6:40 - August 17 - 1099
(Ress Less - without)
Dream. The restless mind once again kept Simon awake. This time he dreamt of Volsinii. Quiet, desolate and peaceful. Grim paneled strongholds, anthracite window gaps, concrete paths instead of roads. It was as if war had come to the city, swept away all its inhabitants, and disappeared, leaving it to stir the imagination of descendants. Snow, darkness everywhere. Tortured by the stillness, the guy threw himself into the ice-cold Danube, unable to endure it, and the ghostly city disappeared.
On the one hand, he woke up shattered every time after some unknown bullshit called dreams, coming to him from the remotest corners of Terra. On the other hand, it gave him food for thought. For instance, whether it was worth buying tranquilizers before they were outlawed...
"Drugs wouldn't do any good. Just go to bed early, Simon."
No. Tranquilizers are too much. The old man once warned him that if he got hooked on drugs, he'd never see the Lungmen again. Simon was well aware of that, especially since live examples were literally lying in the yard of their five-story building. Those yellow lantern eyes, with the clouded whites and the faded lights of the lenses...
"Don't look at others, look at yourself, so your lanterns don't go dim."
"Leave me alone."
The sleepy boy got out of bed. The sun stabbed his eyes mercilessly. He hastily covered his hand from the sun and from Makarych, trying to come to his senses. His body was trembling as if he had been doused with a ladle of ice-cold water. But that was how it was, albeit in his sleep.
Simon washed his face and warmed up, then presented himself to his old friend in a more presentable manner. His white T-shirt had an impressive, muscular chest, even if it was somewhat wiry. His body was powerful in general, both in looks and deeds, and no amount of clothing could hide that. But right now the guy looked like a regular family man watching soccer on a Friday night with a beer.
"That's the way I like you better. And you can't tell right away that you're a murderer," the wolf calmly noted, sitting in the same chair as yesterday.
Simon took his pants from the back of the chair, got dressed, and went out into the kitchen. During the conversation he forgot to look at his phone. But he didn't need to; the guy knew there was no work for him except on holidays. So he calmly took his breakfast.
"Hey, Simon," suddenly there was a call from the bedroom. The caller sighed unhappily.
"What do you want?"
"How about a game of chess? You must have forgotten how to do it." Judging by the knocking, Makarych had already decided for him, and all he had to do was agree.
A tempting offer. He wanted to kill time, especially since Simon got up much earlier than he should have and his eyes were about to fall into his bowl, so stinging from lack of sleep. The guy looked thoughtfully at his forkful of pasta. It had been a long time since he'd had this much fun. There's just no one to play with. In Volsinii, the residents of their building at least knew their neighbors and willingly played with them on the benches. Here the residents did not even know the name of their blue-eyed neighbor, much less his occupation. The freedom to live well is the freedom to live alone.
"Arrange the pieces." He took the plate in his hands and went into the bedroom, intending to finish his meal at the game.
The old man was already waiting for him at the board that had come out of nowhere. Simon remembered clearly that the last time he had seen a chessboard was at a teahouse in the market and he certainly had not kept it at home. Nevertheless, he calmly spread out on the table and picked up a white pawn. His opponent grinned and, to his surprise, mirrored his move.
"How ridiculous." The guy grinned, and brought out his knight. His opponent responded in the same way. "The first player in three years, and he's a humorist."
The snide wolf didn't answer, just snickered, continuing to piss Simon off. The chess clock was ticking, not knowing where it had come from and it was unclear why it was needed. Makarych was simply trolling his opponent, without thinking, making moves that mirrored his. At first the blond calmly attacked his pieces, throwing off the scraps of sleep, but by the mittelspiel (a strange word he had learned from a Sicilian magazine) he began to angrily glare at the yellow-eyed man. The stacks remained untouched, as did the food.
After a while there was a loud banging of Simon's jaw against the floor in the apartment. He was checkmated, by mirroring all his moves. The wolf burst into a gloating laugh, and the guy's eyes bulged incomprehensibly. And then he calmed down; Makarych could get meat in the hungry years, so it was easy for him to put an absurd checkmate.
The men were distracted by the peep of the phone. Simon looked at the red light, and then picked up the phone, accompanied by the icy gaze of yellow eyes.
"Hello, hello!" the guy was greeted by a cheerful male voice. He hummed, and began to listen. "We're having a competition in the gym today, and you're invited as a contestant. It's gonna be tough for you, all the jocks and skinheads," the blond guy twitched his tongue. The shaved trash was a pain in the ass. "But you ain't no sucker, are you? Just get something leather, that's the rules, and show them who's boss of the gym!"
