The front ones kept going, and the car drifted to the side. An RPG exploded beside the Landcruiser. Shaken and battered, Python slammed into the nearest building, shattering a window. Tread, unable to keep a hold of the RPG launcher, let it go. The launcher fell from the car window, hitting the bitumen. As they fell, the trigger bounced back. A grenade spiralled out of the barrel and bounced up, exploding on a building. Several men were blown off the building, and onto the street. Their screams punctured the air.

Python let go of the barkes, and sped forward. The explosions had stopped temporarily. The bullets hadn't. Ahead, Python saw a ramp, leading onto the rooftops of a low building. Right behind the house, was a huge hill. Foot flat on the accelerator, Python hit the ramp, and shot over the building.

Right beneath the short building was another, level with the one Python was now driving over. To Tread, it seemed suicidal. More and more bullets splintered the roofs around them. Python this the egde of the roof, bouncing onto the next. Driving straight, he could see another building several metres ahead. Just as they reached the end of the second roof, it exploded. Then, everything went rapidly, horribly wrong. The explosion tore up a huge chunk of the roof, and the LandCruiser jolted. Debris slammed into the windshield, cracking the fragile glass. Huge, frosted lines, all jagged rendered the windshield unable to see through.

"Shit!" Tread swore, loudly. The car left the rooftop awkwardly, on an angle. As they landed, the two left wheels took the brunt of the force. The LandCruiser almost bounced, as they left suspension snapped under the pressure. Python swore as well. The car fell onto it's right wheels, crippled. The entire vehicle was on an angle, supported on the left side by nothing but the tyre guard. But the bullets never relented. Nor did the new onslaught of explosions. Huge chunks of nearby buildings were destroyed by stray missiles. Missiles. Tread watched missile-men aim at the vehicle. "Python! Missiles!"

Several Stingers were from different areas around the city, and slammed into the nearby buildings, their co-ordinates falling short. The LandCruiser, beaten, battered and broken was about to die. But Python never gave up.

Around him, entire buildings erupted in spectacular shows of fire, smoke and debris. "Fire at them!" Python yelled to Tread.Gripping the wheel, his knuckles pure white, adrenaline fuelled the drive forward. Nothing but adrenaline. Tread could see it. And he knew what created adrenaline. Fear. The great Python was afraid.

On the ground, an Iraqi commander watched the LandCruiser press on, over the buildings, with explosion and bullets all around. Walls the vehicle collapsed, yet the determind driver kept going. Rotating around, on a helicopter's vision camera, he could see the frosted windshield. The driver couldn't see out of the windshield. So, he, the commander, had the complete advantage.

A nearby helicopter hovered lower than usual, prepping a missile. It would have one chance to get this shot perfect, or have the entire helicopter blasted out of the sky by remote explosives. The Iraqi reward for punishment. For seven seconds it waited, for the LandCruiser to make a fatal error. And finally, it did.

Unable to see, Python could only steer based on what he felt and heard. He couldn't have known there was a drop at the end of this building. But there was.

Suddenly, the helicopter opened fire, with the single missile. It took barely two seconds to hit it's target, but it worked.

Just as Python reached the halfway point of the roof, the edge exploded. "Shit!" He yelled, barely able to hear due to the explosion's proximity. He released his grip on the wheel, and suddenly the car veered left. As the roof collapsed, he slammed the left wall of the house. The impact pressed the hood of the LandCruiser inward. The back wall fell onto the very back of the LandCuirser, shearing away the boot door, and missing Tread's seat by inches. The front wall was blasted by a missile of some sorts, and obliterated. The debris spouna round the round, pounding the Toyota. Python ducked as soon as he heard the blast, hiding behind the steering wheel. Chunks of debris smashed the windshield completely, tearing all the glass from the sockets, leaving an empty space. The elite sniper could now see. His knuckles felt strange, as if they had locked up on him, but he had to keep going. Python reversed, as Tread hung onto his seat for dear life.

The LandCruiser reversed for two whole building lengths. It stopped when it slammed into the far wall. An explosive hit this wall, as well. It collapsed, right as the LandCruiser sped forward. It slammed into the forward wall, and broke straight through it. Turning to the left, and fighting a desperately losing battle with the steering wheel, Python turned out onto the street. Thousands of guns opened fire, and many thousands of bullets bounced around the road, dangerously close to the speeding vehicle. Still turning left, and trying to cross the street, Python still tried to fight. He knew that if he survived this ordeal; and the odds were resolutely stacked against him, he would have no energy to run or fight. Sweat covered his brow. He couldn't wipe it off or he would lose control. Tread, of his own accord, grabbed his automatic battle rifle, still resting on the floor of the LandCruiser and began to open fire. His accuracy was spot-on, and he shot the closest of the Iraqi soldiers. The deathtoll rose to five, now, with the three quick deaths.

