8:01 — July 28 — 1099

(Light club — Blizzard)

The darkness has finally been replaced by the light of the sun. It was a new day in Lungmen. Or rather, the morning of a new day. And with the morning came light, chasing the streets, forcing life. Lungmen

The guy who had just woken up was not at all happy about it. His first thought on awakening was, "Here we go again. No salvation." He didn't want to get up right away: his head was pounding as if it had been struck with a bat, throat was burning relentlessly. The bottles of "Stolichnaya" vodka, which were lying around, hinted at the drunkenness that had taken place, and the large quantity of them was evidence of regular awakenings such as this one.

The guy stood up, looked around the room with sleepy eyes. The apartment was floating and melting through his cloudy, hungover eyes. It took him a couple of minutes to open them. For how many times was he unhappy with what he saw? Over the years the blond had lost count.

The apartment appeared to him to be some kind of graveyard: gray walls, cracks in the floor, an ugly light bulb on a wire, and the dust that covered all this joy - in his opinion, it was in perfect harmony with the bottles lying on the floor. The apartment was crystallized brutalism at its brightest. But the blond was used to concrete boxes, and found comfort in their heavy embrace.

Sleepy and angry, he went to the bathroom. Played a game of "Don't-stumble-over-the-bottle," rumblingly lost, cursed, and continued on his way. The mirror showed the guy his ungroomed face. He didn't look at it too long, just checked to see if there were any bruises or cuts.

And really, what else didn't he see? A perpetual stubble that looked like sandpaper? Huge bruises under his eyes? The flat cheekbones, the thin, chapped lips, the crooked nose? In his opinion, his face was not much different from the faces of hundreds of alcoholics like him. It was pretty much the same. Almost.

The blond man, satisfied with his examination, returned to the bedroom. The ringing in his ears receded and was replaced by a cold, deep sound. Unfortunately, the tune was not in his ears, but from the phone. "My collar, chain and shackles," he noted aloud, and staggered to answer it.

Once upon a time this composition would have made him happy, but over the years the cursed depression had eaten away at his love of music as well. Well, the synth tunes playing in his head around the clock like a radio were more of a reminder of who the listener had once been.

"You awake, co-worker? It's Gao from "Carp and Co". Somebody in this town had a burst pipe. Again. Fix the leak as best you can, cause the locals are obsessed with comfort. The address is: Luijiao District, Lishinzhen Street, 12. Hurry up. See you soon."

That was the strange phone call that started the guy's morning. Does he really work as a regular plumber? No, I don't see any tools or uniforms in the room. Maybe it's spam. Yeah, looks like it. The addressee of the call simply rubbed his eyes and proceeded to the kitchen.

Breakfast did not shine with variety: instant mix, beer or coffee, and chocolate bars for dessert. Lots of delicious, divine bars. That was it. Even though his refrigerator was full, the guy was starving. He always had breakfast without an appetite, and he ate his lunches and dinners because he was tired at work. It didn't matter what was in front of him, as long as it was hot, it filled his stomach well.

Right as he was eating breakfast, he began to dress, slowly, absent-mindedly, even more distracted from his meal. Suddenly an interesting thought popped into his empty head: someone's concert was coming up. Whose? And why should he remember, he couldn't go anywhere anyway. The strength of mind just wasn't there. Afterwards the emptiness in his head filled with bile: in fact he had both money and time, it was just this stupid passivity, this moping, this eternal hangover that held him hostage.

In fact, he was not going to fix any pipe bursts or to work somewhere. That was why he was in no hurry, for he could afford not to work when he was so mopey. He figured it was better to fight what he could, and the best way to dispel the gloom was to take a walk. Well, or to get drunk. He would have gladly taken that option, except he didn't want a repeat of this morning.

A blue sports jacket with a couple of patches, jeans that protected him from the perpetual Lunghman chill, and cheap but comfortable sneakers were all the unsuccessful plumber wore. He could have dressed more richly, for all he could afford, but he did not. Lungmen had cheap, good clothes, and he took the time to find them. It was a habit he'd picked up in the past. It didn't do any harm, but it did him some good, so it was all right.

