8:03 - August 12 - 1099
(SunAraw — Deepcover)
Head ached mercilessly. And the whole body along with it. Simon made a dash to the bathroom, and with a determined onslaught got the painkillers from the locker. After eating the pills, his mind cleared up, and the guy was able to marvel at the outbreak of pain. He was an alcoholic, but not an old man whose life rested on pills.
The dream didn't go away, didn't get forgotten, as it does with common subconscious spawns. "There is no offense to the truth," so said Makarych. Those words kept ringing out, even as he began diligently flushing his face. It was no longer true, he was offended. Simon looked at himself in the mirror, and remembered what his mentor had said differently: "Don't be offended by the truth."
Only then did he come to his senses. He looked around: so far the apartment was empty, apart from himself. For now. The phone on the nightstand was beeping like always. Simon got up, thinking about his actions, and decided that work could wait. Breakfast must come first.
After yesterday's feast, instant noodles looked wild. Simon, however, had not cared for a long time. The Lungmen was not only associated with freedom, but also with satiety and affluence, so there was no point in paying attention to the food. Any food here was good, even noodles.
The food, as usual, was tasteless. Or does boiling water have taste? Or, no, Simon tasted good flour and, surprisingly, salt. Someone had figured out to salt the bum bag, and the guy was ironically glad it wasn't him. The noodles went a little better than usual, and the sausage made a nutritious and relatively tasty breakfast.
"Yesterday... there was an attack... a private military organization... there were fatalities...," the television broadcast another of Simon's feats. He listened half-heartedly, absorbed by the rays of light streaming through the clear shot of liquid. It was beautiful. At the end of the story they said: ten dead, a dozen and a half wounded. He decided that was a lot.
Blondie was cheering up in proud solitude. Makarych had evidently remained asleep, and he had no other guests except Angelina, the fox courier, who delivered money and cognac in canisters to him. She entertained Simon by flying to the balcony on a staff, and the canisters flew by, like some witch's.
(MOON — Delay)
Another entertainment was the sounds from the neighboring apartments, such as now.
"Dirty bitch!"
Simon's eyebrows went up. He hastily finished chewing and listened.
"Don't disappoint me this time! And them too, of course!" A regular, but no less obnoxious voice colorfully swore and called someone a whore.
"Ah... slower... slower..." a tired, half-mad voice echoed. It sounded vaguely familiar to the boy.
"The log has no right to speak, so shut up." The first voice hissed, and then growled.
The sex had probably peaked. After a furious "I'm cumming!" there was complete silence.
Simon was fucking stunned. This was something he had never encountered before. Not even in creepy and insane Rome. The guy tried to distract himself from the shock, especially since there was still some left at the bottom of the shot, but the renewed shouting wouldn't let him.
The first male voice was joined by another. If it weren't for the timbre, they would have been indistinguishable. Still the same filth and humiliation toward the victim, loud and distinct. Simon choked — regular food didn't go with this accompaniment, much less vodka. He cleared his throat, but the rapists did not stop.
A full minute passed like that. A full minute, for even Simon, accustomed to all kinds of dirt and tin, had his ears curled up in a tube from the orchestra of moans, sobs, and swearing. The unhappy tenant sighed, and decided to sort it out. From the balcony of his apartment it was possible to climb down to the neighbors, with a little dexterity, of which the boy had plenty.
Simon hovered down, assessing the situation. The windows were curtained, and he crept quietly onto the stranger's balcony. In the meantime the sounds resumed. Now the victim, a woman, or even a girl, was moaning and crying miserably, now asking forgiveness, now asking to be a little gentler. The rapist, on the other hand, shut her up with one well-aimed phrase.
"I've had enough," whispered Simon, "if it's rape, he's a fucking dead, if not, let him shut up."
With a deafening clang the window flew open and an icy wind rushed into the gloomy room. Or rather, it seemed icy to the people in the room: no one was dressed. The blond man shuddered, unable to fight the cold. The rapist, on the other hand, was not the least bit embarrassed. He simply turned to the window and squinted.
