@agntsousa
The sun is burning down on his head. He feels woozy. Los Angeles is an ugly city with lots of concrete that seems to give the heat back quadrupled. He… got rid of the gun. He also hid the papers he was supposed to steal from the blond man. The man named Thompson, Jack, Chief of the New York City office of the SSR. He finished the mission. He is supposed… supposed to –– he cannot remember. The heat is suffocating. There are a lot of people all around him, and they’re all talking English. It’s like a sweet melody that washes over him and takes the memory of harshly barked Russian commands with it. B… Bu… The Soldier walks down the street, sweating in his suit. He stares at the buildings that he thinks should be higher. The palm trees need to be replaced by oaks, and birches, and beeches. A bridge. A bridge is important, yet he doesn’t know why.
He blinks when he notices that he’s back at the hotel. There are police cars now, and onlookers are gathered to stare at the entrance and whisper with each other. They talk about murder. The Soldier knows he needs to get away as quickly as possible. Don’t get caught, they told him, for he is supposed to be a ghost, just a wisp of wind leaving destruction and death behind. They will hurt him again; punishment awaits those who fail, and irrationally, the Soldier thinks if he just turns around now and leaves really quickly, they will never know. He wheels around, head spinning from heat and confusion, and promptly walks into a man that has left the hotel in a hurry in the meantime. He manages to not bump into him too badly, but his right foot kicks at the crutch the man is supporting his weight on.
