Wolfdog

Files

Luka gripped the corroded wood of his rifle tightly as he trekked on, hiking boots laced tightly around his feet. The grass below him was wet with morning dew, lush and green just as the surroundings were, save for the man made structures, although those too were slowly becoming covered in foliage. He held his rifle low and away from his chest, bolt shaking as he walked. It was quite the famous rifle, used over 70 years ago at the earliest time, although now Luka had just used it for home defense. Of course now more than home defense was necessary, having just come from the streets of the concrete jungle where his apartment resided, although he no longer had purpose to live there.

Luka warily trekked down the asphalt road, having ducked under a bridge, light traffic of dead cars blocking some things on the other side from view. Gravel kicked up as he walked, covering the ground most likely from a long time ago. He veered off with a right turn to move down a dirt road, sticking closely to the trees on one side of the road, heavy rifle now raised and ready. Although it was a carbine like version of the original, it was still probably around 8 pounds at most. He never turned his rifle, just his body to peer around corners and trees.

Eventually the young man reached a large clearing without trees, in place of them two dorm like buildings were placed, one with two floors and the other with three floors. He crept up to the wall of the latter, glass shards crunching under his shoes. The stained yellow of the building contrasted against his red flannel, making him stand out to any observers. Luka crept into the building slowly, not really checking anything but what was in front of him, he had been here before of course, his temporary living space being here in this very building. Passing a small office with barred windows, he had already attempted to get inside before, his incentive being the promise of good gear. He dragged himself up the first set of stairs, the stairs wearing and chipping at the edges, an eerie creek sounding whenever he walked. He drew himself up to the third floor, passing the moldy and wet second floor.

When he made it to the third floor he instinctively stepped over a small gap in the floorboards that he had come to recognize. He rounded the left corner with his long rifle at the ready, finding it incredibly odd that the door to his room was flung open, almost positive he had shut it as his stomach sank, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. He gripped his rifle with all his might, lowering it a second to peer around the corner.

In the moment that he did, he was met with a pair of eyes, so fierce and more alive than he could ever imagine, seeing them through a layer of thick glass. The image in front of him quickly made sense as he flung up his hands in the air, the ballistic and all black armor clad man in front of him aiming a large American rifle in his face, but not firing for whatever reason.

"Don't shoot!" Luka said, in Russian of course, the sound of his own voice almost foreign to him.

A shout of a language he didn't recognize returned, but a gunshot still didn't come, Luka still very much alive. The moments they stood there were the most terrifying in his life before the other slowly lowered his weapon, clearing his throat.

"What's on computer?" He said in quite Americanized Russian, catching Luka off guard as he snapped his head back, suddenly getting why he was still alive. He looked around his room, floorboards sunken, but in relative good condition.

He saw good reason both not to lie to the American, and to lie to him all the same, taking a moment to ponder his answer as the American repeated his question with more emphasis, unsure if he was understood quite clearly.

"Files, but not for American to see." Luka answered actually fairly truthfully, but definitely not in the way that the the other man wanted as he turned his rifle around, thrusting it forward with all his might, the stock striking Luka hard and square in the chest, the impact knocking him back into the ground as he shouted and coughed in surprise, back hitting the ground hard as he brought his torso up, coughing and regaining his breath.

"What's files on damn computer?!" The American spoke in fairly broken Russian, but was easy enough to understand as Luka decided to tell the full truth, not wanting to get another hit from the rifle or worse.

"I get information from the UN as a collaborator and sell it the the locals who deem it useful!" Luka brought his hands up in front of him in a gesture of defense, noticing he had landed on his rifle. The Guerilla's expression softened as he extended a hand.

"Good, all I needed, name Jonas." He said, the young Russian taking his hand and boosting up his legs to rise from the ground with a grunt, the American making a gesture for him to unlock the computer.

Luka carefully and slowly walked over to the monitor, looking behind him with a new kind of fear, straightening the black monitor, bringing the keyboard square with his body so that he could lean forward, keys clacking as he entered his login, clicking a few times with his mouse, the fans in the computer audibly whirring.