Then there was an address somewhere up north, and wishes for the best. He hummed, intrigued by the description, and hung up. Turning around, he faced the same stern stare from Makarych. The guy pressed his lips together, prepared for a heap of reproaches, but the wolf just drilled a few more holes in him with his gaze, and turned away like a hurt child.
Simon only shrugged his shoulders, and left to pack, taking with him the already cold breakfast. Makarych maybe is a father, but he hasn't decided anything for a long time. And if Simon thinking of ruining his life, it was his own conscious decision. There is no way out for people like him, the only pity is that the old man does not understand that. The room emptied, filled with something vaguely negative.
In the kitchen, the television was on. The neighbor had forgotten to turn it off. "Fire in north Lungmen...Big drug lab burned down...Big hit on triads...DOL reports no personnel on the scene...," the anchor rattled.
"Ah, that's what it was." Simon snorted understandingly. The noodle was quite good...
"You just found out now? Aren't you interested in your victims?" A reproachful voice came from behind.
"Yes, I suppose I am." Simon said calmly, but then he looked away from his food. "Honestly, I haven't understood what's going on for a long time."
The lad felt the cold wolfish stare again. He calmly continued his meal with a slightly improved appetite, and soon stood up from the table. Makarych was met by the same ice in the eyes, calmness and indifference as he had. Simon was not a bad man, but he wasn't lying now. He could look at someone's guts and eat at the same time. The old man understood that, and so he just left him alone. For a while.
(Ress Less - Superfluid)
Suddenly the bell rang. The guy's eyebrows went up, and he lifted himself from his desk. Another assignment? No, that hadn't happened before. He proceeded to the bedroom. The phone exactly rang, not a lit light. The sound of the ringing was also different. Something slow, lyrical, reeking of obscurity and standing on unknown numbers. Reluctantly, he picked up the phone.
"Hello?" Blondie himself did not understand whether he played it well, or really surprised.
A cautious tone sounded, "Simon? Is that you?"
"Wait... Oh, Texas! Good morning." He put on a friendly face. How unexpected and pleasant.
"Yes, morning. There's a private conversation."
"Where, when, and for how long?" The guy's tone dried up and became businesslike. Personal is not to be trifled with.
"Somewhere safe, tomorrow, for a long time." The girl's low voice was unexpectedly pleasant. There was something aristocratic about it.
"Understood." He really understood. Something serious, something involving risk. He was used to it. But still, "Why me? Can't Exusiai help?"
"No. Please don't ask questions. It's just..." Lupo hesitated, worrying about something. Simon didn't condemn her, not even in thought, but simply noticed. "Anyway, tomorrow at Jaye's."
"The one who's friends with Hoshiguma?" He got a short yes in response. "Okay, I'll be there. Should I get ready?"
"I-I guess. Yeah. Sure. Make sure you're properly prepared. "Each word was more confident, as if the girl was grasping at the question like a straw."
"All right." Simon didn't object, though it sounded as if he'd guessed something. "If that's all, I'm sorry, I have to go. I'll see you soon."
"Yeah. See you later."
A sigh of relief was heard at both ends of the wire. The sudden conversation was a bit of a challenge for both of them. Asking someone you barely know for something personal is not easy for anyone. Especially for someone whose personal is something serious and unpleasant.
Simon put the phone down with trembling fingers. Then those same fingers alternately tapped the wood, knocking something incomprehensible. Gradually his face, which came to life from scratch with emotions forgotten over the years, smoothed and chilled, and his fingers started tapping out another electronic rhythm. The guy perked up quickly, but just as quickly he calmed down, returning to reality.
It was an odd proposition. He didn't mind, but something told him Lupa wasn't just asking him to go to war. Two plus two added up quickly.
"Family is hard to leave. Especially for someone as capable as Texas." Simon paced the room, wandering his eyes thoughtfully over the walls. "Considering their constant skirmishes with the Sicilians..." He paused at last, and only concluded aloud, "I see."
"Don't let the sweet uncertainty linger, do you?" Makarych, who suddenly appeared behind him, shooed him away.
"I like riddles, but they are contraindicated to maniacs and criminals" The lad turned around, and glanced at the wolf in displeasure. Then he suddenly blurted out, "What if she turns me in to the cops?
"Will the wolf run to the dogs to complain about the fox that carries chickens instead of him?" The old man sorrowfully sank into a chair, and stared at the floor. "Think about who you suspect of being a snitch. She'll be the first to be dragged off to the cage if she do so."
