9:00 a.m. - Aug. 20 - 1099

(Revin Goff - Harlots)

"Good."

Makarych patted his ward on the shoulder approvingly.

"You've got taste after all. Even if you said..."

"I took the first thing I found. Frankly, I have no idea how to choose clothes for..."

"A date?" The old man raised an eyebrow as he looked at the light white shirt Simon was wearing.

"Why do you think so?" The guy squinted at him in surprise, smoothing out the creases. "She said "There's a case." If this had been a date, she'd have said some romantic nonsense or been more embarrassed. And... Who the fuck needs me?"

"Nobody right now, but let's just say I do." The old man grinned, and walked over to the guy. He continued, patting him on the shoulder at intervals. "Strange. By the age of twenty-six people are already thinking how to throw off somebody's yoke, but its seems like you don't want to do it."

The blond man didn't answer. He was fully occupied with the mirror now. All in all, his new look hadn't gone far from his old one: black slacks, an azure shirt, and a white satin scorpion jacket. Just as simple and comfortable outfit as before. But now the guy looked like a regular lungmenite. All his current clothes were from last year's cheaper collection. Modern fashion, after all, supplanted the worn-out Sicilian junk.

In general, the guy was more masculine: the shirt had a system of straps on the inside, and now tightened on his chest. There was no amazing muscularity there, just the fabric perfectly showing off what was already there. He swiped indifferently at his figure, and stepped away from the mirror in relief.

"I don't like rags. I wish I could wear the same T-shirt my whole life."

"You already are." There was a hoarse chuckle.

Simon sighed, looking at the shabby coat on the bed, picked it up, smoothed the collar. Even the Kjerag craftsmen had not kept it from age and wear, to say nothing of the man who had used it as armor. Nor, for that matter, did all his clothes. It was worthy of being sent to the atelier to be repaired, which Simon decided to do later.

In the meantime he had one question...

"What to say to a girl?"

He was embarrassed, but only a little. The guy said it with a rather thoughtful note in his voice, as if he were solving a mathematical problem. Because that was the problem Texas had given him with her call. What to prepare for? And what to tell her? Guns weren't exactly conducive to eloquence.

"I don't know," answered the wolf from somewhere behind, "but what you shouldn't say anything offensive and rude. Pretend to be a well-bred man. At least pretend.

"I know without you," Simon answered calmly. "There's just... There's something very high about her. Aristocratic, I suppose. Who was she in the Mafia, I wonder?"

The question hung in the air because the person who had asked it had gone to shave. The bristles were tangled like sandpaper, and managed to scratch the inside of the mask. The gray, stiff razor lay tightly against his skin, traversed it with a blunt slant. Simon pulled the razor away from his face, and cursed indifferently. The cut layered on his cheek, distorting his face with a red streak. Okay. Scars make a man look good.

"No shit they don't," Makarych responded. "A scarred man is either an unlucky loser or a violent moron. A normal man would be as smooth as a watermelon."

"Yeah, I guess so. Those scars sure don't look good on me." With that, Simon lifted his shirt, and exposed his stomach.

Several long maroon lines stretched from his navel to his diaphragm in the shape of a crooked trident. The guy pressed his lips together, looking over that ugly mark for the umpteenth time, as if to shout, "He's from a hole called Rome! Chase him away! Mock him!" And how many other such marks were on his body? Not many, really. Only the bite marks on his shoulders, deeper than they do in a fit of passion.

Simon wiped himself off, and returned to the kitchen. The kettle boiled, and he poured boiling water over the noodles. Some water spilled on the table, and the water film inside the package curved upward. The guy came back to reality, but only to take out a rag and wipe away the water with it. He did all this slowly, thoughtfully.

Breakfast flowed just as slowly. "Date" proved to be a surprisingly tense topic of thought. Simon noted caustically that he was a twenty-five-year-old virgin who communicated with women mostly in the language of pain. Of course, looking adequate is not so difficult, enough not to swear and start conversations with questions about the weather. That worked with the neighbor from the village where his hut stood. But Texas is not a country broad. She is a young, educated, well-mannered girl who is more sensitive to the conversation.

"Don't worry about it." Makarych appeared unexpectedly as always, and poured tea into his mug. "You and the mafia guys love to get in fights. You laugh in the face of death."

"I'm not worried," Simon answered a little embarrassed. "Consider me thinking about the upcoming mission."