He took nothing but a worn out music player with him when he packed. When it caught his eye, he even stopped to look it over. Battered, scratched, but so dear to his heart, the box had gone with him, it seemed, all his life. The player was the only thing the guy treated with such care that for nine years, for sure, it had been pleasing its owner with electronic motifs, and sometimes not only them.

About twenty minutes later, the key creaked in the door lock, and the apartment was empty.

(Ash Walker - Insomnia)

The sun rose high in the sky as the Lungmenite walked to the rendezvous point. On his way he saw the usual picture of a modern metropolis: glass skyscrapers, honking cars, shiny advertisements everywhere. There was nowhere to hide from this splendor. Сapitalism after all.

In the midst of all this splendor were people. Young men and women, rich and poor, some kind of fringe migrants. Everyone was in a hurry, chattering and arguing about something. The blond man who was walking was only given a brief glance, only to be forgotten forever.

Now he was heading toward an area of Iberian migrants, swarthy and bearded men, but suddenly he heard someone's screams of terror. A second was enough time to determine the direction - the nearest store. He didn't even have to think to turn around and head there. "The hustlers are active these days. Even in broad daylight they can't restrain themselves from annoying regular people," the guy thought, pulling his hood over his face.

He got in through the back door, and immediately realized he wouldn't even break a sweat. A couple of teenagers with dragon horns and leather tails had gotten their shiny pistols, and instead of shooting fly by birds, they'd decided to rob the place. Well, it's worse for them.

In a minute the magazine was back to its usual mode of operation. Clean up the scrapings of one's skull and remove the corpse of the other, and the little incident would be forgotten by all. Even the cautus cashier. The savior hastened away, complimenting the rabbit-woman as he left, and making her promise not to tell the police the details.

At last he reached the motley market. Colorful carpets, beautiful food, and smiling and enticing merchants flashed in front of him. The Oriental architecture and the bright colors of the fabrics only contributed to the image of a wonderful fair, where one could find anything he wanted. The blond man was not at all happy or surprised, but walked faster.

He had come here today, and not just today, because it was always interesting. The place was the same, but there was always something new. New stalls, new establishments, new stories. He always lingered for a long time, for it was impossible not to get lost, not to drown in this riot of colors. But though it was fascinating to walk here, it was only compensation for his inner emptiness and boredom. And so was everything. Everything was wrong. Everything was bad. How sickening it was...

Not far away from the stroller flashed a spacious, bright, oriental-style building. It smelled so pleasantly of tea and roast and warmth that the stroller couldn't help himself. He threw back the rug at the entrance and realized by the low tables and the pile of old men that he was in a teahouse. "Well, not a bad choice. The old guys have seen more than I have," the blond man chuckled, and made his way inside. He ordered himself some local alcohol, a portion of kebabs so he wouldn't take any chances with the strange food, and started looking for a place to sit down.

His attention was drawn to a huge white lizard snoozing by the window with the most peaceful and innocent look. Yes, it was a two-meter-long white reptile with a toothy mouth, scales glistening in the sun, and sharp ridges on its head. The guy froze: Sargon natives were a rarity in this city. They just didn't make it here. The triangle with the turret was visible on the sleeve of his broad, dark cloak.

"Are you from Rhodes or something?" The blond man asked loudly, surprised that he remembered the name of the place.

"Can't you tell from me?" He murmured in a sleepy voice and opened his eyes. Violet eyes, with narrow pupils, peered into his blond head. Their bearer looked solid: two meters of flesh and muscle wrapped in a hooded jacket and equally ample black pants. His arms, naked at the elbow, were as big as a good log.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" He nodded, and the man carrying the tray of food sat down neatly to the left of the window, that is, across from him.

"Digit. Though you don't look like one," the white lizard muttered, startling the lad with his insight. And indeed, beneath the long blue sleeves were arms of no small diameter. The jacket was tight around the blond man's massive chest, and he looked manly, soaked though he was.