"It would only add to her credibility." Simon snorted. "Penguins are a real bandits, aren't they?"
In the meantime, he'd almost packed. All he had to do was put on some cooler outfit. The guy stood in the middle of the hallway, thinking about clothes, and suddenly a great idea crossed his mind. He opened the closet, and pulled out a leather jacket. The beautiful leather jacket dazzled the eye with its whiteness, made in a modern style, tinged around the edges with black satin.
"Scorpio jacket. It's been gathering dust for a long time..." The blond boy examined the yellow scorpion on his back. He slid his hand over the smooth leather.
He'd last worn it in ninety-two for a big, gloomy mess. The pale yellow Columbia scorpion was the last thing that many of the shady brothers had seen. And afterwards Simon celebrated the victory popping some pills, against all his father's advice. The lining had to be scrubbed clean of black blood stains, but it was worth it. And afterward.
"Maybe you'd better put it on tomorrow?" Makarych interrupted his stream of memories. "You'll impress the girl."
"I can't help it. You're only allowed into competitions in leather, that's the rule. And I'm a law-abiding citizen?" Simon winked at his companion with his usual stony face, which made the wolf laugh even harder than he would have. "But yes, tomorrow Texas will see me like that." The guy slowed down, and finally took the keys to the apartment.
The door slammed and Simon left without saying goodbye.
11:00 a.m. - August 17 - 1099
(Revin Goff - Harlots)
A couple of hours later, the guy was north of Lungmen. Light, steel, glass — the usual landscape of the Capital of the free. And yet, how easy and pleasant it was to look at! The Volsinii panels were fucking monsters against those steel trees. And best of all, they were all man-made. At times like this Simon could only marvel at the power of human thought to defy nature.
A major sweep, one might even say an operation, was ahead of us. The killer had read about the place on the Internet before he left, and there was a lot to read.
Two unfinished skyscrapers were the site of today's battle. They were being built for a Kazimierz corporation, but the corporation went bankrupt in another crisis, and most of the employees were left to their own devices. Some of the elite, hard-to-replace workers went elsewhere, and those who were unlucky enough with their qualifications stayed here, because other jobs were slavery in those days, and no one was willing to deal with this place. And so the steel carcasses of skyscrapers remained, where both former employees, gangs or beggars, and the common scum of the neighborhood swarmed. For Lungmen, the freedom to get rich in moments meant also the freedom to go down in moments. And so the second freedom, it... Well, was somehow broader. In his mind.
Now only the tops of the buildings were occupied and inhabited. They were connected by an unfinished passageway, a ghastly structure of beams, unfit for travel. Naturally, the triads and the locals are no fools, and instead of knocking themselves out of the beams, they ran cable cars to the other side. They should have been disabled first, to keep the victims from escaping.
Simon rummaged through his backpack, looking over the steel giants doubtfully. "I wonder why the scavengers choose the tops," he asked himself. The breeze that strolled among the hulks now fluttered his blond hair, wrapping a pleasant coolness around his face.
The guy was looking at the urban landscapes of the morning city and the two twin towers, standing at the top of the observation deck. The unfinished skyscrapers had become a landmark, and were even on the cover of one of the Perturbator albums that Simon happened to remember.
Finally he pulled out his binoculars, and stared upward. The maniac cursed, establishing that the second skyscraper was a fucking fortress. The glass ribbons of windows were filled with large automatic crossbows, shooting up the funicular route. No one thought of a dangerous crossing. Or rather, there was only one gun. Inside, however, was rumored to be the hideout of Brother Yun, a mafia thorn in the police's ass. Apparently he was to be defeated in the "competition".
The plan took care of itself. To sneak into the first building, pretend to be another soldier of fortune, then use the unfinished passage to get to the other side, disabling the funicular. Of course, the steel skeleton was tense with whistling winds and huge gaps of blue sky in the walls, but there was no other choice. Though it was still possible to simply massacre the first stage, but why the unnecessary sacrifice? It was unnecessary hardship, unnecessary money for booze, and unnecessary nightmares.
It was surprisingly crowded in front of the skyscraper. It seemed to be a Wednesday, everyone was working... Then Simon remembered that everyone here were mostly unemployed, and he chuckled. His jacket would stand out among the bums, but it was for the best. He should have a at least a little catchy appeal. With these thoughts he passed the large staircase, and reached the entrance.