"Then congratulations. Thanks to hard work, complex operations, and selfless struggle, Private Anonymous has risen to the title of "Ladies' man"."

Simon chuckled, and then laughed, noting the absurdity of the situation. Indeed, although a word can hurt more than a weapon, but a weapon a man uses only as a last resort. Unless the words hurt more. And his words would feel to the girl only as a pleasant breeze, not a scalding cold. They are not each other's enemies. Not here and not now.

It was nine fifty on the clock when the lad was fully assembled. He hugged the old man for the first time in a while, assured him that everything would be all right. He gave him a wry chuckle, but his kindly squinted eyes said it all for him. The sun was shining brightly, beams from the window touching the guy's hands. It was time to go.

"Stop, stop!" The old man jerked him on the shoulder as he was about to leave. "Don't drink much. Girls don't like drunkards."

"All right." The guy left, slamming the door.

(Emil Rottmayer - L.I.F.T.)

Jaye greeted Simon with a slight smile, and shook his hand. The arrival responded to the handshake, after which he leaned back against the bar and began tapping his fingers boredomously on the table. His appearance went unnoticed by the tigress who had been the only customer at the bar, the one who had sizzled at him that time. She was sitting at the far table, writing intently. The guy just left her be. The Perturbator's single, bought near the atelier, was more important.

(Perturbator - Venger)

The atmosphere thickened. Everything went silent, immersed in itself. Jaye broke away from wiping his cups, only to see the semi-darkness in the room. Simon stood staring thoughtfully at the door, occasionally squinting at the tigress. She kept fiddling with the pen. The hair on the bartender's ears fluttered a little from the thickened air, making him shudder faintly.

"What is it, Mr. Rusakov?" He turned to the blond.

"Nothing. Really, it's all right." Simon flinched just as he did and took off his headphones. "I am just... listening to music and I don't really like it. That's all there is to it."

"You got that look on your face like you ate a lemon."

"Oh, it's just that the track is really shitty," said Simon, pressed his lips and nodded his head in confirmation of his words.

The barman looked at him blankly, stared for a few seconds and then went back to his cups and spoons. He looked a little hurt, his favorite subject was hurt, but the noise of the tap water calmed him down. It didn't last long, though. Tigress, who had gotten away from her notes to scratch her ears and stretch, saw a funny sight. Simon was trembling with his whole body, peering at the walkman in his hand, and grinning slightly.

She decided to watch him, and adjusted her glasses. His hand gripped the edge of the table in his blond hand, reddening, baring the tendons of his fingers. His teeth bit his lip. In general, this was what those two idiot mobsters had looked like when she'd beaten them up with Jaye a couple of months ago. But instead of just looking pathetic, there was disbelief and noble rage.

"Sora" Simon stretched his voice out with crystallized hatred. "You fucking bourgeois…"

"Excuse me?" A surprised Jaye turned around.

"The pop-girl killed the creator," the blond replied indignantly, and pulled out his headphones.

Tigress and the bear heard a melodic high-pitched voice pulling some words with fast wave-like sounds in the background. It sounded good to uninitiated listeners like Jaye, but Simon was annoyed to the core. In his opinion, Idol turned the track into a farce, crashing into Perturbator's somber neon style with her sweet pop voice.

"She kills creativity in everything she touches. Everything sounds so sugary and toothless after her. To make schoolgirls with shaggy hair listen to it at recess at school, and dance to it in silly videos..."

"And to brighten the lives of the couriers," a beautiful low voice interrupted him.

All three turned around in sync. In front of the pulled back curtains stood Texas. The girl had chosen a black sweatshirt that tightened her figure, gray shorts with tights, and a simple gray jacket without meaningful details. Minimalist but tasteful. The lad appreciated it.

"Morning, Simon."

He didn't answer for a while, standing there with an absent look. Then the blond man roused himself, and threw:

"Good morning."

(Emil Rottmayer - L.I.F.T.)

Lupo nodded, and sat down at the nearest table. The blond man turned off his Walkman, and sat down next to her. The tigress lost interest in what was going on, and, sighing heavily, returned to her notes. Only the bartender leaned his elbows on the bar and continued watching.

At first they just sat and looked. The girl stared intently at her neighbor from below, placing her hands on the table. Simon stood with his hands clasped together so that only his blue eyes were visible and glared at her furtively, as if demanding an explanation. Jaye waited patiently for the silence to break, standing still in the same position.

