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AlphaZero
Dracula's not an Avenger? That lying fuck!
- Joined
- Aug 4, 2013
Paris in the fall.
City of lights.
City of Love.
A city occupied by Germans.
Even as curfew approached the city streets where still busy, a sure sign that the locals where starting to fight back against the occupying force, even in such a small way.
Amid the living sea of people no one noticed a man in a heavy flight jacket making his way along the street. He was a simple enough looking man, the dark jacket, cargo pants, and a simple sweater. An old cap pulled low over his eyes and helping to keep his shaggy mane of dark hair in check.
Max had airdropped into the French countryside a week ago. OSS had determined trying to insert him directly into Paris was too difficult so instead the dropped him outside the city and he hiked his way in, using the cover story of being a farmer heading into the city in search of work. His French was good enough that the German's hadn't thought twice about waving him through after checking his forged papers.
He reached under his jacket, feeling the solid weight of the Colt .45 stuffed into his waistband and counted himself lucky the Krauts and never tried to search him at the checkpoints.
He veered off the street and into a small park, settling himself onto a bench and dropping his backpack at his feet and dug into his jacket pocket, finding a pack of cigarettes and proceeded to light one.
Now all he had to do was sit on the bench and wait, sooner or later his contact would show up and ask for light, explain that their matches had gotten wet.
He took a long drag off the cigarette and let the smoke escape from the corner of his mouth, looking up towards the night sky.
City of lights.
City of Love.
A city occupied by Germans.
Even as curfew approached the city streets where still busy, a sure sign that the locals where starting to fight back against the occupying force, even in such a small way.
Amid the living sea of people no one noticed a man in a heavy flight jacket making his way along the street. He was a simple enough looking man, the dark jacket, cargo pants, and a simple sweater. An old cap pulled low over his eyes and helping to keep his shaggy mane of dark hair in check.
Max had airdropped into the French countryside a week ago. OSS had determined trying to insert him directly into Paris was too difficult so instead the dropped him outside the city and he hiked his way in, using the cover story of being a farmer heading into the city in search of work. His French was good enough that the German's hadn't thought twice about waving him through after checking his forged papers.
He reached under his jacket, feeling the solid weight of the Colt .45 stuffed into his waistband and counted himself lucky the Krauts and never tried to search him at the checkpoints.
He veered off the street and into a small park, settling himself onto a bench and dropping his backpack at his feet and dug into his jacket pocket, finding a pack of cigarettes and proceeded to light one.
Now all he had to do was sit on the bench and wait, sooner or later his contact would show up and ask for light, explain that their matches had gotten wet.
He took a long drag off the cigarette and let the smoke escape from the corner of his mouth, looking up towards the night sky.