Number 77Mature


Anastasia sat in a tiny room of the American Border controls headhunters. She studied this foreign countries location for a head quters. This is odd, she thought. This was odd.

Suddenly, a man came in. This Man, she could tell, was American. He was tall, and very muscle. Not naturally she could tell, and he sat across from her.

“Hello Anastasia, do you understand me. I’m Paul.” He said sticking his hand out She grimaced.

“If you touch me, Paul, I will spit on you.” She said with a Russian accent. Paul was shocked by this young women’s reply. He took back his hand, and faced the blonde girl.

“How old are you?”


“Why did you hide in the cargo plane and land in D.C and wonder around looking for someone named Mina?” She sighed. She was looking for Mina, but did he need to know. No, he was the enemy.

“I talk little English.” She said. That was a lie, but it had to be done.

"Почему вы прячете в грузовой самолет и земли в округе Колумбия и удивляться всему ищет кого-то имени Мина?" She sighed.

"Почему ты вы используете мой родной язык, ублюдок?" She replied, which meant along the lines of"How come you are using my native language, Bastard?"

He sighed. He could tell he was defatted. But he wanted to know why this girl had gone from specking in English to acting dumb and swearing at him in Russian. He had to get to the bottom of this.

“Tell me, which would prefer, staying here and telling me why you stunk into the Country, or I can personally take you to the airport and ship you to Russia.” She sighed.

“Well, lets see. I’m here to find my Mother, but that’s just a cover. I’m here for..well. Freedom.” She sighed, and brought her hands up to her face.

“Anastasia isn’t my name. It’s Number 77. I go by that in the real world, when they aren’t chasing me.” She wanted to cry. America was sunspots to be safe-right?

“Who are they?” Paul questioned.

“Do you really want to know?” She asked , scared to tell her tale.

“It’s my job.”

“Fine. It all starts when I was around twelve…”


The End

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