"Why don't you like Sora?" Texas asked, breaking the silence with her question and dispelling the thickened air.

"Her songs are bullshit. Not a shred of soul. Not a shred of meaning."

"And in your synthetic ringing, I take it, there are great ideas," Texas objected.

"No, not really," the guy shrugged. "I can just hear people trying, pouring their heart out in notes. That's not even the point, though. I guess it's not."

"What is it about?" She asked.

"It suits me. All that monotony Yes, that's me." Simon pressed his lips together and nodded. "I associate all the tracks with something clear and close."

"Do you associate the darkness of the music with life?"

"Yes. Gloomy tracks with gloomy life. Heh," the blond grinned, and unhooked his arms.

Texas examined his face studyingly. Smooth and clean, and yet sharp and thin, bearing the marks of hunger and pain and hardship. But there was something about him that caught her eye for a little while longer. Lupo even stood up slightly. All the while, Simon calmly waited for her verdict, and examined her back.

A lovely, smooth face. Soft to the touch and, as he knew, to the touch. A mole on her cheek. A nice little nose. And finally, small, rarely smiling and stretching lips. Life in the mafia, he thought, hadn't done her much harm, if not even the opposite.

"You're pretty," the girl remarked, and then averted her gaze a little, blushing at the same time.

"So are you," the guy answered calmly. He was embarrassed too, but it passed quickly and his face became pale and smooth again.

Just words. No veiled threats, no fatal sentences. What was there to be embarrassed about, and what was there to be afraid of? The blond man thought about the answer while the brunette was even more embarrassed by his silence. He smiled and folded his arms, trying to cheer her up, and it worked. The girl looked into his eyes again, and her face returned to normal.

The faces of lupo and ursus were similar, even though he was Slavic and she was Colombian. Both noticed this, and silently tried to answer what they had in common. Simon took the initiative.

"You know, you and I are similar," he started gently.

"In what way?"

"We're both ugly morally, but not physically. We're soul-crunchers, bad and incorrigible," said the blond, in the same soft tone he'd used for music.

"Are you always so optimistic?" Smirked the girl, appreciated his thought.

"Good old Volsinii would take away any optimism."

After that, all the tension was somehow released. They got to talking. Simon ordered something delicious, Lupo too. The lad wanted to offer to pay for it, but the girl refused, explaining it by a good pay for yesterday's order. It seemed to him that she only did not want to show her weakness.

It was surprisingly easy to talk. They listened attentively to each other, occasionally inserting their own remarks and, even if they disagreed frequently, they found common ground easily. The lad was uneducated, which he often showed in actions, but he compensated it with his ability to see to the point. Texas, on the other hand, often criticized things he liked, sometimes quite harshly, but was able to remain silent and restrained when listening to her opponent's opinion.

Over meals and conversations about life, time flew by. Texas' face lit up with a happy smile. It was the best thing Simon had seen in... a long time. He'd forgotten when he'd seen something as sweet as a smile on a face that was perpetually serious, cold as Sicily.

(REPTIL WINS - SOLARIS)

"Simon, we need to talk," suddenly Texas said after a while.

"Yes. Definitely," the guy agreed. "About what?"

"About Syracuse."

They both turned dark. The mere mention of the cold, dark country was enough to make the conversation stop. Texas hadn't just said Syracuse; she was going to talk about it, and, judging by her focused eyes, she was going to talk about it for a long time.

"Is that why you called me here?" The blond was ready to get up and leave, so much he disliked the subject.

"I did."

He sighed heavily and glared at the bartender. He defiantly turned away from the bar, leaving him alone with his companion. In fact, this was what the blond wanted, he just felt more comfortable alone. He pulled himself together, and got ready to talk.

"At our hideout a while ago," Texas began vaguely. "We were drinking and having fun. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"We were arguing about Sicily. Why it's in perpetual decline. Before that, you said..."

"I hate Sicily, but I wish it success," Simon finished. He really remembered that journalist. "What caught your eye here?"

""I hate Sicily." lupo quoted his words.

"And you want to know why?" The blond suggested. The girl's widening golden eyes and her nod answered him. "All right. I'll explain, and believe me, I have reason to hate this dump. But first I'll get us some drinks..."

