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Sierra Lonewolf - Gulag
"Alright Sierra!" The Pilot crackled over the loudspeaker, barely audible over the roar of the Engines of the Ilyushin Il-14. "We're nearing Kolyma, you'll be dropping in a few minutes! Remember, you're a Ruskie now, sent from Berlin. Allies intercepted your team and you were the only one to survive! We've already dealt with their real team, just make sure you're convincing! We can't do anything for you once you're out of this plane!"
Sarah slowly nodded, clutching her Dragunov close as she checked the straps on her parachute, the blood smeared over her form making her feel uneasy, especially since it was her own blood that they had taken beforehand, and her torn clothes were letting in the chill with ease, although her fur helped somewhat. "I understand." she sighed into the little microphone that sat beside her.
"Good. Hope your Ruskie's good Husky." the Pilot said in farewell, before a quiet American Soldier in his civvies got up and slammed open the door of the plane, gesturing to
Sierra Lonewolf - Ruskie Husky
The Rifle clattered as it spun backwards along the concrete, the Wooden Furniture cracking with a cry of wooden pain, and the gunmetal ringing out loud in protest at it's treatment, leaving the faithful Dragunov metres away from it's owner, looking forlorn and betrayed. She hissed, breathing in fast as she ducked to the side, the black blade of the knife parting the air with a shriek as it skimmed her coat, tinkling against the badge on her breast. Spinning on her right heel, she drew her left up and took her own blade from her boot, before slamming her left foot down with a near-silent 'tap', like a bird forlornly pecking at the window of a warm house in the winter.
"Ah." The man grinned, leaning over the railings and staring down at the Husky as she drew into a fighting stance, as her attacker slowly circled her, his face obscured by a flight mask and helmet as he weighed the knife in his hand. He gently reached over, and tapped his colleague on the shoulder, prompting her to look up
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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