The intruder took a closer look. The rapist turned out to be a well-pumped middle-aged man. Completely naked, he resembled an antique statue, but only in physique. His face was very ordinary, and the only thing that stood out was his cruel and angry expression. His eyes, of course, were covered with bangs.
The rapist gave the boy a sneering look.
"Whoa, who's this here?"
"Your disgruntled neighbor. What the fuck is going on here?"
"I'm just punishing the dirty bitch," there was a nonchalant response. Both went silent, and the intruder was able to look around.
The gloomy room was covered with ugly burgundy wallpaper, irritating to the eye. The irritated eye noticed a nightstand with some incomprehensible gadgets, probably sex toys, a wet carpet on the floor, a light bulb, now off. The rays of light refracted by the broken glass created the surreal atmosphere of a nightmare apartment.
"The bitch had been riding a merry-go-round of cocks, back and forth, back and forth, for a long time now." The rapist seemed to be trying to piss off the intruder. The intruder was pissed off reluctantly, trying to see the bed covered by her opponent's figure.
"She doesn't even have money to ride, so get her off this merry-go-round."
The odd joke worked. The jock laughed contemptuously, and stepped a little to the side. The sun rose a little higher, illuminating the bed with its faded blue bedspread. Somewhere the blue changed to dark blue because of the dust and dirt, somewhere to a faded blue. Simon didn't even want to think why.
"Well? What do you think?" The nameless rapist asked with a sneer. He was answered with silence.
Simon was stunned once again. The world had managed to hit him once more. A bunch of questions to what was going on burrowed in his head, and his hovering brain could only produce a wispy "What..." His opponent laughed again.
"A log?"
"Exactly. Dirty bitch can't stand up for herself. Was that my fault?"
The bitch really couldn't stand up for herself. She just wasn't capable of it. No arms and legs. Reality twisted and gave something weird. Dark. Ominous.
"You... You fucking pervert!" Simon's voice trembled, though nothing terrible in his mind had happened yet. There was food, but there was no cold. Not the cold.
"It's okay to dominate. That's what you want, isn't it?" The rapist sounded like he was giving a lecture by a charismatic madman. Charismatic, but clichéd through and through, like in the movies.
"NO!" The guy recoiled and crunched something small and sharp. A piece of glass was pierced into his foot.
The victim lay idly on the bed. Simon thought of her judgmental gaze, her muffled whispering and unrestrained screaming. The impossibility of it added to the nightmare. A new glass under his foot threw off the obsession. No. He was here, standing in front of a perverted rapist, here and now. And most importantly, he didn't come empty-handed.
"You know," the fear, which was irrational, turned into rational anger, "you piss me off. You're a sadistic pervert, and you're under my apartment. And to top it all off, you're fucking a log!"
The log didn't react. It shouldn't have. The rapist, on the other hand, smirked in a depressed and malicious way, and, apparently realizing the collapse of his performance, just quit:
"Would you like to join me?"
His answer was an equally simple "No," and a clear, filigree piercing of his skull with a hammer. The pervert collapsed, the guy shook the blood off the tool. It was like smashing a watermelon. In practice, it always turned out that man is a fragile creature, and breaks as easily and juicily as a watermelon. This must have been the feeling felt by perverts in murders. But he wasn't a pervert. He wasn't, was he?
"He was noisy as hell; the neighbors would have come running in here for sure." Simon gave his answer to himself after a moment's silence, not to feel out of place.
There was some blood on the log in the bed. The guy decided to just throw it away somewhere along the way. And he got rid of the corpse as professionally as he got rid of the man. The process was pretty nasty, and the killer shuddered a little each time, but still got used to it by necessity. It would be nice to be disposed of in the same way. Clearly. Filigree.
After this most bizarre occurrence, the whole morning faded and lost any interest in him. Here he was doing the dishes, and here he was listening to the phone. This time something about cleaning an apartment and taking out the trash in East Lungmen. The guy thought it would be a good idea to clean up his place somehow, or his apartment would turn into the one he saw this morning.