He stood up and walked over to the bar. The barman silently gave him a clear bottle and a single shot. Simon thanked him and returned to his companion. She looked at the drink disapprovingly, and sighed faintly. "Just like Makarych," thought the sorrowful lad. As if she wanted to stand up and say in a hoarse voice, "The liquor won't do you any good."

"Is that pure alcohol?"

The guy stared at her in surprise. Yes, it was exactly what he thought it was. What the hell...

"What kind of man would offer a lady anything but pure alcohol?" Simon joked, and quietly pinched his own hand. No, there was pain. There was only no sense of reality.

"Well, let's begin."

He tasted the liquid carefully. It turned out quite good. After wetting his throat, he finally began the story.

"So you want to know why I hate Sicily and everything connected with it. The first reason I'd say is that it's not my homeland."

"You're from Ursus."

"Yes, I am. Contrary to the action movie cliché, I had parents. I don't remember them very well, though. Twenty-odd years doesn't add up. All I remember is that they loved me. And I loved them. But we left Ursus for some reason." He paused for a sip from his glass. "Judging from the fact that we lived a gray and ascetic life, it was not by goodwill. Apparently, my father was a military man, for I knew how to fight since childhood, I remember that well." said Simon, looking at his companion through the murky glass of the shot glass.

She literally perked up her ears, interested in his story, and held her breath.

"And we were in constant trouble with mafia. You have to admit, it's hard for an honest, poor family to get along with a bunch of thieves and gangsters who literally run the town where they live. Just why did we have to live there..." Simon slapped his face, lamenting the mystery. The girl was patiently silent. "A land of thieves and whores. How can one live in it?"

"Don't say such things. The core values of the Sicilian pack are honor and strength. Families reflected that perfectly, being essentially our aristocracy. And what better suited proud wolves and cunning foxes than the power of noble mobsters?" She answered in all sincerity, though with a gloomy face.

"Oh, blessed!" Her interlocutor laughed. "Not a bit of sympathy for your people, shackled by the power of thieves and whores, in your words. Unhappy people, unhappy country, Sicily!" He wailed artistically, evidently deliberately driving the girl out of her mind. To the girl's credit, she endured his taunts, twitching her ears a couple of times. Though it was obvious how uncomfortable she was listening to him, all she had to do was look at the unnaturally stony face.

The hum of the street didn't think to subside, but the blond man's voice was clearly audible. And most importantly, he was listened to. Even the tigress turned her ears toward the conversation. From the outside the conversation between Lupo and Ursus resembled an appointment with a psychologist, only in a more informal setting. Given her interest, though not her passion, in psychology, that was the case.

"Okay, I was distracted," said Simon. "Anyway, we didn't find a quiet life in Volsinii, and at the age of ten I became an orphan. My father decided to try his luck in the service of one of the families, but perished in some bandit scrapes. And since he didn't have time to serve, my mother and I just got dumped. Three guesses what happened after we lost our breadwinner," he finished his part of the story.

"It's strange. Families always took care of their underlings." Texas said thoughtfully. "My family did, at least."

"God forbid that kindness," spit the guy out.

He talked about heavy topics, but his voice didn't shake particularly. In fact, he was more spitting and snide than really angry. At any rate, it didn't have the desired effect on Texas.

"That's how I lived for a while. The street, the loneliness, the cold. Disgusting years. I think you can see it in my face." He grinned, and ran his palm across his flat, slightly sunken cheek. "Then I was taken in by a kind man. Makar is his name."

"From Ursus, too?" She asked the girl curiously.

"Yes, he was a migrant, too, only he's a Lupo. He fled because of the outbreak of lupophobia in the Empire and the black pogroms, but he was an honest and decent man. I remember him well. He was a carrier. He carried things from abroad to Volsinii. He was a father to me. Taught me how to live, how to stand up for myself. Gave me a dream to go to a decent place, to open a business, to make a career at something important and necessary. And then about six years later we were together, he was killed."

"I..." Texas lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It was just a mob fight. Some little fuck from the Family tried to take over his case. He said no, because he worked for the common men and didn't sell his ass. So she killed him."

"What family was she from? Could you tell me her last name?" The girl asked.

"I don't remember. Stupid alcohol... It burned my brains out... I remember that she had an unusual hair color. And her whole family too. I found that out when I killed some brother of hers."