There was a sort of reception inside. The guy looked around doubtfully at the pile of desks at which tigers in black leather jackets sat. One of them noticed him and asked him rudely what he was doing here. Simon replied that he was going to see their boss. At the gaze of the tiger, he calmly added, "I have a li'l question about the interview."
"The boss doesn't answer li'l questions." Dropped the triads. "Only the biggest ones. "
"Don't give a fuck. Let me go."
"What are you, Sicilian or something?" The man wondered.
"I was," the blond man calmly held his answer to the tiger, though the latter had not noticed it so far.
"Don't give a shit. Prove it" The harsh words didn't exactly embarrass the guy. Especially since they were said in more of a checking tone. "Say some shit in Syracuse."
"Fiati ustitia, ruat caelum," the assassin spoke in a measured voice. The half-forgotten motto was once again filled with power and meaning. "Let justice be done though the heavens fall."
"Accent is Ursus." Feline stubborn. "I've fucked Sicilian girls, I've heard them talking."
(Life Companions - Richard)
"Not convinced?" The guy arched an eyebrow. "You know how you get initiated into 'Cosa Nostra' ?" He spoke softly, and leaned forward. His blue eyes met widening green ones. "Firstly the newcomer takes an oath to uphold the laws of the family. Then he cuts his hand, and drips blood on the image."
"Huh? What image?" The tiger interrupted him, scratching his red head, trying to understand a foreign culture.
"Of the Saints. Something like Buddhas. You're a Buddhist, aren't you?"
"Yes," the cat answered slowly. He was slowly giving up his position so he had to build on his success.
"So there you go. After that, the tip of his tail is set on fire while the newcomer prays with an image of St. George. Your fur peels off, your skin melts, your nerve endings die off, and you are obliged to recite a prayer." The guy paused, pleased with the effect he produced. The tiger listened to him with his mouth hanging open. "You endure, you join the family. You interrupted or screamed in pain, you're dead."
"Ahh... ah..." The tiger hesitated. Suddenly it snapped from his lips, "Show me your tail!" This seriously stressed the saboteur. He flinched, but quickly pulled himself together.
"My family was crossed by the wrong people. My boys and I lost our tails because of them, and" then they lost their heads.
Simon tried to look as menacing as possible. He frowned and stopped talking, and looked the tiger right in the soul. Since this man had survived the shame of having his tail cut off, but was able to get back in the game, it was not worth messing with him. You'd lose your head just as easily as he lost his tail.
"Uh... T-then wasn't it cancelled? The selection," mumbled his distressed companion, trying to keep his sanity. "T-they said it's been three years since the last one."
"I take it you mean Volsinii?" The blond man thought about it for a moment, and got an affirmation with a nod. "They have no people left, no honor. No longer a proud family, but lousy mongrels." He spat out the last words as if he really cared about mafia honor.
(Revin Goff - Harlots)
He thought something jingled in the air, like ufter a successful a skill check in a game. The situation was conducive: a gangster's nest, the assassination order, a guard at the entrance. But this wasn't a game, you could get yourself killed.
"All right, we're wasting time. Let me through already."
"Y-yeah, go. Don't be long." The bandit hurried to finish the conversation, and wrote out some paper. "Go to the entrance and show this note, and you'll get through."
"Nice doing business with you." The blond smiled, and headed for the elevator through the rows of ragamuffins.
The elevator carried two men. One of them was now trying for a jump on the other, who was standing still with his back to his companion. Suddenly the cabin plunged into darkness. It was the finished part of the building. The guys on that floor heard some kind of commotion, and a muffled groan, but they didn't pay any attention to it. Nothing would interrupt a game of mahjong. Not even the Syracuse killer.
"Let's begin," quietly Simon said to himself, pulling on his mask.
(Magna - Divide)
As soon as the doors opened, he ran into the man who appeared in the opening. They fell, rolling across the floor, knocking over some stands. One of them fell on his opponent's head, turning it into a bloody mess. Simon drew his knife, and prepared to attack, approaching the door.
To the right of the elevator corridor was some kind of barrack. It wasn't very crowded. There would be no problem. He intercepted the knife with one hand, taking the gun in the other. With a couple of shots he blew the heads off the hesitant triads, then fired the rest of the clip at those standing in the distance. Of the three dozen men, twelve dropped dead.
The crowd of red-faced muzzles and glowing green eyes swarmed toward him. The blond man took the first blows with his knife, dodging kicks and shredding hands. A moment, a sigh — the guy jabbed the knife behind his back, poking someone in the eye and causing a woman's screams of rage.
A fight ensued. They tried to crush the rooster in numbers, but to no avail, for he had an advantageous position. He kept jumping on the furniture and knocking his enemies to the floor. At one moment he was intercepted and thrown down.