"Okay," he said to himself, "shit happens. And in freedom city, it comes out freely, too." The remaining nasty residue could be eliminated in two ways: get drunk and kill someone else. And since he had candidates for assassination, Simon decided to combine business with pleasure. It is always a pleasure to restore justice, especially so decisively and productively.
11:10 - August 12 - 1099
(DagUnenge — Untitled)
Lungmen was the same as always today. Bright, colorful, alive. Its people carried a lot of dirt inside them, but it barely spilled out onto the streets, so the city seemed a peaceful but noisy place. If it had been so...
Simon walked across a large avenue. The humming of cars cut through the sound of the player, tearing him away from his inner world, but the boy was always alert anyway. A useful habit for any man. Behind being cautious, he didn't forget to admire the view. A picturesque bridge towered over the street, as if emerging from skyscrapers, and ended somewhere over the horizon.
The assassin walked from the bottom of the bridge down the wide pedestrian streets. People came and went, flaunting fancy suits that he didn't care about. He paid more attention to the surrounding architecture, which was state of the art. Smooth, shiny surfaces, ribbons of windows, minimalist and flowing forms of curves and walls — none of this was tiresome in a day or a year of living among these buildings.
Simon was just examining the rounded business center when a straight wall with graffiti caught his eye. It depicted a huge and bloody man in a rooster mask. The picture was immediately striking: a turquoise background with small stripes like on old cassettes, a bright neon sun, and a rooster in a bomber with hieroglyphics. The maniac stared at passersby from the wall, stopping everyone with his heavy gaze.
The drawing captured only the head and part of the chest, but it was enough to make a lasting impression. Simon stopped, staring at the creepy graffiti. It was as if it was looking back at him, so realistic were the rooster's eyes.
The guy smiled: he was playing peek-a-boo with himself, albeit a painted one. He wondered if it was admirable that his face was on public display. Clearly not. Not in that way. Although...
"On guard of the law, on guard of justice," the caption to the drawing read. The guy grinned. Somebody in this town has a great sense of humor. Or a head screwed on. That's what's needed for this kind of creativity, according to Simon.
In fact, the maniac knew that not everyone considered masquerading maniacs to be evil. He often heard conversations and discussions of himself and other rioters in the streets. And the tone of those conversations was by no means judgmental. People looked around cautiously, and then said quietly that Wei had lost his mind on the subject of the Lungmen for everyone, and that a referendum could soon be held on the separation of the city from Yan. And that people like him were just a consequence of the excessive liberalism of the government.
Everyone wondered who was hiding behind the masks - the people, the local mobsters playing hide-and-seek, or the Ursus intelligence service in general. But so far the conjectures only amused Simon, if only by their confusion and the search for skeletons in every closet. And while people still didn't understand who they were dealing with, one thing was certain: they cared. And that "care" was now staring at Simon with eerie bird-like eyes. He spat, and continued on his way.
(Scattle — Remorse)
At last the boy arrived at his destination. A three-story pile of steel, concrete, and garbage towered menacingly in front of him, repulsive in its spontaneity and unsightliness.
"Yeah, it definitely needs cleaning," Simon remarked aloud. And he didn't take long to get down to business.
He inspected the area. The place looked like a triad's apartment. Unlike the pompous Syracuse mobsters, the triad were less picky about their surroundings. Well, and less choosy in their methods. For their victims, that meant less elaborate torture and more bullets instead.
Simon put on his mask and, pulling out his gun, kicked in the door. Inside he found some suspicious-looking tigresses, which he fired at. They fell, and one threw a knife, but the lad fell to the ground, dodging the iron. Another redhead ran out of the nearest door, immediately stabbed in the chest and settled down.
The room really turned out to be a safe house. Simple and poor things made it so. Old square appliances, tattered furniture, newspaper instead of carpets. The walls were hung with posters of erotic content, which Simon paid no attention to. Barrels, one burning, crates, weeds breaking through here and there, dirty sheets of paper everywhere-it was as if the killer had entered an abandonment yard.