"What was your name?"

"Rangers. That's what you can call me, dzhigit."

"Hmm... Simon." He introduced himself, and looked at his companion thoughtfully. He straightened his back and crossed his arms in front of him.

"What an interesting name..." Rangers scratched his chin. "That's the way I like ursus, hard-headed, serious, responsible as can be. We have a lot of operators in Rhodes, your fellow countrymen."

"I haven't seen ursus here for a long time. Did they all run away to you?"Simon grinned.

"Perhaps," The lizard answered seriously. "They don't like bears after what happened to Chernobog. Not as much as the Syracusans, of course, but we've got a lot of new clubfoot recruits."

"What's going on with Chernobog now? Don't you know?"

"Ursus intervened and took control of the rest of the city. Wei was very unhappy..." Rangers let out a chuckle. "Of course he was. His fiefdom had nearly been torn apart, barely escaping war, barely getting any compensation for the whole mess. The old man's smart, but he's bloody unlucky."

"My condolences to Mr. Wei." Simon dropped it, showing with all his appearance how monstrous his lie was. Then he chuckled and moved forward. "Did you fight the Reunion yourself?"

There was no answer. His interlocutor squinted suspiciously and moved away from the table to the window. The guy arched an eyebrow in mild surprise, then looked away for a moment.

"I heard from a Rhodesian operator that there was an ursus traitor general in the Reunion," he began, his face changing. "Vlas..."

"No, not that one."

"I don't remember. Well, your chief seems to have destroyed him personally. Is that true?"

"Yes. Miss Amia is a strong girl."

"And there were parts of him that were loyal to him, right?"

"Yes." the lizard stretched, not understanding where he was going with it.

"Some cowards, traitors, just like him."

"Damn, guy, you'd keep quiet about what you don't know," prophesied Rangers, slamming his fist sharply on the table. "His guards are a hundred times better than the local soldiers."

"Do you vouch for that?" Simon snorted.

"Sure. I've dealt with them myself. More noble warriors than I've ever seen in my life."

"Oh, hmm, I apologize. I don't know much about warfare. And they fought with..."

"Shields and sabers. Some of them only had the former. A lot of our men died because of those shield-bearers..."

"And the regular Reunion soldiers? Are their weapons worse or better? Were." Simon added, after a moment's hesitation.

"They are no match for the ursus units," the lizard shook his hand. "The casters, for instance. The patriots, they don't stop beaming with sniper accuracy. All you can do is tremble behind the shields of your comrades. The usual ones are a laugh and a sin. Of all the possible arts - the clots of some plasma, which the normal clothes are blocked. But yes, it can infect."

"Infantry?" The blond businessman clarified, then spat feebly and corrected. "You mean swordsmen?"

"Not very good fighters, to tell you frankly. - Lizard sighed with distinct sadness and pity. - Weapons were what they had. Cheap swords and axes, mostly. No defense, either. Fragments of firearms were scarce, at least none that I have seen. What else..." He scratched the top of his head. - Oh, there were a lot of dogs, too.

"Perro?" Simon asked.

Rangers squinted. - You're a racist, my dear fellow. - He remarked with an ironic squint. - No, of course, inferior ones. Mongrels. They're very vicious, and you'd better watch out if they bite you. Usually they walk with a guide, but I've seen groups of just dogs, too.

"Well, thanks for the information, old man." The guy got up from the table. "I have to go now."

His gaze fell on the tray. It was empty, and there was a stinging salty aftertaste in his mouth, but he had no recollection of how he'd consumed the food. He shrugged and took the tray.

"Have a good day, Mr. Rangers. It was interesting to hear." He nodded before turning around and walking away.

"Oh, I was not talking to a simple dzhigit..." said the white lizard thoughtfully, scratching his chin and looking after the guy who had left the teahouse, and then at the table in front of him.

There were ten dollars on the table, folded in two.

