13:03 — August 30 — 1099
(offthesky — winter came again)
"Can you sell the "Twenty Thousanders" album?" The request was made with a wild Ursus accent.
"There are none left," spit out a she-wolf with gray streaks on her ears.
He looked around the store. Lupo had lied, the box he was looking for was right behind her. He wasn't offended, however. Or didn't seem to. Either way, the customer didn't give up:
"There it is," the saleswoman, frowning, snorted. "Why aren't you selling?" The guy took a different aproach.
"We don't trade with the outsiders." she snarled angrily, looking into half-closed blue eyes.
Their owner was a medium-sized brunette with a short haircut and bear ears. A handsome face with a few abrasions was sparsely set, maintaining a smooth lip line. One of his hands was in the pocket of his gray coat, the other under the canopy. There the hilt of something small but suspicious was visible.
The brunet pulled a wad of blue bills from his pocket, counted out a couple of pieces.
"Is that enough?" He handed them to the she-wolf.
"Nothing is enough from an Ursus," she shook her head.
The boy left the money on the stand and looked up. There was no resentment in them, more like a misunderstanding of her hate. Lupo answered his gaze with her yellow flashlights, glinting from the semi-darkness of the basement. It was a little sinister.
"Get out of here, you fucking fish-eater. And take your money. There is no singing for you."
"Who's it for?" A third voice shushed the lupo hound.
She turned around. A tall blond man stood behind her, putting his hand on her shoulder.
"What do you value more? Getting money, or ruining a man's day?" Simon said in Sicilian. Even though he had forgotten the language, it was clear.
The saleswoman softened and pulled out a small box from the music wall behind. She took the brunet's Lungmen dollars, though an unpleasant residue remained with everyone. The boys thanked her for her purchase, in one voice and one resounding word, and slammed the door. Walking
up the steps, they found themselves on the street.
Simon furtively examined the box. At first glance, the album showed four snow-covered ridges casting shadows downward. Suddenly it seemed to him that the mountains were someone's faces, the eyes and mouths in the folds of the mountain. The blond looked closer: no, it wasn't.
"A sheet had been thrown over them," his debtor gave an exhaustive answer.
"Jokers," Simon snorted.
Both of them fell silent. Their gaze walked along the gray street, massive bridges, shabby buildings and dirty sidewalks. There's a young couple walking down the avenue. The guy has a knife in his holster. And there's a dog running about his doggy business. Its sides are scalded and skinny.
"Thank you," thanked the brunet, stretching the sounds a bit.
"Ursus are not liked here. Even money can't fix that," Simon said with slight regret, taking a break from contemplating the provincial squalor.
"I'll get over it," briefly but confidently answered his companion. Then he opened the box and sent the cassette into the receiver. His benefactor would have ignored this fact, but...
"Would you like some?"
"I don't like Sicilian." The guy pushed aside the hand with the earpiece. A wireless one, albeit a worn one. But when he looked into the half-asleep eyes of the person he was talking to, he changed his mind. "Although... Shit. Fine, whatever."
He did it purely out of politeness. Moreover, by this time he was suddenly interested. The jokers under the sheets looked too unusual and daring. And so did their listener.
The guy looked to be about thirty years old, but he was too shabby. There were bruises under his eyes, and his skin was dry and cracked from the frost. His slightly crooked nose bore a bunch of abrasions. However, his very eyes were incredibly clear, and his large lips seemed about to smile. His medium-sized dark hair only added to his benevolent appearance.
His gray overcoat didn't look like the latest fashion, but it looked warm, and in Syracuse that was more important. Its billows were slightly pushed up, clearly hiding something in its inner pockets. "Weapons," Simon surmised, based on his arsenal under his jacket. The rest was as unremarkable as the coat: sturdy, cheap, and old. Not so much physically as morally.
On the whole, the guy was disposable, looking at his companion calmly and undemanding. Though Simon still felt, and then found a threat. First of all, it was clearly not a bouquet of flowers he kept under the canopy of his coat, and secondly, it was not for nothing that he had broken nose and a barely noticeable scar on his neck?
"Simon." For the blond man reaching out his hand was an effort.
"Danila," but for the brunet it wasn't. He was firm and relaxed.
"What kind of music is this?"
"Good one. Rock. The kind you listen to in war," Danila bluntly advertised the album.
Simon just waved it away, inserting the earpiece. Suddenly he stopped.
"Where are we going?"
"Well…" His interlocutor hesitated. "I'd like to stay here for a while. I'm a newcomer."
"It's my first time here, too, but I'm familiar with the local customs," the blond smiled a little. "Come on, let's get settled in."