The maniac swung over the drab couch, and slung two men down, dropping them on the barrels. One banged his head on the edge of the barrel, then racked his brains with a loud clang. The other was stunned by the fall, and Rusakov slit his throat. With the bat taken away immediately he threw it at the bandit who ran out from around the corner, crushing his head against the wall.
From the hall with the sofas and the TV, the killer made his way into the corridors. From the far ends, cries and shouts could already be heard. He fired a couple of shots in their direction, immediately leaping through a door nearby. That's how he got into the small room with the only tigress inside. She only had time to wag her tail reflexively before being shot. The killer made his way through the room.
From there he entered a net of corridors of some kind. Periodically encountering opponents, he either mopped up or explored the building. He had no clear plan, and the guy just pounded everything that moved. After a couple dozen cats and tigers he finally reached the stairs and went up.
The second floor greeted him with the familiar smell: this was where they grew weed for drugs. "I see now why I'm here," thought Simon, turning the head of the bandit standing by the stairs into mincemeat. He did a pirouette, diverting himself from the mince and dodging a flying arrow. It slammed into the wall, and then the lad pulled it out and threw it at the gunman who just showed up. The arrow snapped, but it didn't lose its lethality.
After passing through another corridor of thugs, Simon found himself at a massive door. It must have led to boxes of weed, because it was stained with something green and smelled awful. He took out a molotov cocktail, guessed how far away the nearest roof was, and finally stepped inside.
The hall, with its straight rows of beds, was poorly lit. It was still dirt and mud, only now with the addition of rows of dirty tables and pots of weed. The weed had shriveled from the lack of light, but they had grown over, obscuring the view. The box was like a maze. Only the minotaur was not expecting guests, but instead was out hunting.
Simon put the bottle away, and immediately the draco-thug man jumped out at him. Assasin jumped to his right, grabbed the enemy who had crashed into the table sharply by the horns, and slammed him against the table. And then another and another, splattering the leaves with blood. Next he picked up the dropped stiletto, and moved to the other end of the box.
The stiletto quickly found its prey: a woman in a garden apron with a mini crossbow jumped out from around the corner. The guy didn't hesitate to throw the stiletto at the gardener, then backed away from the little arrow, and knocked the woman down with his foot. She flew into the pots, knocking them down and clearing the way. True to form, several arrows immediately flew out from there. Simon fell to the floor, and crawled to the crossbow. Picking it up, he raised his head only to see the furry culprit approaching.
It growled briefly and raised its bow, but the assassin was faster. The tigress shrieked as the arrow entered her eye, but the blond man grabbed her by the shoulders. A blow under her ribs, then to her stomach, and the tigress was thrown into the air. She knocked down a couple of tables with a clatter, and fell silent. The room fell silent with her.
Simon sensed the presence of the enemy, but could not figure out where he was. He thought he saw a gun behind a rippling bush, but it was only a water hose. The assassin spun around, looking back, and suddenly he heard loud breathing behind him.
Before he could turn around, furry hands dropped him to the floor. The assassin was stunned, and the black dog, who had clutched at him, managed to land a couple of blows to the back of his head. The blond woke up, leaned on the table, and grabbed the flying fist in his face. The dog growled, and tried to grab at his throat. Maniac grabbed for his mouth, fumbling desperately across the table. A heavy pot got under his arm, and then its crunch mingled with the crunch of bones.
The dog whimpered over the broken skull. The killer dropped his still-living opponent and stood up. The dog, on the other hand, quickly fell silent, spurting blood from his shattered head, and Simon was able to concentrate. Only now he heard the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. The lad walked slowly through the rows of bushes, turning around momentarily, ducking at every movement. He was even more cautious now. It was as if he'd been caught up in an old horror film from the tapes.
It all happened suddenly. An arrow flew out of the darkness, shattered the pot, then another, which the killer deflected, and then a hail of arrows. The maniac rushed out, leaping over the fallen tables, dodging shots. He drew his gun, a couple of shots rang out, and there was a yell from the left. The guy jumped up on the table, and jumped as if in slow motion, shooting the predators lurking in the weeds. Everyone collapsed, but only he got up.
