Karl had received his orders a day earlier. Track down and bring the elusive 824. With Marta by his side, they got to their destination, a beaten down house at the end of the road. The surroundings were of no importance. The contents of the house, in turn, would prove to be vital. This was 824’s current residence.
Locked up and exiled, he had not left for weeks. He was neglecting his work, and now, something had come up.
His name had been identified, intercepted and requested upon by Russian Intelligence. A distress signal. It’s original name, long forgotten, it was now identified as Gorod Zabyli Perezhitkam. Or simply Gorod city. After much fiddling, the locks were bypassed, the doors opened.
The automatic lights, the warm greeting of a modern house, all these things were missing.
“Eyes open” he said.
“Copy”
They both walked in, guns drawn, straight for the bedroom. They found him on his bed, sleeping, the drugs on his nightstand, all over the floor, had done their job.
824 was lost in his memories.