(Nautilus Pompilius —During the Rain)
Accompanied by upbeat rock, they walked down the avenue. It was a rectangular cut out of the city platform. A river of purified water from the reactor's post-reactor cleanup rumbled below. There were even a few seagulls to be found in the gray sky. It was a pathetic parody of what Simon had seen in Lungmen, but it was still better than nothing.
Although neither of them knew their destination, that didn't stop them from confidently going wherever they wanted to go. One simply trusted his instincts, and the other in turn followed.
"Cigarettes?"
"Yeah, those. And a newspaper."
The guys walked away from the kiosk to the embankment, unfolded the newspaper. The numbers with the ad were found quickly. The blond took out a coin for the phone, the brunet smoked, leaning against the glass of the booth. Half an hour later they stepped on the threshold of a five-story house with a shabby entrance. They passed a long staircase with windows to the courtyard and bent railings, and went upstairs.
"How old are you?" Asked his companion Simon, standing in the corridor of the communal apartment.
"Twenty-five," Danila pulled off his coat.
"You look thirty." The guide turned to the door to one of the apartments. Soon it opened.
A shaggy-haired grandfather peered at him through the crack. He answered him with a calm look of slightly squinted blue eyes.
"Which one of you is an imperial spy?" The furry one blurted out instantly.
"No one, sir," Simon answered without the slightest surprise.
"Yeah, I know you," gramps mumbled back at him. "If you, Ursus, don't like something, the tsar shouts "Our people are being beaten!" and the army comes to defend them, but in reality to smash everything."
"Don't be afraid, we're on our own," the boy grinned, tilting his head to the side.
"Yes, yes, you come alone, we'll come alone too. Damn bears..." The door slammed, ending the conversation.
The boys just shrugged their shoulders. The landlady came over. They decided to rent one for two. It was uncomfortable to sleep next to a stranger, but it was a good a way to save money. The brunet settled down on the couch, wishing his neighbor a good night. The blond lay down on the swamp-colored mattress and couldn't fall asleep for a long time, quietly listening to the walkman and thinking about his lupo friend.
12:00 — August 30 — 1099
"Cabbage! Cheap cabbage!"
"Fresh watermelons! Dig in!"
Simon squeezed through the row of people, carefully pushed away the crampled wolf cub, stepped over the hole in the city paneling, which had become a puddle. His companion walked somewhere behind him, slowly skirting the market visitors. At times he seemed lost, and that's when the blond man crashed into his gray jacket He was smiling, holding out something edible, Simon wasn't refusing.
They came, or rather the blond came, and the brunet appeared near, to the edge of the square. The edge turned out to be an ordinary concrete box with a large porch. The steps were already occupied by hurried salesmen with household appliances, trying to outshout each other. But they weren't the ones the guys were interested in.
"Please sir, where can I buy some tools?" Simon ostentatiously kneaded his fists, crunching his fingers.
"If there was a señor, there would always be a tool!" The short vulpo jumped up, leaped up from the steps, and scampered around the corner. The boys followed him.
Fox rattled his keys and entered the cellar. A switch clicked, and Simon and Danila saw a nice armory. Whoever these people were in their previous lives, they still couldn't resist the shine of polished weapons. Of course, there were no firearms, but the bows were quite nice.
"How much is that one over there?" A voice came from behind them.
"Seven hundred and ninety-nine with the arrows, señor. That's what you asked, isn't it?" Fox took a medium-sized block bow off the wall.
The brunet could hide it under his coat, so small it was, but it looked dignified. The wheels spun as Danila pulled the bowstring, the arrowhead entering the hole as far as it would go.
"Let's take it," the Ursus stretched half asleep. He looked at the blond man questioningly and nodded. "And another one, if you please."
They returned home by nightfall. Danila picked up a razor, shampoo, and a small hair brush, then went into the bathroom. As it turned out, he occupied it for the evening, so his roommate had to entertain himself with the player. At first he pulled out a CD with the familiar pink inscription, but Danila, coming out of the bathroom, caught him with something else. Simon was completely absorbed by the velvet-low, slightly breaking voice of the singer from the album.
"How was it?" the brunet asked, shaking off water.
"Huh? Interesting," his neighbor didn't immediately react. "I've never heard anything like that."
"Neither have I. I came here with a caravan, and a fellow traveler gave me a listen," he said, carefully wiping the fur on his ears.
They fell silent, enjoying the playful, unbridled music. For Simon, quickly accustomed to the unfamiliar sound, the presence of lyrics was a revelation. Yes, he was the kind of weirdo capable of rediscovering ordinary things. To marvel at them, to admire them. Sometimes even enjoy them.
"I didn't realize it was possible," he said thoughtfully.
"What?"
"Well, uh... Sing."
