The following is a sample decision point.
Pushing yourself to your limit, you dash across the rooftop in a diagonal line. Before you know what’s happened, you’ve jumped off of the building and are careening toward the boy. You collide with him, both of you falling into one of the slum’s many trash heaps. That does slow the force of impact, but man, does it stink.
His eyes wide and terrified, the boy freezes. There’s an explosion from back in the street near Elite Squad and the armored car. You reflexively turn your head toward the sound, but you can’t see anything from here. Sensing your momentary distraction, the boy elbows you in the face. Stinging pain rises through your nose and sends a rush of tears to your eyes. While you shake off your daze, he scrambles to claim his assault rifle, only to find it firmly pressed against the pavement under a woman’s running shoe.
Looking past the shoe to a jean pant leg, then to a banana-yellow soccer jersey, he sees Detective Irma Dos Santos pointing a small service revolver at his head. The boy mutters something in Portuguese, then rolls back to sit up with his palms raised high.
“We need to get off the streets,” Irma says. “I can hold him, but if his friends show up, we’re in trouble.”
You stand, shake off the garbage, and look inside the nearest hovel where a young woman holds her baby tight. She cries, silently sobbing and shivering. Her upper lip trembles, shiny with mucous. She rocks back and forth, unable to take her eyes off you.
Irma shoves the boy inside, instructs the woman to leave, waits as she flees with her child, and then hands you the AK-47.
“Hold onto this,” she says. “Don’t worry, I told her to go stay with friends.”
She has a brief, impassioned conversation with the boy, who sits on the couch after Irma directs him to do so with her pistol. “His nickname is Falador —the mouth. If he got the name because he talks too much, you might be in luck. Ask your questions and I’ll translate.”
Another explosion rocks through the slums, this one even louder. You feel the impact; it’s like the tremor from an earthquake; dust cascades from a crack in the ceiling.
“Be quick; we want to be gone before his friends come looking.”
You nod. “Ask him if he’s heard of the murdered American woman; that’s a start.”
She asks him in Portuguese and he answers. At the end, he looks at you and spits on the ground. Irma translates: “He says the only murdered American around here is going to be you when his friends show up.”