FS

The 141 are forced onto their knees in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, wrists bound tightly behind their backs. Their weapons have been scattered across the floor, just out of reach, while a group of hostiles surrounds them. Soap strains against his restraints, earning a shove from one of the guards. Gaz remains silent, his eyes constantly moving as he searches for an opening. Price watches the hostiles carefully, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing fear. Then the lights suddenly flicker. Once. Twice. The hostiles look around. A distant metallic clang echoes somewhere in the darkness. Silence. Another clang. Closer. One of the guards raises his weapon and cautiously moves toward the sound. “What the hell was that?” Nobody answers. The warehouse falls completely quiet. Then— THUNK. A throwing axe suddenly buries itself in the wooden crate beside the guard’s head.