[color=deepskyblue][sub][b]June 22, 1955[right]Ай Кармела[/right][/b][/sub][/color]
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[color=gold][b]Pykiv, Western Ukraine[/b][/color]

	[color=lightgray]Arseny fumbled through his war-torn jacket pockets, busting about for the keys to the partisan's shed. He dug through what felt like oceans of lint and empty clips, twanging and tinging while his fingers made their search for the keyring he felt so stubbornly even through his soaking jacket. Every second he spent out here entrenched a lingering dread in the back of his mind, like a sniper was waiting around in the back woods all day for them to come out from their position. The fact that he felt the mud nearly seep into his boots every second he stood didn't help. 

	Clutching the rusty bronze key between his fingers while the rest of his assortment clanged in the pattering rain, the partisan produced forward his key, jamming the oxidized key into the contraption. He grunted, pushing his shoulder into the door as the grooves of the key stuck along the corroded slot, its tarnished chippings jamming back along his arm for every millimeter he pushed in, until eventually the lock gave way and turned with an audible [i]chunk![/i] The man sighed in relief, the heaving of his heavy breaths puffing mist like a steam train as he shoved aside the heavy oakwood door. Arseny cursed himself for volunteering for this damned mission; His profanity-lined expressions as he moved aside the country shed door peppered the constant patter of rain and distant summer thunder. The partisan knew the full importance of the mission - and the full danger of going alone - as [i]Barynja Chaykovsky[/i] made him swear upon his life that he retrieve the cache entirely and undetected. The Devil take him if he wouldn't do it.

	He leaned down as he entered, large beam-sections of the old shack creaking in as the rain stormed ahead. Pacing about the narrow midsection, Arseny squeezed himself between the wall and a tarp-coated tractor, shuffling his feet as he dragged soggy bushes of hay as he moved. As he finally nudged himself through the narrow path, the partisan dug beneath the dust-laden workbench, feeling about the straw floors. The wet straw formed into messy mounds, beneath the few centimeters of padding, his hands hand finally reached the solid, metallic coldness he searched for. Arseny wiped the rainwater dripping from his hair with his army cap, then fumbled about his keyring again. He quickly flipped through the verisimilitude of old keys again, plucking out a long, slender iron key. His spare hand brushed off the large metal box beneath, locating the tiny keyhole. The partisan gave a brief, narrow blow downwards, where particles of dust danced upwards like heavy snow. Finally, he gave one last brush-over of the lock and inserted the key with an audible [i]ker-chunk![/i]

	Gripping the hay-covered handles of the cache box, Arseny propped himself upon the balls of his feet. He bent forward, straightening out his back, then, heaved upwards as he groaned and grunted as the giant stash resurrected from the Earth. The dark-haired partisan swung himself to the left, crashing the enormous box upon the nearby workbench, huffing all the while. His hands became busy at work, brushing off the final dashes of stuck hay, then he took two hands and flipped each side lever, heaving open the stash box.

	The metallic shimmer from within the Red Army's cache was small, yet its contents glistened even in the dreary drizzle of the Ukrainian summer. Row after row of neatly-lined rifles, each separated by their own thin layer of packing paper, adorned the insides of the stash. Old Mausers, Mosin-Nagants, a few Wz's, and - [/color][i]'Shit, is that a MG?'[/i][color=lightgray] Arseny looked down, cracking a smile as he checking the status of the cargo, all the while in at what he was seeing for the fifth time today. He knew that [i]Barynja Chaykovksy[/i] was [i]good[/i] for the weapons - her and those Germans she was in with - but truth be told, Arseny expected museum pieces. But no, everything was all laid neatly inside, the polished wood giving off a shimmer like the brief luminescence of old tungsten light bulbs fading to black. Most of these guns looked like they were meant for collectors; From where Arseny stood - his impressed eyes scanning in steadfast approval - none of them had scratches nor wear anywhere to be seen. 

	He shut the large stash box with a sonorous [i]thunk[/i], tightening the two buckles on its side as he stared down at the front of the lockbox, then unto his feet. Arseny sharply inhaled, bending his knees just slightly as he tilted forth, heaving while he lifted the enormous metal box well over his head and slung it upon his shoulder while his beet-red expression exerted itself from the weight. Just lifting that hundred kilogram box? Easy as could be; Arseny had done worse in the camps in Lwow. But now? Now was the hard part. Now was when this man was supposed to shimmy his way back through the tarp-coated tractor, back through a sludge of soggy hay that ran so deep it was to be indistinguishable from the muddy bogs just outside. Arseny cursed beneath his breath, squeezing himself through the the narrow passageway, feeling every last zipper and spare thread along his patched-over war jacket catch along every splinter and jagger of the dilapidated shed walls. He would fume, squeezing himself through while immense weight of some dozens of rifles encased in this hulking safebox teetered him over with every odd movement. Sometimes, the box would bang across the walls, and the shed would shake so much Arseny instinctively glared upwards, praying to God that just this odd movement wouldn't cave the whole place down on him in it.

	At long last, the partisan edged himself through to the other side, sighing in relief. Shifting the box around with his shoulder and right arm, he heaved the box to his waist level, carrying it in a more natural fashion. His straw-glued boots nudged the shed door open to a creek, where he finally simply slammed his shoulder unto the heavy egress to a complete opening. With his gait turning into a stagger not unlike the awkward waddle of a penguin, Arseny fumbled his way back along the mud-troughed footprint path he had left on his approach, all the while the steady downpour of the mid-morning amplified to a resounding drone. His eyes paced, nervously peeking out beyond the misty, dreary woods, constantly scanning the treeline for anything he could, the constant rain be damned. 

	The faint silhouette of his trusted wagon - and the ever so faithful, unbothered demeanor of Misha the Horse - brought with it a sigh of relief, mashed in with the grunts of his long haul. His shoulders dropped, his upright posture slumping to a relaxed slouch while Arseny hastened his pace to his vehicle. With one final huff, the partisan unfurled the cache, slamming unto the bed of his wagon with a mighty gasp. There, he pressed his palms up against the slippery, cold surface of the trunk, pressing it into place alongside other crates, some wooden, some metal, all displaying varied slogans and signs. Shifting his weight left, Arseny pushed the cache left, nestling it right in place next to the [i]"Vasylyshyn Farms - Bulk Potatoes"[/i] crate.

	He swung himself around the side of the wagon and sighed. Leaning an arm up against the wall of the wagon, he shut the back hatch closed, covering up his face as he'd protect the contents beneath. He plucked out a sheet of scratch paper, crumpled from a few hundred folds and almost sogging to the point of collapse, where he began reading out the list of stops on his daily "farming trip". Arseny still had 3 more stops to collect. But, by the time he and the others were done with all their pickups and back at base, his brothers and sisters in the Red Army would have more than enough to one-up the Whites.[/color]