Al-Mazrah.

A city sat under the terrorist jackboots, the heels of the Las Almas Cartel, and the scorching sun. A once thriving, vibrant and beautiful city reduced to a playground for foreign interests. A calm air shattered by the shroud of gun smoke.

Mawizeh Marshlands, sat along the bank of an outgoing current and along the bottom of Al Mazrah city just directly north. In the resort you found yourself, isolated amongst the gunfire and trudged along the eyot scowering caches in the once lively and bustling resort reserved for oligarchs and the aristocrats above the poverty in this waste.

An odd noise, a rapid tapping against the perfect linoleum floor presented itself from amongst the small crackle of gunfire and uninterested parties passing by this barren island. Turning to meet this noise, your arm was turned at an angle, wringing you of weaponry and a sharp pain connected itself with the woman's fist.

Presenting to you, an unwelcome barrel shoved in your face as the ears rang and head pumped in slight agony, was Kleo.

"Who are you?!" The Greek barked, kicking the last remaining arsenal out of your collective grasp.