It was over. Finishing off the third floor was no problem: there were only a dozen people there. The rooms were cleaner and more cluttered; there was a warehouse there. The skirmish between the crates that had ensued at the entrance quickly turned into a melee. A mesmerizing dance, but a familiar one. Some can do better than that.
The last opponent, a white cat, went down. Simon took the Beretta he had taken from her and struck her in the back of the head with the stock. The girl cried out painfully, twitching her tail. Then she only moaned softly, and soon fell silent for good. The boy looked at the deceased with a slight sadness. Young, athletic, pretty. Many Mafia girls, though, looked the same. And they screamed just as much as the men.
In general, girls were more prone to near-death emotions and screams. At first Simon even felt pity for them. Then he got used to it, and began to pay attention to the brave ones. They were silent when they died, endured the pain steadfastly, and with their silence seemed to spit death in the face. One day the dying mobster turned to the killer and spat at him with a painful chuckle. He wasn't saved, but he was respected posthumously.
Everyone was finally finished. The crappy day was coming to a close. Simon lit the mixture on fire, and tossed the bottle into the empty building. He stood for a while, warming himself against the fire and pondering. The warmth felt good on his body, even through his clothes. He wish he hadn't thought about who was the fuel for him...
(Old Future Fox Gang — Guided Meditation)
Simon was back at home again. On the way he stopped by Jaye's house and had a nice chat with him. But some trim bespectacled tigress with red fur came to him, and the pleasant atmosphere disappeared quickly. The boy and the girl glanced at each other with suspicious glances, and left the bar at the same time.
The jacket fell on the bed, noticeably lighter with ammunition, and the tenant sank wearily there as well. Tough day, as always. An acute desire to relax over a can of beer finally broke free. It was time to empty the local brewery!
The raid was a success. Thanks to the muscles he had built up over the decades, Simon had no problem taking all the beer on the shelves. The same muscles allowed him not only to take but also to carry away all that alcohol. With this job, money was not a problem.
He was planning to relax and forget himself after this morning's moron and challenging assignment when he suddenly remembered abruptly about the graffiti. He wondered what ordinary people thought of it. It wouldn't be out of place to ask Texas, either. First normal conversation partner in three years after all.
The guy rummaged through the countertop, pulled out an old laptop and turned it on. He got his news from TV and bar gossip, used the computer only as a storage for area maps and music, and had only recently heard about the thread. Exusiai showed it to him on her computer, told him that he might be interested. He didn't let on at the time, but at home, alone with himself, he quickly, somewhat nervously typed the cherished word into the search and clicked on the link.
3ch greeted the guy with the same thing he had greeted the two unusual girls a while back. "Welcome. Again," the ironic inscription read. Simon rolled his eyes, and muttered something. He glanced at the page, grimaced, and began to make his way through the maze of the site to the cherished board.
It took the guy about half an hour. During that time he learned how to make Originium slug bombs, read the so-called "Bugurts," which were modern jokes, and, the icing on the cake, threw up from the disgusting texts about shit. Fortunately, only figuratively. By the end of his search he was ready to turn off the damn site and never touch it again, but his luck suddenly smiled on Simon. He finally found what he was looking for.
The anonymous had built up a whole investigation, with lots of documents and records. And, to the horror of the maniac, they were clearly not going to stop. Not even the creepy story of how unknown people broke into one of the anons' apartment and took away his computer with his materials could scare them off. Since then the already grim atmosphere was diluted with a bunch of jokes about the object of the investigation to the most nosy investigators. This object was seriously nervous, fearing that the jokes would not have to translate into reality.
But then he was surprised. Surprised after a can of beer was opened, what a strong and cohesive atmosphere prevailed in the thread. Although the anonyms argued a lot about him, they quite friendly greeted the newcomers and gave them various tips on detective work. And they even raised money for a new computer for a thiefed.
"It's amazing how people can unite to struggle against someone," aloud remarked Simon. Then he asked in a quieter voice, "Or it's not a struggle? Then what is it?"
