Shopping complete. I get back into my jeep and pull out my map, resting it on my knees in front of the steering wheel. Well shit. Turns out Michelle's mountain hideaway is all the way on the other side of the goddamn district. I could drive there, but that would mean fighting my way through fifty-trillion roadside checkpoints and mercenary camps. "Fuck that," I think. "I'll just catch the bus."

One long trip and short loading-screen later, and I'm on the southwest corner of the map, near the big oil depot. Peering at my map again, I realise that the safehouse isn't quite as close as I thought it was. Good thing there's a race car sitting right in front of me.

Well, at least I think it's a race car. In truth, I don't know what kind of car it is. It's this little cigar-shaped thing that sounds like a lawnmower and moves like a torpedo. Flips on a slight bump and can't take damage for shit. Good for driving, bad for fighting. I hope to Christ there aren't any roving murder squads around here.

There aren't. Speeding along a baked and dusty scrubland path, I appreciate the stark beauty of the African landscape. Within a couple of minutes, I arrive at the cabin, parking my fragile speedster next to Michelle's rust coloured gun-mobile. She greets me with customary efficiency as I open the door, and then immediately launches into a  passionate tirade, most of which I don't understand thanks to her terrible French accent. Something about corruption and hypocrisy and blah blah blah hey by the way could you steal a map from the oil depot.

Ah. There we go. The point.

I don't know why she wants a map from the oil depot and I don't really care. I agree to help because I know it will piss off Prosper Kouassi and his APR goons. Also, I like Michelle. She's rescued me a bunch of times, and isn't as borderline psychotic as some of the other mercs. She also has great tits.

Ha! Just kidding. No she doesn't. Nobody in a warzone has great tits. Hell, nobody in this warzone has great anything. You should see the German with the moustache: his head looks like it was bashed into a hot-plate with a sledgehammer. And as for me, well I'm not sure what I look like. I'm wearing an Irish football jersey – I know that much. And frankly, that's all I care to know.

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