It was hard to hear anything over the thunder of gunfire, and the screams of the wounded.  The dead lay by the
     thousands.  Their bodies trampled by an ever on-coming tide of Colt wielding rabble.  Syn looked out over the carnage
     grimly.  His face was stone in the waning daylight.  Noticing a group of hopeful, would-be assailants coming from the
     warehouse to the north, he gestured tiredly to his comrade-in-arms, Porter.  Porter had stood the entire battle as well.
     His Colt rifle glinted red in the failing light.  Too many close range strikes- the Counter-Terrorists (as the called themselves)
     had gotten bolder.  He had taken the gun from a SAS agent years ago and it had never failed him since.  Its name was
     Asp, and its sting was death.  The look in his eyes hardly betrayed his intentions, his face looked as if he was merely going
     to take the trash out.  That’s how he saw this.  His hands and posture however, belied the truth.  His hands tightly gripped
     his Asp and his broad shoulders were already setting in for the strike.  He took four steps toward the enemy, who were
     now some 30 yards off.

           Customary to the Syn-Porter counter-attack, Syn rushed the enemy, P90 blazing, in an effort to contain, stun, and/or
     pin down the enemy while Porter’s more precise shots took care of the final kills.  It was a deadly combination, in general.
     Today it had saved their lives more than once.  Syn swept the deadly spray across the three assailants like a disinfectant.
     Strafing quickly to the right to make room for Porter’s shots, Syn didn’t notice the distant sniper aiming.  The distant shot
     rang out above the din and pierced his leg, Syn stumbled.  Porter’s face hardened to steel as Rage met Chi and having
     already taken his aim he fired precisely, at the head of the first GIGN agent.  His fury channeled down the barrel of his Colt.
     One bullet made a splattered mess of the Frenchman’s neck, and the other penetrated his skull, spitting pieces of bone and
     skin into the face of his comrades.  Of the two remaining, one shrieked in rage and horror mixed, and flung himself atop
     Porter.  His Asp fell out of his hands awkwardly as the butt end of the GIGN’s Steyr broke Porter’s wrist.  A sickening
     crack and both men were wrestling on the floor, madness on both men’s faces.

          The other surviving GIGN assaulter moved purposefully toward the stumbling Syn.  Raising his Desert Eagle for a torso
     shot he snickered.  But Syn’s timing had been honed by years of experience.  And he knew by the sound of the man’s steps
     and the movement of shadows that this was the last moment he would have to strike if he ever intended to do anything else at
     all.  Picking up his wounded leg he spun about on his remaining good leg.  A little surprised at the sudden movement, the
     GIGN took a step back.  That was his last mistake.  As he spun Syn squeezed the trigger.  At such close range the P90 was
     absolutely deadly.  The shots hit the Eagle, flinging it uselessly to the left of the man.  The remainder of the shots ran up the
     man’s arm, pureeing it into oblivion.  The final 5 bullets all went on to the man’s upper chest.  Shattered and bleeding
     profusely, the agent lay there for a moment spread-eagle, took a ragged breath and expired.  Syn laid there also his head
     pointed in the opposite direction, their feet almost touching, mirror images of each other.  One dead and the other alive.
     He picked up his head for a moment to observe the struggle that Porter was having with the last man.  Porter was going
     for his knife but the man had already reached his and was struggling, with some success, to jam it into Porter’s abdomen.
     Syn tried to get up but the intense pain in his leg brought him back down.  With a sudden jerk the GIGN punched Porter in
     the face, in the same movement took Porter’s knife and threw it some distance behind him.  Laughing he hoisted his own
     knife above his head and prepared to plunge it into a recovering Porter.  Satisfaction lit the agent’s face and it was the last
     look he ever wore.  As Porter opened his bruised eyes he was greeted by the image of a gaping hole where his assailants
     face once was.  The echoes of an AWP sniper rifle could still be heard in the air, bouncing from building to building. It was
     a glorious symphony all things considered.

          Porter heaved himself on to his stomach to see who had saved him, though he was already fairly certain who had fired
     that fateful shot.  Syn also propped himself up onto an elbow to see who had saved his clan-brother.  Both men were
     unsurprised to see Dr. Evil’s smiling face 5 stories above them, in a window of a nearby building.  He was waving wildly
     with a red flag bearing the name of the clan in the barrel of his gun.  Both Syn and Porter fell back to a laying position laughing
     quietly when another shot rang out.  They looked to the window again only to see the Doctor’s figure stand quietly for a
     moment and then crumple and vanish into the darkness of the building.  In their joy at still being alive, neither Syn nor Porter
     had remembered the other sniper that had sabotaged their counter-assault in the first place.  Dr. Evil had paid for their over-
     sight with his life.