The dark teahouse, and the motley bazaar, of course, pleased the guy, but it was time to do something lighter and more pleasant. Namely, to go for an all-day walk in the city. No, wandering through the varied, but mostly dirty and unfriendly streets of Lungmen could hardly be called a walk. It was more like the wandering of an errant bear, awakened in the middle of winter.

There was absolutely nothing to do. Simon wandered around the city, listening to the rhythmic synth rolls, thinking about nothing. Streets and houses mingled in a neon kaleidoscope, and soon he stopped thinking at all. He just kept walking, watching as the views of Lungmen changed.

The monotonous walls, the roads, the glittering glass, and the light pouring in from everywhere, put him in a drug-like trance. There were lights and noises all around. A sea of bright, acid colors overwhelmed the lonely guy as if he had sniffed cocaine.

Gradually Simon's consciousness faded, and he looked at the flashing lights of the city with a calm, cold gaze. He kept walking, not knowing where he was going, while the Loongman drew him deeper and deeper. Minutes merged into hours, and with the cold of the synth blending with the warmth of the streets, the blond finally dissolved into the city.

(Suru - Dillard)

It got dark.

With the exception of a large building and a small bar, the darkened streets of the distant neighborhood were lit by lanterns hanging from lonely poles. It seems that the mayor of the city, and part-time chief Wei, did not care for the fact that darkness is the best friend of the thief and the crook. Conspiracy theorists speculated crazier and crazier than ever. It almost came to the point that Wei personally went around stealing from ordinary people.

The big building had a sign with "Gambling House" above the entrance, floodlights on the roof, and a pile of cigarette butts by the walls. Behind the noble euphemism was an ordinary casino. Its only oddity was that it was located in a poor neighborhood.

The bar, on the other hand, was a charcoal in comparison to the burgundy fire of the casino, both in terms of lighting and in terms of liveliness. It was across the street, and it was not uncommon to see boorish-looking gamblers and casino employees.

The bar was empty as usual. By twelve o'clock the door had slammed only five times: the last time it was slammed was by an ursus girl with burgundy hair and a weighty axe. The girl kept looking around, assessing the establishment, and the weapon was lying at her side just in case. She was tired of glancing at the bare walls and decided to move on to assessing the drinks.

"Bartender." Ursus snapped her fingers, catching his attention.

The feathery-haired liberi behind his ears at the bar distracted himself from cleaning his glasses and looked up. Another customer. With the same intonation, he had been addressed on long nights by the bum from the building across the street. This visitor also looked like a marginal, but the first impression was deceptive: you don't give a badge with the inscription "Rhodes Island" to just anyone.

The man, like many ordinary citizens, had a positive attitude toward this "Rhodes". After all, his sick daughter was helped, although he was prepared to pay exorbitant money, and even hired her. So his look warmed, and he uttered:

"Yes, of course. There is a fine Sicilian beer."

"Pour it."

Taking off her nametag, the girl relaxed a little, and looked around at the customers. The bearded workers, three lupos and a sarcaz, were now arguing animatedly, and paying no attention to the onlooker. She felt she was safe and relaxed her arms across the couch on which she sat.

Meanwhile the door creaked open, and along with the autumn chill, two men in red jackets and fox tails entered. The vulpas were unceremonious, and announced the purpose of their visit:

"Jack, you bastard, you haven't paid your roof in a week! "Loudly declared the guy with the dark fur on his ears.

"I told you," the bartender said slowly, "I ain't got enough customers to live on, let alone pay."

"That's what you told us a week ago. Haven't you got any money saved up all week?" The speaker growled.

The bartender with his whole appearance said, "No."

"All right, Marco, forget it. You can't get anything out of that bum anyway," the other one said in a conciliatory voice. "Dude, why don't you pour me a beer?

- Get in line.

"What? Are you fucking crazy?!" Shouted Marco. "We need to soak our throats. Now."

"Maybe," ursus finally intervened. "Would you drink shit out of the gutter, if you're so impatient?"

