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DDS genetic memory export:
Subject: Keith Scipione
Date: 1944
Location: Milan, Italy


This is crazy! What did I do to tick off my bosses? Goose chase in the middle of a war zone while our own boys are dropping the bombs on me. For what? Chance it may be the real thing? Right... been at this nearly twenty years and I don't even believe it exists.

I keep my head low even though I'm dressed as a local. The bag full of money feels like a ball and chain, though. These people are suffering. They wouldn't think twice about snatching it off me if they knew what it was.

Looking for the restaurant. Hopefully it still stands. Meeting with one of the Baguttiani, who are apparently a bunch of artsy thinker types who sit around all day contemplating the importance of sitting around and contemplating.

Place looks empty, but the door's not locked. Inside, the man's waiting for me. He's nervous. He should be. I've drawn my pistol. I ain't no patsy.

He answers by pointing to a wooden box sitting on one of the benches. Sure doesn't look like much to me. I sit my bag down on thee table next to it, keeping my gun level.

I lift the box's lid and peer into it.

Something's folded up in there. Smells kind of musty. It's dirty as hell, too. It could be this guy's laundry, for all I know.

I dangle the metal company logo at the end of my key chain and watch it jitter as I move it near the box. I glance at the man and he nods his head. I wait a minute... maybe it's just the rumblings of some nearby bomb. It doesn't stop. Well, slap my ass and call me Sally...

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