The boy had to dodge furry legs that tried to crush his head. He seized a moment and grabbed one of those legs, dragging the triad girl toward him. In the turmoil of the battle she was crushed instead of him. He stood up quickly, but immediately a fist was pounded into his face.
The second punch was taken in a block, but the guy lost his momentum. He responded with a savory uppercut, sending the puncher flying into a short flight. His face hurt and distracted him. The blond was distracted by the pain, and almost missed another punch, this time by a knife.
The blade cut across his cheek, but at the last moment the guy deflected his head, and then intercepted his knife hand. The triad screamed in pain as his arm was twisted, but quickly choked back as his opponent slashed at his throat with the knife he had taken away. With a flick to his left, Simon grabbed his gaping foe by the hair, and ended the move. Another corpse fell.
The triads yelled something about revenge and fuckers, but the guy wasn't listening to them. He was busy controlling the back the nimble dragoness was now trying to hit. He crouched down, jumped forward, dodging her claws, charging at the tiger from the front. The assassin tried to clear a space, and he almost succeeded. The black claws whistled through the air until he threw his foe back and turned. The dragoness growled, and lunged forward. Simon lunged as well, knocking her down with a roll like a skittle.
The lizard hit her ally. Simon rolled backwards, and reloaded. The survivors prudently chose to escape. They wouldn't get very far anyway, there was only the reception area next. He headed further down the corridor. In the waiting room they were already waiting for him. Usually it was the assassin who used doors as weapons, but now he himself almost fell for his own trick. He barely bounced back from the sharply slammed door, and mentally cursed.
As soon as it opened completely, Simon burst into the room. He dodged a needle — a senbon, an exotic jan weapon, anticipating the fact of its throw, answered himself with a throw of a vase of flowers from the corridor, shifted to the right. The bandit who swung at him stopped for a moment, distracted by the vase before his attack, but did not have time: the maniac ripped his belly open faster.
There were five people in the room. Two stood in the back, starting up the funiculars, three were covering. Simon jumped over the corpse, striking the enemy's knife with his knife on the fly, knocking its balance off. A furry cat hurling senbons at assasin prevented him from developing success. A couple of needles stuck into his jacket, but each time they didn't touch his skin: the maniac accidentally put his hands down at that moment. He kicked the nearest bandit in the stomach, and pulled the needles out of his sleeve.
Simon grabbed the nearest poor fellow by the hair, pulled his face toward him, and stuck the needle in his eye with a wide swing. The nasty but familiar sensation of soft, pliable flesh accompanied the guy as he thrust it deeper and deeper. He was no longer accustomed to screams and moans: with or without a scream, the end was the same.
He wanted to throw the unfortunate one away, but the whistling in the air left him no choice. The maniac grabbed the body by the arms and hurled it at the thrower, knocking her down along with the flying projectiles. He soon took the chance: the cat's neck crunched, the crunch mixed with her wheezing. There was less interference.
The last bandit tried to impersonate a formidable opponent, and fiercely attacked. He swung his arms, writing hooks and kicks, but it was useless against Simon. The first attack missed, the second was stopped midway, as the life of the one, who started it. The two remaining opponents flew down, squealing and swaying amusedly.
The guy finally made it to the funiculars. If he had been a poetic blood knight, he would not have touched the funiculars, leaving himself free to fight the reinforcements. But he was interested in the result, not the process, so he ripped open the battery that powered the structure and sent it following the poor souls who were thrown down earlier. The wind blew a cool autumn chill over his body, intensifying at such an altitude. Simon thought disappointedly that this jacket was too light for autumn, but resolutely refused to go tomorrow in anything else. For the girl's sake it was all right to bear the cold.
The guy came back to reality, and looked down. The ground was menacingly blackened, deceptively distant and unreachable. Then he turned his gaze to the beams that were to be passed. In general it was possible to walk through the webs, just don't look down and everything will be fine. Windows still were filled with crossbows
next to which the cable from the funicular passed. The belated thought of breaking through on it was quickly discarded. Simon gathered air in his chest, and, extending his arms sideways, moved forward.
The steel creaked nastily after each step. Between calculations of movement, the assassin scolded the builders as best he could. That would have been all right, but it had to be done quickly: The lone gun was still loaded. He glanced at it tensely now and then, expecting trouble.