          Porter brought himself to his feet, and walked over to Syn and helped him to his.  They walked together, Porter supporting
     Syn, toward their home base where they would regroup and report to Acting Sergeant Nibdog.  On the long walk they tried
     to dodge the already putrid bodies and pick up some abandoned ammo just the same.

          Turning the corner that gave the first real view of the building they had code named, “Your Mom’s House” the both stopped
     and gaped.  The blue steel door that was the only way in or out had been ripped off its hinges by what seemed to be and
     explosion.  There were scorch marks on the doorframe and the heavily bent door had been tossed out into the street.  They both
     managed what was supposed to be a run.  Weapons up, if not precisely aimed, by any close definition of the word.

          They entered the building cautiously.  It was just a large warehouse looking room.  Fluorescent light flickered above them.
     Papers  (orders from the Over-MoM), radio parts and supplies lay strewn about the room like the bodies outside.  The picture
     of Hammus, who was lost in the fighting at Du’ust (though his body was never found), still hung on the wall but crooked.
     But no intruders were in sight.  Neither was the Nibdog.  Syn sat down on an empty propane drum that had near the door.
     It wasn’t comfortable but he had to get off his leg.

          “How did this happen?!” Porter asked incredulously.

          “I think we’ll know that when we find the Nib-“ a rustling sound in the corner cut Syn off abruptly.  In the far corner the
     papers piled there were moving and the sound of a human moaning could be distinctly heard.  Both men speedily hefted their
     weapons, and Syn stood up, sliding himself up the nearby wall for support.

          “Come out or be shot, shebisikya!” Porter shouted at the corner with fury.  As Porter slowly approached the slowly
     shifting pile, the voice became more intelligible.

          “Porter?”  Nibdog’s voice was faint but clearly recognized here in the quieter confines of the base.  Porter threw down
     his weapon and ran to the corner.  Syn was also making his way there using table edges and ammunition crates to support
     him as he maneuvered across the room.

          Throwing the pile of rubbish aside, Porter surveyed the wretch lying there.  Nibdog had been wounded twice in the stomach
     and it seemed he’d been left for dead.  He lay there coughing up his own blood.  Porter lifted his lighter frame off the concrete
     ground and placed on a less cluttered table.  Most things had been knocked to the ground anyhow.  Laying him there, he gestured
     for Syn to find a suitable pillow for him.  Syn managed to dig up a half used Doritos bag out from under some documents.  Porter
     looked at him flatly, but Syn only shrugged.

          Porter began to rip open the front of the Nibdog’s shirt to better get at the wound.  But Nibdog’s hands stopped him.  With
     sudden strength Nibdog gripped Porter’s wrist.  His hands were steel for that moment.

          He tried to talk in between fits of bloody hacking coughs.  “It’s too late for that.” Porter tried to protest, but Nibdog talked
     over him.  “Do as I say! It’s too late…They broke in…and there was nothing I could do.  The door blew open and they came
     in firing.  I tried to radio you two but they got me before I could.  They were looking for Hammus…”his coughing was getting
     worse.  “…But when they didn’t find him they just trashed the place…and left me.  Porter! Where is he? When his Hammus
     returning?” A tear ran down his cheek.  He was asking questions that no one knew the answers to.  Porter tried to say something
     soothing but Nibdog sobbed on.  Porter and Syn shared a look that said they both wish they too could have the luxury of breaking
     down.  Since Hammus had left, the MoM clan had been on the run, retreating when they should have been advancing.  Today
     they had lost at least on member and probably two.  It was a miracle even Porter and Syn were still left alive.  The end was near if
     Hammus didn’t return soon.  They both knew that the chances of that were very slim.

          “Promise me!  Promise me you’ll find Hammus and bring him back to MomClanBase to defend our home! Promise me Porter!”
     His words degenerated in to yet another fit of coughing.

          “I swear, Nibdog, by the Chi and Rage.”  He said quietly.  Syn was staring distantly at the picture hanging to one side on the
     wall.   With that Nibdog smiled and breathed his last breath.  Porter picked up a radio and dashed it to pieces against the far wall.
     He collapsed in his own tears.  Syn slowly began to put things in their place again.