Suddenly, however, something detonated on the road ahead. Flames licked at the hood of the Toyota, and bullets slammed into it's doors. One bullet missed Python's feet by inches. The explosion had torn up the road, creating a makeshift, bitumen ramp. Unable to stop, the LandCruiser hit the jump, and into the air.

Soaring, the Toyota slammed into the corner of a rooftop, landing on one wheel. Unable to support itself, the vehicle dropped of the edge, still continuing forward. Gunning it, right as the back wheel of the LandCruiser hit the roof's edge, the vehicle lurched forward. Try as he might, Python had completely lost control. Tread was about to fly out of the car, when he jumped forward. He jumped over the two second row of seats, and landed in a straight line, across them all. Deathly still, he just waited.

The LandCruiser bowled straight through the wall of the next building, at the same time as a huge missile slammed into the base. The two hits shook the building's foundations. The LandCruiser landed on it's left side, and rolled. The roof buckled, severely. Tread dived to the floor. Python attempted to unbuckle his seat belt. But it wouldn't come undone.

Python ducked low as he could, as the roof crumpled, barely inches from his head. The Totoyta kept rolling, slamming through the nearest wall, still with incredible speed. Tread was thrown from side to side of the car. His arms and legs were bruising, and his ribs were being battered. Python, out of energy, and desperate grabbed his knife from the glove box, while the car fell, sliced his seat belt, spun and dived. He landed on the second row of seats and rolled to the floor, clutching the seat lever, and pulled.

The LandCruiser slammed into the ground. Hard. The entire roof was destroyed; obliterated in a split-second. Tread's head hit the seat in front of the him as they landed. All the other seats were busted; torn apart and shredded by the raging metal. Nearby, the ground burst into a huge fireball. Dust rained down on the LandCruiser once again. The gunfire ceased. Both men were flat on the floor. To any outsiders, no man could have survived the absolute atrocity. The LandCruiser stopped it's constant rocking. Then there was silence. Nothing. No sounds. That was their chance.

Assassin's Creed

Trying to explain the big picture behind Assassin's Creed plot/storyline is hard. So I won't. You can discover it for yourself.

I WILL however, say that the plot is slightly confusing in places. Turns out, watching those un-freaking-skippable cutscenes actually helps after all.

The gameplay in Assassin's Creed features mostly *shock horror* killing. These killings can be executed in several brutal, or sometimes utterly silent ways. The combat is divided into two sections; low-profile and high-profile. Low-profile isn't COMBAT, as much as it IS silent assassinations. High-profile is barbaric, bloody fighting, with swords, throwing knives, and, occassionally, a good ol' fist fight.

Low-profile offers you the comfort of being able to (slowly) explore the entire city freely. That is, until later on in the game when the guards of Acre, Damascus and Jerusalem, become aware of your presence, due to repeated killings and open-crowded assassinations. High-profile, however, is for the gamer that prefers more hands-on, or, in this case, swords on, killing.

As the game progresse, Altair, the Assassin as whom you play, learns several skills and abilities. Some of these skills include Counter Kills, parries and regaining balance. Counter Kills can (and often will) involve brutal stabs, slices and cuts employed to execute guards (or maybe, in Masyaf, assassins) with ease.

Assassin's Creed is centred around the five major areas; most of them cities: Masyaf, the city of the Assassins, Damascus, built around a canal, Acre, the centre of the European occupation and Jerusalem, the Holy City. Each city has a distint theme; Acre has it's dark, grey walls and buildings. Damascus, with it's sun-baked mud buildings, and essentially a brown colour theme. Jerusalem is a combination of both; wood, walls and mud.

Information
Genre: Action/Adventure
Price: AU$90.00
Rating: M - Strong violence, Strong themes.

Xbox 360 achievements

Achievements

So yea, I spent today using up my free month of Xbox Live Gold; first day.

And, I reckon I did pretty good.

I play ranked mainly; only played Social with my brother;Eternal Debut.

My Gamertag is ZeeAk.

Add me up sometime.

I'll mainly play Halo 3, CoD 4, Burnout Paradise and Dynasty Warriors 6.

Also, check out my Halo 3 Service Record. =D

Also, my Halo 3 File Share.