Texas squinted suspiciously.

"You really can't remember?"

"Let's not talk about it. What do you care, anyway? You've seen a lot of that," Simon shrugged.

"Yes. Go on," she sighed, leaning her head indifferently with her palms crossed.

"In short, I was on the warpath. By this time I was well-prepared, and, with some preparation, I reached a couple of her family members. But I never caught the scum. And when I was almost there, it turned out that someone had slaughtered her whole family for me. I didn't know whether or not my offender was alive, so I just let it go and went to Lungmen on my father's money. I lived out my miserable existence here for seven long years. The end."

"That's a lot of blank spots. Would you care to elaborate?" There was no limit to Texas' insights. But were these blank spots in her new acquaintance's story intentional, or had alcohol and depression really eaten his brains?

"Do I have to tell you everything?" Simon raised an eyebrow.

"No. But I'd like to."

"We'll get to know each other, and then I'll tell you," he answered. "What? I mean secrets, not naughty things," he stared at the gold eyes that widened.

"Okaay." Texas stretched it out. He didn't seem to convince her.

"Second reason," the guy hushed the uncomfortable subject with a continuation of the story. "Volsinii is a fucking dump that I didn't even choose. And it ruined my life." He took another swig of alcohol. "Firstly I had to find a piece of bread, then I had to find my stepfather's killer. There was no time for schooling or ambition. But I had them."

"What did you want to be?" his companion froze.

"A businessman, though I wasn't good with numbers. I wanted to do something good and useful, and then sell it." He lowered his gaze and answered. "And the atmosphere I lived in was good. Now I don't know."

"What do you do now?"

"Mercenary. It's a shit job, to tell you the truth. Although... I have an idea... I once installed a program on my computer, an audio editor. And... You wouldn't believe it, I tried to write my own track."

The simple words suddenly sparked a girl's interest. Her yellow eyes already glittered even brighter, turning from flashlights to car headlights. She leaned forward, so interested was she in his words.

"How interesting... A warrior and a musician is an uncommon combination." She smiled. "How did you come by with it?"

"Well, the last release by Pertur... Well, you don't know him, but the one by the artist I was interested in was shit, so I had to do some changes." Simon leaned back and slightly closed himself off from her, and explained. "And I don't have many records..."

"Just let me hear them. Whatever they are."

"Are you really interested?" Simon was genuinely surprised.

"Yeah" Texas said casually. "I have a singer friend. You two have something in common."

"Wait..." The guy hesitated. "You mean..." He turned pale, then shrieked in horror "SORA?!"

"Yes." The she-wolf laughed.

"I should have never come to you." He sighed in frustration as he patted his forehead. "Actually, I can not give up this damn job. I just... I can't. I can't do it."

"I know. It's hard to let go of something nasty that's been ingrained in your life. I was like that myself. It was just as hard for me. And it didn't do me any credit. We're alike, after all."

(Dubmood - Richard)

There was a deathly silence in the air, symbolizing the end of the conversation. Clenched knuckles reddened in a clenched fist. Blue eyes narrowed, staring at the curtains of the entrance. Golden eyes widened slightly and lips pressed together. Something wasn't right here...

BANG!

The curtains fluttered with a shot that made a small hole. Texas cried out, and clutched at her stomach. The guy jumped up from his stool without a second thought, and ran over to his companion. It was as if the world had frozen. It was just the two of them in the bar. In her wolfish eyes he saw a look of doomed terror, and a feeling of bad luck, as if the girl knew about the shooting.

Simon ran his hand under her blouse, fumbling for the wounded spot. A couple of centimeters from her spine, guts. He grabbed a napkin from the table, splashed a bottle over it, and plugged the wound. His other hand rested on the she-wolf's lips, covering her mouth. The guy quickly made sure the blood stopped, and flew out of the diner like a bullet.

His gaze flickered over the crowd, also stunned by the gunfire, and caught sight of someone's shadow in the distance. The guy followed the shadow, knocking down passersby. The shadow darted toward the counters, knocking over a few racks. The pursuer only swung over them at full throttle, managing to grab a juicy apple from under his feet.

His heart sank as he stumbled over something round and hard, but Simon pushed himself away from it and jumped up, shortening the distance. Passers-by darted away from him and from the shadow, making it easy to track the scum. His eyes stabbed at the swirl, at that speed, but he didn't care. He'd almost caught up with the bastard, all he had to do was push a little harder.

