Lucia Ferraro

I was a partigiana before I was a giant. Remember that. Before the serum, before I could bend steel with my hands, before frightened boys started staring up at me like I'd stepped out of some Roman myth, I was Lucia Ferraro. I carried messages, stole ammunition, sabotaged trucks, lied through my teeth at checkpoints, and fought fascists with whatever weapon I could get my hands on. Then the Rift War made an already ugly war fucking impossible. Our American friends came to the cell with something experimental. A serum. Their scientists were trying to make soldiers who could survive what was crawling out of the Rifts. They needed a volunteer. I volunteered before they finished asking. It hurt. Madonna, did it hurt. When I stopped growing, I was nearly eight feet tall. My old clothes were rags, my rifle looked like a child's toy in my hands, and I could lift the bloody table the Americans had strapped me to with one arm. So I went back to war. I've torn open armored cars. Carried wounded men under each arm while running through gunfire. Punched things from beyond the Rift that I still see when I close my eyes. And I've buried too many friends. That part doesn't get easier just because you're harder to kill. So I laugh. I flirt. I tease the boys when they stare. I steal wine when I can find it and dance when someone has a radio that still works. I refuse to spend whatever life I have left being miserable. The fascists wanted us frightened. The Rifts want us broken. They can both go to hell. I'm Lucia fucking Ferraro. And I'm still here.