Her every word was sarcastic and challenging. The vulpo noticed the axe lying on the table and the girl's muscular arms, and did not continue the conflict. Marco glared at her angrily, then spat it out:

"Get a move on, old man, our patience is not endless."

In a couple of minutes the men were already standing in front of the bar, glaring at the bartender with an unkind look. They were leaning against the table, and now hovered over the liberi. The gray-haired man seemed tiny against the insolent foxes.

"Well, we soaked our throats, now to business," said the dark-haired man. "To the money.

Before he could finish, a door slammed behind him. Somebody came in alone, and, to judge by the sound of the approaching footsteps, was walking straight toward the bar.

"Eh, put down the axe!" followed an irritated female voice from behind. The foxes didn't pay attention to this, engrossed in their collecting trade, and therefore missed the stranger who approached them from behind. The stranger turned into a tall man and swung an axe at the head of one of the bandits. Shards of skull flew to the table, knocking over glasses with a clang.

The other turned around to get his forehead kicked in. It took the stranger two blows to make a crooked dent in the fox's head. Both bodies collapsed to the floor, dragging the chairs behind them.

"You," the girl babbled dumbfoundedly from a distance. "Are you a fucknut?!

Her outrage went unheeded. The man who had butchered the bandits wiped the blood off his blade on the dead man's shirt, then turned to the old man. Liberi could now get a better look at him.

The savior appeared to be a young lad, fair-haired and blue-eyed. But most of all he was dressed in clothes, or rather in expensive clothes. A synthetic white jacket with a pair of yellow stripes on the sleeves, and light dark pants. A black T-shirt with a skyscraper on a moonlit background peeked out from under the open jacket. The design was crowned with a big pink "Perturbator.

Perturbator... I think the bartender had heard that word from his daughter. Some kind of musician using a synthesizer instead of normal instruments. The young visitors sometimes discussed him.

The old man's ragged musings were interrupted by a quiet question, "Are they from the building next door?" He nodded his head, staring at the corpses in shock. The unemotional tone confused not only him, but also the owner of the axe. She demanded loudly again to hand over the weapon, but the blond didn't even look at her. Instead, he fixed his blond bangs and ran outside.

The insolence rendered the ursus speechless. With bulging eyes she stared at the bodies, then at the swinging door. An October chill wafted in through the door. She fought the shivering and ran to retrieve the loss.

(Fixions - Night Brawlers)

As she ran up the stairs, she saw the terrible sight of the two dead anthropomorphic wolves in jackets, who had previously stood at the entrance to the casino. The pieces of their brains mingled with the hair and dirt of the street, creating a disgusting picture. The girl paid no attention to this, and raced toward the windows of the building that cast shadows on the ground.

The window overlooked a large hall with gambling tables. The red lights that cut through the darkness strained her eyes and creating an eerie atmosphere. Squinting, ursus was able to make out the front desk and the shiny slot machines. She appreciated the presence of many covers, spotted the stairs to the second floor, and saw several corridors. The building turned out to be a great battleground, and only a fool could lose here.

Blondie was no fool, so he bet on speed. He smashed the head of the guard in the locker room, chopped up two more poor souls down the hall. Jamming bit that seemed to bite into the head, along with the cloying sweetness and salty notes in the air, created the atmosphere of a predator's lair. Except now there was a bigger predator coming.

The girl, holding her breath, watched as the guy masterfully chopped the bandits with her weapon. A hook, a swing - the head, splashing blood, rolls away. Another swing - the fox-girl recoils with her breasts pierced. He grabbed his opponent from behind and threw him through the door, knocking the spirit out of him. He did the same with the other fox, but threw it at a group of comrades, knocking them down. The bandits spilled like pins, and fell like logs, chopped up by the blue-eyed killer.

The sight was frightening, yet mesmerizing at the same time. Every blow, every movement the guy made gracefully, as if he was a dancer. The whole process resembled a bloody dance. His face, however, remained detached, focused: it was impossible to understand what the blond was feeling. It remained impassive, even when a crossbow bolt flew at him. The guy jerked back, the arrow plunged into the wolf that had come around him from behind.