Сalled it. Midway through, the crossbow clinked, and released a large bolt. The lad ducked, turning his body sideways, for which he paid the price. His leg twisted treacherously, and he flew swiftly downward. At the last moment a dazed Simon caught his arm on a beam and hung on it. It was funny. Another situation from the movies: he's hanging a hundred feet above the ground on someone's gun point. "Well, everything ends well in the movies," it flashed in his head, "Right? Of course it fucking does." Before another bolt split the air, the killer pulled himself up with an incredible muscular effort and climbed to the top.
He ran the rest of the way under the fire of a crossbow, thankful there was a normal bridge structure instead of a mangled skeleton. The guy even took the time to fire back a couple of shots, avenging for some new gray hairs on his head. It didn't help much, but it didn't matter as he finally kicked the glass out and flew into the crossbowman with a swing. His foot slammed into the furry redhead, smashing it against the wall a moment later.
The room with the weapon was closed. The window overlooked a small room, apparently technical and adapted as a loophole. Beyond the door at that end were corridors, finished, bright and habitable. There were vases and pot holders everywhere, and classic Jan wallpaper and the same pictures hung on the walls. It was as if Simon had entered a palace or a theme hotel.
A horned girl, dressed in black, emerged from around the corner. He reacted quickly. The assasin jumped up to her at lightning speed, threw her to the floor, and gagged her with his hand. With his free hand he searched for the retracted knife, keeping an eye on the situation from the corner of his eye. His fingers finally fumbled for the coveted hilt, distracting him from the lying one for a second. The next moment, his fingers bared their teeth and the air was pierced with a high-pitched shriek. It was interrupted, barely begun, but the sound flew through the corridors, amplified by the confined space.
Simon cursed. There was no time to hesitate. He ran down the orange corridors, occasionally slowing down for the kill. Gradually the corridors filled with people and the stomping of feet grew louder and louder. Eventually the killer had to face as many as five people at once, blocking the entire hallway.
It only took half a minute to deal with them, but in combat time is distorted for humans. Swings, dodges, maneuvers — all this happens in a matter of seconds, but for the fighters the moments become terrifyingly clear and tangible. It is as if the nervous system is accelerating, beginning to notice unnoticeable, almost nonexistent actions. The flap of a butterfly's wings in a single frame becomes an entire movie.
In those thirty seconds, the skyscraper was filled with the sounds of fighting, shoutings, gunshots. Simon snatched a lateran assault rifle from one of the bandits, and stormed into the large banquet hall. Before those present fell from the hurricane fire, they were deafened by the ringing rumble of gunfire, amplified by the echo of the half-empty hall.
The rest of the sweep turned into a routine: kick in a door or go around a corner, point the machine gun at movement or light, shoot. The assassin was lucky with the ammunition, that tiger was full of it. Thus, shooting everything that moved, he reached the top of the skyscraper. There was only one short corridor, better furnished than other museums. The guy couldn't help but stop and stare at all this splendor.
The empty automatic rifle clattered on the floor. Simon had used up all the ammunition, the knife had been left in some of the dodo, and now the maniac was left with his ba
"Ugh." The boy spat, and then dumbfounded.
He finally spotted the polar bear in the center of the room. A freaking big, pumped-up polar bear. White, not counting the red spots of blood. His muscular body was covered in tattoos of the exact same polar bears, though wild. He had a few scars on his stomach, just like Simon's. His legs were covered by pants, as if they were made of sailcloth. The assassin squinted his eyes at the pack of bears, hardly knowing which was the arms and which the chest.
His gaze slid upward, to the still, grinning muzzle. He stopped at the impenetrable black, glassy eyes. It was definitely a mask. Except there was no junction between it and the skin or fur of his head. It was the same in both places. Ursus grinned at Yun, killed him, and remained there with a petrified face.
Noticing all this, the boy was surprised. He was glad he didn't have to get his hands dirty, but... what was that? It was standing there, staring intently at him, unblinking and unflinching. There was no fear in the blond's eyes, only a profound misunderstanding of what was happening.
"So..." Simon soon regained his composure. The bear killed a mobster, and was dangerous. "And why did you do that?"
Ursus did not answer.
"Are you my enemy?"
Ursus did not answer. Simon shook his head, and got into a fighting stance.
"It seems that way. If so, I'll show you who's the Boss of the gym."
(Fixions - Silencers*)
The opponents were instantly on the move. Simon rushed to the gun, and the bear rushed to Simon. They moved with equal speed, but the massive ursus had the advantage in strength. The beefy ursus wasn't going to fight the massive one, he wanted to shoot him.
