[ WP ] Write a story from the perspective of a guard in a stealth game .

Max paused for a moment and looked up. The full moon was so bright, it was practically daylight. 
 He looked out over the garden. The grass was neatly trimmed and the gravel path along was kept clear. The building was old, maybe hundreds of years old, built from thick, rough stones. He thought maybe it had been a church before the revolution. It was n't a church anymore, but it had survived the revolution, and the war, and then when the Soviets came. It had outlasted them all, and now the grass was trimmed and the wood windows had been painted. Things were getting better. 
 
 
 It was late enough now that the grass was a collecting the first drops of dew. The path cut between the garden on one side and the building on the other. The buttresses coming off the wall formed a dozen little alcoves, like stone telephone booths. There were always cigarette butts in the one next to the corner, sometimes even a coffee cup. 
 He always picked up the coffee cups. 
 He did n't have to do it, he was supposed to just walk his route, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Kids used to sneak into the garden to drink, and probably more, but since the fences had been repaired he had n't seen any on his route. Alex, who sometimes got a day shift, said that he saw broken bottles at the bottom of the old well in the garden. So they must still be getting in somehow. 
 He could still walk his route with a coffee cup in his hand. 
 
 Down the path next to the garden, around the corner and across the courtyard by the main house, then up the big stairs. Then around the carriage house, where Alex was now, and down the side stairs, back across the courtyard and around the corner to the garden. The route was twenty minutes in all; three routes to an hour, six routes between breaks, twenty four in a shift. Max would count them out at the garden. Sixteen left today - or really, tonight. 
 
 
 It was hard getting used to the third shift, but that was the only one they were hiring for. He did n't know anyone important, did n't have any school. He was lucky to have even been considered. 
 They were looking for people who had been in the service, and he had been, and had done a good job - or really, he had n't done a bad job. He had stayed clean, did n't drink too much, did n't start trouble with the people in town. He always kept his boots polished. 
 
 
 The Lieutenant who hired him said that if he did a god job and put his time in, maybe he could move to different shift. There were a lot of secretaries and file clerks that worked here during the day. If he got on a day shift and got to know someone important, he might even be able to get Anna a job. The pay checks were n't big, but they came every week. 
 The Lieutenant had said that after the coup things got bad, there were no paychecks for six months. Now the paychecks came every week. 
 Things were getting better. 
 
 They even gave him a uniform and did n't make him pay for it. It was a a nice uniform too, like his dress uniform from the service. The day he got the job Anna came by to celebrate. She brought some polish, and they had drink, and he showed her the right way to shine boots. She made him show her the uniform, made him try the whole thing on. 
 She liked it too. She liked it a lot. 
 
 There was a sound. 
 
 He thought there was a sound. Maybe it was his imagination. 
 
 A shadow had moved against the hedge at the end of the path, he was sure of it. Someone was around the corner of the building. 
 He started to walk slowly down the path, taking careful, measured steps on the gravel. He readied his rifle. 
 There were ten of the stone alcoves between him and the corner, then nine. At eight, he whispered softly for Alex, but there was no reply. He slowed, approaching the corner and just as he opened his mouth to call out to Alex, something flashed out and hit him hard. He felt his head band against the stone wall of the building. 
 
 He was n't sure what had happened, everything was black and he could n't breath. Something was pressing against him. 
 It was a hand. There was a gloved hand over his mouth and a man, all in black, in front of him holding him against the alcove wall. The man's face could n't have been more than a few centimeters away from his own. A man with lips and a nose, but no face. Just a black mask and cameras instead of eyes, 
 Max tried to reach for his rifle, but his arm would n't work. He could n't feel his hand, he could n't feel anything below his shoulder. 
 He felt something pressing hard against his chest. He tried to scream, to bite the gloved hand covering his mouth, but the man in black was impossibly strong. 
 
 
 And then, just like that, the man released him. 
 Max tried to shout out for Alex, for anyone, but could only manage a soft gargle. 
 He could't breath. His mouth was filling with blood. 
 He felt weak, like he could n't stand. He was sliding down the wall; then he was on his back and the man was crouching over him. He could feel the man going through his pockets. 
 Max reached for his radio, but it could n't find it. It was n't on his belt. 
 
 Then he was sliding. He could feel the man's strong grip around his ankles, dragging him across the wet grass of the garden. 
 
 
 Not the well. 
 
 Please not the well. 