Already two corridors were colored red. The number of people in the building was rapidly decreasing. The guy kicked the door open, struck the neck of the fallen man with his hilt, breaking it. A man ran out of the next doorway - the weapon flew at him with a whistle. The guy fell down screaming, killed by the hit; the killer went on, pulling out an axe.

It was certainly fun, crushing the margins, but in her opinion, it dragged on. Ursus looked around, made sure everyone was distracted by the guy, and climbed through the window. The weapon had to be returned, and urgently: the guy was getting deeper and deeper into the building, and there was no telling who might be waiting for him.

While the girl was making her way indoors, he had reached the main hall, and was now fencing with sword-armed bandits. With an axe. And he was pretty good at it. Some blows he let pass him by, responding with lunges and thrusts, others he took to the hilt. Tables clattered and crumbled, glasses clinked and shattered — the guy didn't care.

Here a muscular bouncer with horns came out to the blond. He grinned, put his knuckles on his arm, and attacked. His opponent missed the first hook over his head, jumped away from the second. The guy grabbed a mug and threw it in his enemy's face. The bully shielded his hands, then missed a hard thrust with the handle to his stomach. He crouched, coughing, and that's when the blade sliced off his head.

The girl, who had been watching the brawl from the far corridor, was impressed by what she saw. She watched mesmerized as the fragments of bone flew, as the crashing tables rumbled, as a dozen jackets turned into a ten, then a six, and after a few lucky feints into a zero.

There wasn't an ounce of fear in her eyes. In fact, she wouldn't have minded joining in, but the formidable guy wouldn't let her. The opponents ran out before she threw off her stupor. Ursus decided it wasn't worth getting under the blood-warmed hand and continued to watch.

The stairs filled with the stomping of feet. Shouts and commotion were heard at the top. The guy rushed to the front of the stairs. A couple of blows and they fell dead. He leaped over the corpses in cold blood and ran up the stairs to the second floor. The girl, who had been following him the whole time, followed him just as gently.

Fascinated by the carnage, the killer was not himself. The detached gaze, the automatism of his movements, the silence, the compressed lips - the ursus was sure of it. Just because of the danger of getting caught in the hot hand, she didn't dare go and take the weapon from the insolent after all.

In the meantime, the brazen man had finally broken loose, and instead of sweeping the floor in succession, he simply fired his gun from a pistol lying nearby, attracting the attention of his enemies. His calculation paid off, and soon enemies were pouring out of the doors. In the red light of the lamps, their red jackets and shirts blended into a homogeneous mess, and instead of accurate punches, the guy began rhythmically hitting it. The blows, though chaotic, did not diminish in lethality.

The two girls panicked, and tried to retreat. The blond stared at them indifferently, then blocked the blow, hooked and toppled his adversary. Finish lying down he prevented a furry she-wolf, fearlessly shielding his companion. Brave girl bought a false lunge, then missed a jab, fell and squealed in pain. A knife glinted in the guy's hands, and then a fountain of blood gushed from the she-wolf's throat.

In the last room he met no serious resistance. The stoned mafioso didn't care about the outside world, not even the suffering and screams of their less fortunate comrades. The guy spat, swung around, and blew the head off the nearest one. With a couple of swings, the bloody picture was over.

Droplets of sweat glistened in the ominous light of the lamps. The killer shook himself off. The gambling house was deserted. The girl noticed that there had been far more people here, but after the massacre some had chickened out and fled. She stopped, made sure there were no people left, and said loudly:

"That's it, that's the last of them. The rest got away."

The listener's gaze cleared and he turned his head toward her. ursus tensely watched his reaction. By this point it had finally dawned on her that the guy might be a mere maniac, not a vigilante. Sure, she was dangerous even without a weapon, but fear still stretched its clammy tentacles toward her. The girl was able to pull herself together, but the tension was not relieved.