Simon missed the blow with a clawed paw, but grabbed the shotgun. Its muzzle swung, turned toward the bear. The first shot rang out. The guy wasn't aiming, and hit his opponent in the stomach. The foe only stopped briefly, as if he had been shot with an air rifle rather than a modern shotgun. There was no time to be surprised. Simon jerked the pump, reloading, but he was immediately thrown against the wall by a powerful blow.
The damage sustained was considerable. Both physically and mentally. His jacket was torn and there was blood flowing where it had been torn. The maniac looked up, and immediately rolled away from the blow from above. Another followed, and another. The blond maneuvered, hearing the whistle of claws splitting the air. "Gotta do something about this shit," he thought grimly.
Approaching the bear was pure suicide, he realized that immediately, so he did not snap back. Suddenly Simon noticed a statue on the table. He dodged another attack and grabbed the Buddha, rushing over to the table. It wouldn't hurt, but it would be a distraction. Luckily for him, the ursus moved in closer. Claws glinted in the orange sunlight, and just above them the boy discerned small ears. There he struck.
The maneuver achieved its goal: the bear was stunned, albeit for a few seconds, but it was enough to pick up the gun again. Simon aimed, and then the ursus rushed forward. His dash was quick, but the lad managed to make a second shot. This time at his chest.
The effect was not as expected. The mysterious ursus was not torn to pieces, as it should have been at a distance of one meter. Sure, his chest was a bloody mess, but the bear showed no sign of pain or even discomfort. It just froze, then lowered its head to its chest. Just as silently as before, he ran his paw over the mess, scooping up some blood, and then threw his hand forward.
The guy hadn't expected such a thing from his opponent, so he flinched as the blood covered the mask's eyes. He threw it off quickly, only to see a clawed paw strike him in the head. The blond bounced to his right, but he couldn't quite get away from the blow. His head was scalded with pain. The fright intensified it, but as he calmed down a little and broke the distance, Simon realized its insignificance.
At this rate he would be killed. A fist that whizzed a few inches from his face solidified that fact. "Shot? The fucker doesn't respond to shots"," Simon thought tensely, bouncing from the undercut, "Stab it? There's no way. Wait. Is the window solid?"
He glanced at the glass. No, there were no armor plates, and you couldn't just point a rifle at it. The fucker could be thrown out the window, maybe that would kill it. The guy smirked at his hunch, and immediately punched the bear sharply in the face. The blow went through, the furry face turned away, and he broke off the distance.
The lad grabbed a couple of books from the closet, and threw them at the enemy. At the same time he moved toward the shotgun, betting on speed rather than the safety of the dash, which he bitterly regretted. A sharp pain pierced his leg, and a piece of cloth tore from his left pant leg. The bear froze. Simon cursed annoyedly.
He tried a similar trick, but that too turned to failure and pain. The guy pondered frantically as the bear chased him around the room. He stopped hitting, but the killer was beginning to pant and tire. The solution was ripe, but there was no way the blond could make up his mind, looking for other ways to win. A dangerous scratch, made after a minute of pursuit, forced his resolve.
The bear froze, preparing for some serious attack, and Simon pulled down the sleeves of his jacket, stepping toward the window. The white skin was gaping with holes, and the scorpion was without two claws. But in spite of everything, it still gleamed in the sun. The massive ursus moved, and so did the beefy ursus. The massive one jumped on the beefy one, and the wiry one recoiled, throwing his tattered jacket in his face.
Finally the maneuver worked, and the enigmatic bear was tangled with the ends. His fate was sealed. Simon ran to the shotgun without delay, and reloaded it. He took aim almost defiantly, raising the gun slowly, and only after making sure that the sight was just above the white ears he fired.
Immediately after, he threw the shotgun at the enemy. Then he sprawled, and with a powerful leaping blow sent the bear through the window. The glass shattered deafeningly. Another one bites the dust. The guy let out a gasp, and settled back down.
"What the fuck was that?" Simon asked the question that interested him from the very beginning of the fight.
However, he could think about it on the move. Had to get out of here. Half-dead at first glance, in fact still ready for a fight, he stood up heavily and left the office. There was an elevator here somewhere. Before, it would be hard to get in, but now there was no one to object.
The hard day was over, and the battered maniac, dressed in bandages from his humble knapsack, with surprisingly quick steps for a half-dead man, staggered home to the telephone, Makarych, and vodka.