Finally the whirlwind stopped. The red-shirted fox recoiled from the wall, backed into a corner. The assassin glared at her with a frown, and began to walk slowly toward her. She drew her gun, but it was too late. The guy intercepted her hand, twisted it sideways and made the gun go off. The fox shrieked in pain at the unnaturally twisted limb, and then stopped talking when he felt the muzzle on the back of his head.

"Family, huh..." He pressed his lips together, and squeezed her other arm. "Is Texas your target?"

"Fuck you..." Vulpo spat out. The hard poke with the gun only made her lick her lips.

"Unfortunately for you, I like girls. Who sent you again, and why did you shoot Texas?"

Fox was silent. Simon sighed, and clicked the safety.

"So, memory problems? I'm not a doctor, but I know how to solve such problems. Want to know how?"

Fox was silent again. He got tired of listening to the heavy sniffing, and the killer knocked her out with the butt of his gun. From that moment on, she remembered nothing.

(donbor - All Around)

"When I take the job, those who are still alive will envy the dead."

This is how Simon greeted the furry fox tied to the chair. She opened her eyes with difficulty, wiggled them around the room, and then they opened wide with horror. She was in a strange apartment, in the kitchen, to be exact. Then she looked down: a strange construction of a chair with a bunch of homemade props served as her chair. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that the back of the chair was by the stove.

The whole thing horrified the girl. She wanted to scream, but the pathetic attempt was interrupted by the towel in her mouth. The maniac heard only a muffled squeak, and grinned wickedly.

"I told you I could cure people of amnesia, even though I'm not a doctor. Do you remember?" He turned to the captive. She glared at him in response. "So you accidentally signed up for one of my treatments, didn't you? You need help, don't you?"

The next moment made her want to vanish into thin air. The stare, a little crazy and unbelievably bloodthirsty in those icy eyes, was impossible to bear. The corners of the maniac's lips dipped slightly downward, giving his face an indifferent, disapproving expression. It was as if he was looking at a misbehaving schoolgirl, not a hired assassin. The murderer was as frightened of him as a schoolgirl is of her teacher. But the teacher knew the limits of permitted pain. This man did not. Or rather, he didn't want to know.

"Beating you and pulling out your teeth is long, painful, and ineffective," he began to explain to his victim. "In general suffering is good, but I don't like to suffer. And I don't like torture either. But you... You are a different case. For me, the benefits of your suffering outweigh the abomination."

"Torture," the thought flashed in her inflamed mind. The maniac was clearly not going to be soft with her, she could tell that from his frantic speech. But then what was in store for her?

The guy calmly began pouring water on her while his victim wondered what it all meant. Thinking was hampered by wild terror and silent pleas to his comrades to save her. But they were not destined to hear it: the maniac had taken care of everything that could get in his way.

"There is a pot of hot water in front of you. What would happen if you threw a frog in there?" the guy began another frightening monologue. "It will jump right out. She doesn't have time to get used to it, and bring herself to her deathbed. But what if she falls into the cold water boiling over a slow fire?"

He stood in front of the structure with his hands behind his back, waiting for an answer. The fox remained silent, unable to answer. He had to do it for her.

"The frog would boil. Its blood will heat up with the water. And when it boils, the frog's heart will stop, the blood is hot, you know, and it will die. It is exactly the same with humans, even though we are not frogs."

He put the pot on the stove, and slowly lowered the bright red tail into it. Vulpo's eyes bulged, and then she burst into a muffled cry of horror. She finally realized her fate. The guy noticed this, and put something heavy on her tail, locking it in place.

"Now I'm going to turn on the fire and start asking you questions. There will be three questions in total. For each answer, I reduce the strength of the fire. After the third, I release." It sounded like a rule. Surprisingly harsh for a madman, which Simon was like in the eyes of his victim.

(Fixions - Headhunter)

"Let's begin." The light switch flicked on, going to maximum.

The victim stared blankly at his tormentor. Either she was dumbfounded, or she got bolder. But it didn't matter.

"Who do you work for?"

"Uncle Liao."

"Very funny. So who do you work for?"

"I already told you."

"I want to make jokes too, but I'm serious now. Who do you work for? Who. Do you work. For?"