To the girl's slight relief, the blond quickly replied, "I don't care," and then began to clean his weapon. He found the cleanest jacket he could find, took it off the dead man, and wiped the blade with it like a rag. The owner of the weapon, who occasionally squinted at him, made no comment, busy looking at the dead.

Another blank stare. The dead man who met her gaze was a middle-aged brunette. He was lying against the wall with his head bashed in, staring either at the killer or at his companion. The companion looked into his clouded eyes, covered them with her hand, but immediately yanked it away and shook herself off.

The man finally remembered that he hadn't been alone all this time, and looked distantly at the ursus. Blue eyes met. He lowered his gaze to the axe and frozed: the bloody blight had finally let him go.

"Is that yours?" He pointed to the weapon in his hands.

"Yes." She replied with a mixture of irritation and awe. "If you'd asked first, I might have given it to you."

"Sorry, I was... a little out of it. I can be a little crazy," The guy answered quietly.

The ursus gawked in surprise and drew back, almost tripping over herself. The guy must have realized what he'd just said, so he corrected himself:

"Ugh, I don't mean that I cut everyone up, but that I sometimes get a strange feeling. A trance or something."

They stopped talking. The guy exhaled, spread his T-shirt and jacket, and then said in a calm, cool voice:

"Again, please forgive me. You could have gotten hurt. I shouldn't have dragged you into this, even if by accident." He stopped, then buttoned his jacket and held out his axe. "This is yours."

The weapon was clean, as if the whole massacre had never happened. Though the guy's clothes were soaked and stained with blood, he looked at the ursus calmly and aloof, as if she had nothing to do with it. After thinking for a while, the girl decided that it was. If he had, say, taken the knife out of his boot, nothing would have changed. She would have followed him as well, following the Doctor's order to study and remember all unusual things around her.

The owner took the weapon, twirled it, examined it meticulously. Not only did it look clean and sturdy, but it was so: the crazy guy had managed to keep the axe intact after a fight like that.

The guy calmly waited for her verdict, removing the corpses from the doorways. His hands were smeared with blood each time, and he stubbornly wiped them on his jackets again and again. After a couple of minutes the girl finally turned to him:

"I didn't expect to see him so..." she hesitated, "in one piece. Intact, or something. Hey, that was cool! I don't know why the hell you interrupted them," she pointed her hand across the room, "but you sure can fight," ursus noticed. The guy remained silent.

A tough fighter, a guy with principles, who stood up for the poor bartender, cold, with a touch of mystery, a little dark. The girl even sympathized with him a little. Except that the massacre that followed...

"And yet," she turned to the blond man again, "why did you do it? You got an itch in your ass? Personal? Or maybe," she paused dramatically, "a desire for justice?

"No. I can't say. I don't know."

Ursus fell silent. With one last glance at the guy, she turned and walked toward the exit. She stepped over shards of glass, pieces of plaster, splinters, someone's limbs and bones. Suddenly she slipped, but the blond who was following her caught her.

She stopped in the street and asked, glancing at the guy with interest:

"Listen," she hesitated, but continued, "what's your name? I'm Sofia."

"Simon," The guy answered quickly, and held out his hand.

She shook her hand, he had a firm but pleasant grip on her. She remembered that there was still some unfinished beer in the bar and that the old bartender had to help with the corpses, so she stayed to get some air. The girl stood at the entrance to the bar, pondering what had happened, and looked at the guy who was leaving. He and then his silhouette kept getting smaller and smaller until he disappeared into the darkness of the street.

Simon showed up when he was needed most, restored justice, and left into the Lungmen night.

"...And left into the Lungmen night," Zima finished her story.

(Modulogeek - Around)

There was silence in the room. The listeners were impressed by the operative's story of tonight. Before anyone began to comment on her story, Zima continued:

"Okay, he actually said, "I don't know."

"So he chopped up four dozen people, and when asked "Why?" he said he didn't know?" Istina asked doubtfully. "You met a real maniac. You're lucky he didn't throw himself at you."