6:23 p.m. - August 17 - 1099
(Ress Less - Superfluid)
When Simon crossed the threshold of the apartment, there was no energy left for any reflection. The mysterious ursus had taken its toll on him, so he had to go to one of the many clinics in Lungmen, the Rhodes clinic. The doctor, a cheerful pink-haired sarcaz girl, hastily treated his wounds, while torturing the patient with questions about their nature. As soon as he answered honestly, "I'm a mercenary," the doctor turned somewhat sullen, but finished the job.
"Well? How's the hunting going?" Makarych greeted him with a ringing friendly voice.
"Fine. Took down a bunch of felines and draco, then some ursus." Simon answered, as he started undresseding.
"Well, you're a good hunter, aren't you?" There was the clinking of bottles and the clattering of closets in the kitchen.
Once again the maniac returned from his hunt, exhausted, both physically and mentally. For some reason he wanted to remember the first time. Except had it been the first time his foster father had taken him on a hunt, or the first time the boy had taken the first step on the bloody path of revenge? Most likely it was at twelve, when Simon first realized that to survive in the freezing cold winds of the avenues he would have to give up honor and morality.
The thought was interrupted by a surprised yellow-eyed gaze resting on him. The lad traced it to his torso, and then it came to him. His beautiful leather jacket flew into oblivion along with the mysterious bear, and nothing appeared in its place.
"Ugh. Lost the jacket." Makarych shook his head in disappointment. "Oh, Simon. You're so... Simon..."
The blond man shrugged. Indeed, he had already done so many stupid things that his name could become a euphemism. Losses are okay, though, as long as they're not too frequent.
"Don't feel bad. It's just a jacket. I'll find something else." Simon waved his hand relaxed. There was nothing to fight about.
"All right. Come in, the kettle's boiling."
The evening light struggled to penetrate the cloudy kitchen window. There was the sweet warmth of tea leaves in the air. This warmth could be seen in the orange sunlight, and heard in the whistling of the electric kettle. Simon smiled: it reminded him of the festive evenings in the Volsinii apartment. The tiny kitchen, the puffy TV, the glass carafe of water — all of this was now vividly before his eyes.
"Maybe a game of chess?" His gray tail swung defiantly around the pieces.
"If you pull any tricks, you're out of the apartment," Simon said angrily, picking up his pawn.
The threat worked. He was defeated without any tricks. The blond man scratched the back of his head in puzzlement. Leading a black and white army into battle was one thing, throwing bears out of windows was another. Although there was one similarity in all of this: a fool could do neither.
"Well, at least I know how to work with my hands," Simon pondered, trying to fight off the rook from the white bishop. In the second game, the cunning wolf concentrated on destroying his army instead of decapitating its top, a style so disliked by his opponent. He had no choice but to save his best attackers at the cost of concessions and retreats.
He finally lost. Perhaps because the poorly planned counterattack choked, or maybe because all the while Simon was trying to figure out what he saw in the orange office. The surreal image of a polar bear with a masked face still lingered before his eyes, defying comprehension.
"Why are you sad? You feel sorry for the horse?"
"There's something I don't understand."
He told Makarych about his adventures today. The old man thoughtfully scratched his stubble, shook his tail, moved his pawn. All the while, the guy was staring into his downcast eyes.
"I don't know what it is, but I won't think for you." At last the old man came out. His face grew serious, and his ears flattened against his temples. "That's your business, and your answer. Just don't let it go out of your head. But not now, now you'd better kill the horse."
"Whatever you say." Simon dropped and with a slight movement of his hand seized the initiative. The wolf stared at the board and then laughed.
The blond followed Makarych's advice, and decided to mull it over later. For now there was a more pressing question: what to wear to tomorrow's meeting? After playing the game, he began to dress again. In principle, there was nothing wrong with updating his closet. A Kjerag coat was fine, but there was no frost in Lungmen, so the maniac was quickly sweating in it.
"Where are you going?"
"To get some clothes. I have to fake being civilized in front of Texas."
"Okay. Get something bright and flashy. But don't wear red."
"So as not to remind her of the past?" Simon figured it out.
"Exactly. And also... It's about time you did. I'm sure you looked like a six-foot punk in your old" clothes. So why didn't you decide to do it earlier?
"I didn't want to." The blond man grimaced at the unpleasantness of the subject. That old man… "I was fine with it. Besides, it's only rags."
"What a jerk you are, Simon." Makarych shook his head and twitched his ear. "You come to people, be civilized. I told you, "everything connected with society is the arithmetic average of everyone's..."
"Okay, okay, I get it." The guy gave up with his hands in the air, and instead of listening to the rebukes, he headed for the exit. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah. And stop waiting for my bullshit. If you don't help yourself, nobody will."