Vulpo was silent. Only endless anger and contempt splashed in her eyes, and her ears were pinned to her head. Simon repeated the question a couple more times, but, dissatisfied with the effect, stopped. And then he began a new monologue.

"You know, I'm interested in something else. I wonder why you all go to the mafia, clearly aware of the dangers of this work?" He gave her time to answer. There was no answer. "All right, I'll answer it for you. You're all just beasts and murderers. You enjoy the suffering of others, you live by deception and power. If only it was useful, but all you can do is destroy. Is it so hard to just follow the fucking rules? Right?"

The maniac's fist clenched, ready to punch the redhead in the face, but he held back.

"I wish I could hit you, but I keep my word. Like that first one. You answer all my questions, I'll let you go. So, who do you work for?" Silence.

Yeah, the victim just hasn't been brought up to the right state. A little bit of waiting will fix that. In the meantime, they can talk.

"Hmm. Well, I've seen a lot of people. Mostly people like you. And you know what? There are some good people among them, just forced to do it, but most of them are still jerks. And the question is, why shouldn't citizens do the same to them as I did?"

"The suckers are weaker, so they don't yell," the foxy voiced.

"Perhaps. Maybe that's why people like me are lauded as heroes. They are so passive that they are willing to support obscure maniacs, maybe insane ones, just so that the ghouls in hats could be dealt with. And I can understand them. Indeed, why not? One evil for another. But one evil is easy to put up with, the other is not."

The water started bubbling. Vulpo showed no discomfort yet, but was visibly tense. Simon leaned over, assessed the degree of "readiness," and continued.

"But why should we choose between two evils at all? Maybe we shouldn't choose at all? I don't think we should. It just isn't possible." He went silent. "Oh, shit, right," suddenly the guy snapped his fingers. "We're in in the middle of an interrogation . So who do you work for over there?"

"Fuck. You."

"All right, let's keep going."

The girl was suddenly scared. What if this madman tortured her to death? He certainly could do that. What if he went from her tail to her ears, or even the rest of her body? Her throat was dry with sticky fear. The water kept heating up...

"By the way, how do you feel about electronic music?" The maniac asked with lively interest. "Do the dons appreciate art at all?"

"The same as to you." the girl grumbled. "Fucking bad," she explained in response to the incomprehensible look.

"Great omission. I think if Perturbator had more fans, he wouldn't devolve. After all, any creativity depends more on the fans. I guess."

He sat quietly talking about art and the modern electronic scene, while the bubbles in the water got bigger and bigger. The girl bit her lip, feeling an unpleasant burning sensation in her tail. The torture really was horrible: listening to half-crazed monologues while being boiled alive. How much time was left before the water boiled over?

"I once thought, maybe I should write an album myself. Or fix an existing one? By the way, I did. After all, passive aggression sucks for an author. The only problem is that my inside ursus cannot carry a tune in a bucket. Oh, maybe the person you work for has a musical ear. Anyway, never mind. Who's that?"

"Get lo-o-o-oh!" The fox suddenly shuddered and arched, as if a tremendous shock had been sent through her tail. The water was cloudy with dust from its fur, and looked more like a muddy puddle.

Simon was silent, and began to examine his victim closely. He pictured the growing pain, sharp at first, then dulling and hardening like tar, the nasty feeling that shot up his spine, and the slimy fear from the feeling of hairs falling out of his tail and sticking to his skin. His conscience suddenly surged in his soul, urging him to turn off the stove, but the black, rational, evil part only whispered, "Don't do it. Serves her right."

"Who do you work for?"

"I won't te-eell!" through the little tears that were coming, squeezed out the vulpo.

"If you answer, I'll turn off the fire. Who. You. Work. For?" There was a hint of steel in the voice of a maniac who'd finally got his prey to the right condition.

"No-o-o-o!" The fluffy tail began to peel off. She seemed to be at the limit of her self-control.

Steam began to escape from the pot. And with the first trickle of steam, a woman's scream reached the hood. Simon shook his head, and gagged the fox with the same towel, turning the painful cries into a muffled mutter. Then he grabbed the victim by the chin and looked her in the eyes.

"I gave you the opportunity to speak at once." Threateningly, the maniac whispered. "And I would have kept my word. But no, you played the fucking silent. Well, I hope your memory clears up now."