Either a struggle, or an interest, or an obsession. Anonymity untied people's hands, but it confused the outsider. Who knows what they had in mind. Maybe under the masks of anonymity was hiding a comrade major who was amusing himself by catching active young people?
From the general wall of texts several posts were singled out. They were written as if by a journalist. The author talked about his guesses about Jacket's motivation. And, in his opinion, the masked killer was not driven by bloodlust or anger, but by... patriotism. An unusual sense of duty to the country, be it Lungmen or Syracuse (it has been established that the maniac began his career there).
"Not bad. You have a great future, man," praised the author Simon, knowing he was talking into a wall.
The articles gave him one thought. People are all wondering who it is, how he achieved it, and, most importantly, why he does it all? However, after all that, does he himself know the answer to that question? Does he himself know why he won't throw the mask in the trash, tear up the contract with Alabay, call Texas right away and invite her for a walk and drop everything?
"Glad you're taking my advice."
Oh yeah, how could he forget. His mentor, his friend, his judge.
"And where have you been before?" With an impenetrable face Simon asked and turned his head. Makar was sitting in a chair which had been pulled up, and was studying the thread with a fire in his already yellow eyes.
"Me? Nowhere. It is only your decision. All business should be approached with a sober mind, not a fucked-up one. You've always understood that for as long as I can remember."
"Has anything changed?" Simon's voice did not waver, but he felt disgusted.
"Yes. You only deign to make excuses now, when nothing can be changed," blurted out Makar and shot his interlocutor a penetrating look. "You whacked a lot of people, and then you wonder why. I wish I had your recklessness."
They went silent again. Simon pondered his words. He used to have a normal goal: revenge. He had seen himself as a grim knight, a relentless pursuer, exacting vengeance on all who got in his way. But now?
"Yes. You're right. I really am a reckless idiot. Or an unstoppable one."
"I'm glad you understand." The wolf smiled and flattened his ears. He'd been so stingy with facial expressions before, his fluffy tail has barely moved. Marked perfect self-control, developed in negotiations with the big shots. Even now he did not change his principles.
"Look," the guy flipped up the page. The same rooster graffiti he had seen this morning was looking at them. "What do you think it could mean?"
"It could mean," the man paused dramatically, and even straightened his tail a little. "That you're not alone."
"In what way?"
"In that way."
They looked at each other. The blue eyes opened wide, and the yellow ones squinted slyly. Makarych didn't seem to want to frighten, but his sneering grin, his devil in the eyes, and his wrinkles told me that something was wrong. The blond man knew it, too. He sighed, foreshadowing the extent of the tragedy.
"You want to accuse me? I know all about it myself." Blondie could have been in a noir movie, so contemptuous was his intonation, with a hint of menace that barely penetrated the cold politeness. "And be kind enough, leave me alone."
"Bravo, bravo!" The wolf laughed, and clapped his hands. The gray tail sharply went back and forth. "Unrecognized genius of the big screen! Fuck, I should have given you to the Grand Theater."
"I would have slaughtered all the actors. I can't stand that much falsity," still coldly replied the guy.
Wolf grinned, and fell silent as he read the thread. The next half hour passed in the silence so coveted by both of them. Simon needed to get his thoughts in order, and Makarych didn't want to interfere with that.
The telephone began to beep with an answering machine light. The murderer sitting at the table looked from the monitor to the box, then to Makarych, then back to the box. The yellow-eyed wolf did not react at all. Then Simon stood up and picked up the phone.
Texas. Amazing. At least something good happened today. One wolf pestering him, another brightening up the grayness of everyday life. The guy didn't put on any masks, but even his face, frozen in perpetual cold, had warmed. She said all her friends had gotten better, and that things were going well for them. Their boss had even thrown a party, and even recited a rap of his own. That's funny.
Then Lappland showed up. The guy frowned at the sound of that name. Fucking idiot. And here she had leaked in, managing to ruin both his mood and her party by turning the friendly get-togethers into an absurd battle. And... Was it his imagination, or was there a strange tension between the two wolves?
"There are a lot of wolves around me lately, don't you think? Huh, Makarych?"