The Pagani Zonda rested easily on the sunbaked dock. The nearby white-washed buildings and pools of salt water mixed with fresh, rain water were also lazily sitting on the concrete, placed against a gorgeous, Hawaiian backdrop; the sun falling beneath the sea. Michael Weston stepped of his boat; a Larson Cabrio 370 Day Cruiser. The white boat's black trim was eye-catching, if nothing else, and the square, steel anchor hovering restlessly over the concrete was glinting in the dying sun. It took several paces for Michael to reach his car, the Zonda. With barely a care, he had left it unlocked. Stopping, Michael looked around the dock once more. Something wasn't right. Several doves flew overhead, disappearing seconds later behind the extinct volcano. The dock was empty, aside from the boats occupying the marina berths, and the birds floating, tensed, on the water. Dinner time, Michael knew. Stepping into the Zonda, Michael drove off; the car was set to start immediately, courtesy of an old favour with an engineer friend. Driving onto the motorway, Michael began to speed. He was a billionaire on vacation. He deserved to.

The tunnel loomed ahead. Barely several meters stopped Michael from entering it. Suddenly, it exploded. Huge chunks of concrete debris was sent hurtling through the air. The volcano's hillside was peppered with the huge missiles. The fireball punched up into the sky. Michael began to reverse, looking into the rear-view mirror on the roof of his car. In the tiny mirror, another fireball loomed up. The explosion was seen before it was heard. Still, pieces of concrete rained down, and the tunnel collapsed in on itself. Over the radio, Michael heard someone else report a massive explosion on O'ahu's western side. They weren't wrong. The shockwave finally caught up with the sound, and the power of the explosive carried the Pagani, smashing into the hillside. Michael had time to open the door itself before he was thrown out by the force of the impact. The car smashed into oblivion. It was pulverized. From up here, he saw a single person climbing over the wreckage of the tunnel, jumping over gaps, climbing up other parts. Michael could also see the dock. Or, what was left. Every one of the boats were destroyed. There was nothing to signify them as marine vessels. Most of the concrete had been torn up, revealing a gaping hole with slanted down into the water.The water itself was now black with murk. But worse, was the fleet of barges slipping in the dock. A helicopter arose from beneath the hull. Its rotor blades began to spin rapidly, and it lifted.

A Japanese flag was waving in the deathly wind atop the bridge of the boat. The entire top of the hull of the Japanese barge began sliding forward. It reached the end of the hull and just dropped, forming a huge bridge. The very front of the boat began to fall as well, like an old fashioned castle bridge. Japanese man began to clamber out, followed by several vehicles. Michael watched as one of the men attached what seemed to be a machine gun. The Japanese had just bombed Hawai'i; twice! And now, they had come with machines of war.

--

The man that had been climbing the tunnel wreckage had reached the other end, and had seen the man sitting near the Pagani Zonda; or, what was left of it. Slowly the car was losing it's traction of the grassy volcano slope. "Oi! Move!" The man called out. Michael responded, and looked at him with a strange expression. "Car!" He yelled. Michael turned, as his vehicle began sliding; it's viciously sharp edges all potentially lethal. He did nothing but lay flat on his stomach, a second before the car flipped over him. Several minutes later, Michael sat on the edge of the street. Jasan, the man who had clambered all the way over the wreckage was an ex-Marine, in his late 20s. He'd already served in some of the most violent battles of the Iraq War. And survived, unlike many other thousands of soldiers; American and Iraqi. Jasan had taken in the situation, and, seemingly, had formulated a plan. He turned to the billionaire. "You done this before?" He asked, looking back to the several other barges. "Done what?" Michael asked, in reply. "You gotten any combat training before?"
"No."
"Any fight experience at all?"
"A little."
"Do you have hope?"

--

Climbing onto the tunnel wreckage for the second time, Michael looked back. Jasan knew, and turned to face his billionaire partner. "There's no going back. Not now." Michael nodded. He swallowed, as well, before returning to follow the mysterious stranger. Something gripped Michael as strange. "What about the helicopter?" He asked, stumbling over some debris. Jasan turned. "WHAT helicopter?" Michael shrugged. "The one that came out of the barge as it landed." Jasan punched the debris. He swore, loudly. Suddenly, Jasan's angry words were drowned out by the sounds of helicopter blades slicing through the air. "Dammit!" He yelled, effectively sprinting over the debris. "Get down!" He yelled out to Michael. The billionaire barely heard him, as he ran off, and as the helicopter drew closer. Several dark holes beckoned Michael to enter. THe helicopter was louder now, droning out all other sound. The hairs on Michael's neck raised. Acting impulsively, he slipped into a small crag in the debris, completely invisible to anything outside.