Soot had heard the gunshots. More lives were likely being taken by soldiers or anarchists. No one was safe anymore. He grunted as he leapt off a car deep in the greedy embrace of the large roots of a tree. He landed on a grassy hill with a roll and slid to the forest floor. Dirt skittered away from his boots and an unseen flock of birds fluttered from the leaves above, the rustling and chirps loud amongst the silent trees. He began to walk the well-worn path he knew so well. This was his safe place. The first thing he saw when he woke, memoryless, in the tank. He stepped over a delicate flower, untouched by the horrors of the city, and ducked under a branch, pushing it gently upward. He emerged from the bushes into the clearing, exposed to the bright sun, the green grass soaking up the light and stretching for the bright blue sky. The worn, old tank stood in the center, rusty, with small sprigs of grass and flowers growing from the treads and engine. A vine stretched across the front, wrapped around the long cannon barrel, like the straps of a bag about an arm. He stepped up onto the tread and then onto the roof of the tank, pulling open the hatch with a rusty screech. As he dropped inside, the sound echoed through the room, which was bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside. He reached over and grabbed five more grenades from the crate that never seemed to get anymore empty than it was and looked at the skeleton sitting on the steel bench, wearing the same fatigues as him, grinning eerily and slouched in a position that almost made it look comfortable. Why they died, he didn't know. Why he was alive, he also didn't know. He frowned and sat down next to the skeleton, the sunlight beaming through the open hatch. This clearing was on of the few areas in the Overgrown Forest that wasn't shaded by leaves and branches. The arm of the skeleton slid off the bench and onto Soot's shoulder. He didn't move.