"U-ugh!" Muttered the fox, trembling and twisting in his arms. Her tears flowed like a river, unstoppable, and her eyes goggled in horror. She might have wanted to answer, but the gag grated mockingly against her teeth.

"Who do you work for?" Simon saw the gag, knew he was asking a question into the void, but continued to pound his victim with it.

"Ue" the fox mumbled. "Uebebev." The guy pulled the towel from her mouth, and she almost screamed. "Lebedev!"

The pronunciation of the surname was marked by the click of the fire regulator. Simon kept his word.

"Why does he want Texas?"

"He wants... Aah!" the girl gasped, and shuddered again. "Finish off the last Texas!"

(DonnJuann - Youthful Spirits)

There was another click. The barely visible red circle under the pot disappeared. Simon nodded, and clasped his hands together in a lock.

"Where to find it?"

"Do... nn't... Know..." The vulpo answered, sobbing. "No, no, no, stop!" she screamed as the maniac reached for the light switch. "Pour the water out, and I'll tell you!"

"All right." He carefully drew the frayed rag, which was a red fox-tail, out of the water. Just as carefully he put it away from the still hot burner, and drained the water.

The girl burst into tears aloud, with her head helplessly lowered and hanging from the chair. "There are no heroes for pain," he thought to himself. "I could have been her. And cry the same way." He swallowed at the thought, and walked close to the captive.

"Fun fact." Simon said calmly. "This horrible, inhumane, assault on human dignity, torture was invented by the Syracuse Mafia, the ancient zealot for the honor and face of the nation. It is you and your cronies who are to blame for walking dishonored and burned."

He felt the rag: hot, sticky, nasty. The girl had indeed lost her dignity along with most of her hair. I wonder if the doctors won't ask him, "What happened to her?" Well, that's her problem now.

"He's in Lu-Lu..." the girl sobbed.

"Lungmen?"

"Lugan."

"Oh..." said Simon with a puzzled sigh. "How far..." Then he turned to the fox. "Well, thank you, you fucking stubborn fool. If you'd told me right away, I'd have been satisfied."

The only answer was a silent sob. It was pathetic to look at the vulpo. He decided not to torture the girl any longer and untied her. She collapsed like a puppet on the suddenly torn strings, toppling the whole structure with a crash. She was squashed by the chair, but the guy quickly dismantled the mess and dragged the girl out by the scruff of her neck.

He quickly cleaned her up, so that only her tail and crying face gave away what had happened, and took her outside. The fox was walking, limbs fluttering limply, completely broken and shattered.

"You or your friends come near us again," said Simon, turning her menacingly to face him. "I'll kill everyone." He made sure she was on her feet and pushed her away.

She could have been finished off, but why? He had naively counted on her prudence and fear. His kindness would probably cost him, but as they say,

the road to success is...

Now he was occupied with a much more pressing matter. Lebedev he knew personally, but after meeting him they immediately parted. Simon remained in this sinful world, while Mikhail Lebedev, the Ursu migrant-authority, had gone into the afterlife. With his active help.

"But... I killed that biowaste." The guy thoughtfully looked after the departing vulpo. He felt the urge to smoke. "I remember. So the bastard was reproducing, too?"

It would appear so. It wasn't over yet. It was either coincidence or evil fate, but the past did come back to the present. Knocked his gate off with a foot, with frantic shouting and firing into the air, to be exact. Fucking Families didn't want to let him go, even here.

"Oh, that's right. He had a son." The guy slapped his forehead. "Did he really take after his father?"

If so, then over this Lebedev hovered almost a generic curse, found flesh in a human face. Simon, not knowing the man's name or face, knew at once what he wished for, and grinned sadly. The same vengeful monster who had lost his peace.

But the world was too small for the two of them. One monster was bound to devour the other. The blond man licked his lips symbolically.

"Hey, gentleman." A familiar, husky voice interrupted his musings. "You can think about your dinner later. There's Texas with a hole in her back, and you're out here having fun with another woman, you fucking alpha."

Simon's eyes widened and he immediately took off running to the ill-fated bar. As usual Makarych turned out to be wiser than his wayward son. Justice would prevail, but it was still worth saving the world and all its inhabitants from the fire.

In mid-August the summer in Lungmen was coming to an end. The days were shortening, and the world, all those lifeless cities, machines, and especially people's hearts, were slowly freezing, preparing both for autumn and winter, and for new hardships that would never end.