"Yeah. I was afraid he might come at me, too, so I didn't dare take away the axe, " Zima answered irritably. Her friend was stating the obvious, and it made her a little angry."

"Quite... an interesting case. Though not unique," said the Doctor, who arrived halfway through the story. "There aren't many madmen in Lungmen who could do such a thing."

"Yes, you're quite right, Doctor, but he does seem a bit unusual to me. Well," Zima pondered, "his appearance, for instance. I didn't get a good look at him in the stupid light, but he struck me as... You know, when you don't clean a cool weapon for a long time and it gets dusty? - Trying to think of an analogy, she asked.

"What do you mean?" The Doctor asked.

"That lingering sense of former greatness and formidable glory that envelops old weapons," explanation followed. "This guy used to be a lot better, but then something happened to him, and here." she waved her hands.

It didn't get any clearer. Not for a men. The blond ursus, however, understood her friend, and deciphered her thought:

"What Sonja means to say is that the man she met had once gone insane and become a murderer. In her opinion," added, for the sake of objectivity, Istina.

The doctor reflected. This apparent ursus Simon could have been anyone: a veteran, a lunatic, a mercenary - how many unusual people are there in Lungmen? And would this encounter have been a common occurrence, which one tells about from nothing to do, if it were not for a strange thought.

"Could Simon be a masked killer?" The Doctor muttered to himself, but immediately came to his senses.

"Who are you talking about?" Istina asked him cautiously.

The Doctor realized he'd said too much and brushed it aside. If every stranger he met turned out to be a veteran of the Sarcasian wars, one who knew Theresa personally, Rhodes would have won long ago. Bare luck would have solved a lot of problems, but there is no such thing as bare luck. There is only cold calculation, and happy coincidence. The doctor was well aware of that, so he dismissed the thought.

A group of listeners had gathered in the lounge during the story. It consisted mostly of idle operators, and only two faces stood out from the group. Istina, an ursus girl with blond hair and a stern, slightly haughty look, and Texas.

She listened from the start, and Simon interested her.

"What did he look like, again?" She asked the wolf girl again.

"Tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired. A Slav, in a word," sniggered Zima, and added. "A handsome fellow, though ungroomed. Would have looked better without blood on his face, though."

The girl thought he looked like a Jacket. Even though she hadn't seen his face, it was probably what one of the maniacs romanticized on the Internet would have looked like. Texas was only horrified to hear of their "feats." She, unlike many, knew the victims of such vigilantes, or rather, the lives and psychology of most of them. Many were just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Texas could understand, but not forgive.

"A hole in the body of humanity." concluded Istina. "The only way for such a thing to happen is with a bullet to the head."

Another truth from Istina. Ironic. The listeners, realizing the story was over, began to disperse. Texas kept trying to picture the guy, and the Doctor was thinking something over again. In a few minutes they were the only ones left standing in the empty room.

"Listen, Texas, a strange thought occurred to me." the man began, waiting for the footsteps to stop. "The guy Zima told me about, does he look like... Jacket to you?"

"Well, I had this thought," she answered slowly, "but it's strange. Lungmen's full of such warriors, not that they're conspicuous."

"Do you know how powerful the will of chance is?"

"Yes." Texas answered with a short, confident tone.

"Chance can help us here, too. I'll ask Zima to document what happened, in case my hunch is right."

The man was quiet, then slapped his forehead and added:

"Oh, I almost forgot. Here's the bill for Penguin Logistics for the month. And freight, and medication deliveries, everything." He handed her a sheet of paper with a printout. Texas took it, nodding contentedly.

"Nice working with you, Doctor," she said, smiling.

She nodded, and after folding the paper in quarters and storing it in her pocket, she went about her business. The doctor was busy, too, and so he left the room with her. At last it was quiet. Cardboard boxes stood, empty, not yet needed. Dust flew in the air, shimmering in the light of the rising sun. A new day was approaching.

In some places life was boiling, as on Rhodes Island, but in others it was silent. In some places, for good.