Danila looked at him like a fool. His thick eyebrows arched, and his eyes widened a little. Abrasions stretched out, crossing his face diagonally. Even his ears didn't stay out of the way, standing at attention. However, it was over quickly. After standing like that for a couple of seconds, he simply shrugged his shoulders and went to sleep, shaking himself off lightly. Simon soon followed suit.
13:20 — August 30 — 1099
(Nautilus Pompilus — Common Disaster Celebration)
Volsinii had been a relatively prosperous city in the past. There were plenty of active people here, as in the rest of Sicily, but other towns had less intelligent host families. The Texases had long ago ruled here, violent as all mobsters were, but progressive and economical. But now they were gone, and Volsinii was fucked, with local gangs and families gnawing at each other, leaving the promising place a shithole, penniless even compared to other cities in Sicily.
Simon had seen it with his own eyes as he scoured the city in search of what he'd come here for. Similar architecture - mazes of five-story panel houses painted dark gray and blending into the snow in the evening, a roadway with two rows of cars, and those hideous slanting streetlights strung across the city's platform with devilish coolness and calculation. It all pressed on his nerves, and hampered his search.
A couple of times he got lost among the monotonous walls of the streets. He had to ask passersby, and constantly problems arose every five minutes. Go straight ahead, turn right, but not on the main street, but on the alley strewn with concrete chips, go through the gray, wet gut and come out in the center of the square with a dozen branches. These were his usual routes. The guy was quietly cursing, scolding the authorities with all his might, but he was making his way to his goal.
"Golden eagle? You got about ten more minutes. Take this street, cross the bridge to the other side, and turn onto Narodnaya Street. You'll go straight there."
Simon nodded, thanked the good-natured wolf behind the bar, and left the room. He felt the October cold, which was even more painful after the lazy satiety and warmth of the basement bar. He'd gone in there for a glass of froth beer, but, tortured by the layout of the city, had sat there for half an hour. He would have sat there, in that warm, soaked and native place till the end, but no, duty called.
Those ten minutes passed quickly, the maniac took a breath while drinking alcohol. Here he passed the bridge, the wall of paneling, and here is the desired place. The guy got angry a little at this restaurant, argued about the tiresome wandering, but then spit: it wasn't his fault that Simon wasn't a local, was it? The main thing was that the box he was looking for was now standing in front of him.
The restaurant's appearance was... not very pompous. The burgundy walls, the long rows of windows, the cigarette butts, bottles and chips of unknown origin visible in the snow in front of the entrance didn't make the place look very pretty. The guy could hardly believe that mobsters could even be here, let alone celebrate. This place was not of their caliber. The dirt and rubble were gracefully hidden under the snow and paint, and the frost interrupted the slight scent from the containers behind, but the Syracusan sophistication of the place was still missing.
But what could be done, work was work. Simon looked around the restaurant thoroughly. He walked around it from back to front, noticed the classic black entrance on the back side of the building. Finally he looked through the window: a decent establishment, a restaurant indeed. Shiny tile floor, tables, long tables of food. He'd been to places like this not as a wrecker, but as a visitor, and yes, he'd always liked it. Places like this were warm, the waiters were always courteous, and often shared extra food with the scowling guy. Simon simply had no reason not to like restaurants.
"That's all," he said out loud. "I'm ready."
The perpetually frowning sky with big clouds began to darken. The yellow letters "Aquila reale" that adorned the door with the glass doorway turned gold from the backlighting that was turned on. Against the grayness of everything: the sky, the road, the houses, the snow, it looked bright and flashy. Simon suddenly felt a sense of satisfaction, simple and harmless. Such a feeling could only arise from the contemplation of something simple but mesmerizing.
He returned home late, once again he got lost in three paneled houses. Help came when he didn't expect it. A gray dog, reddish with blood in a couple of places, wolf-like, confidently crossed his path and stopped on the other side of the street. It turned around and stared at him invitingly. The guy thought for a moment, decided not to let it go and followed after. The dog-wolf was not deceived: she was met by a familiar hulk. Simon cautiously petted her, stroked her head, and let her go about her dog-wolf business.
Danila was sleeping, or rather snoring. The blond had to hastily make earplugs out of toilet paper, so as not to toss and turn for the second hour, and not to disrupt his already absent schedule. After the quiet of his apartment, it wasn't just snoring-the very thought of spending the night with someone made him uneasy. Texas, in his imagination taking the place of the occasional roommate, helped her friend. He chuckled into his pillow as he pulled himself up, looked over at Danila ironically, and finally fell asleep.
9:30 —August 31st — 1099
(REPTIL WINS — SOLARIS)
"So, tell me why you're here," Danila said in a soft, low voice.
The guys sat opposite each other on opposite sides of the room. The window with a piece of gray sky was exactly between them. Simon sat at a cluttered table against the wall, cleaning his weapon. His neighbor across the room was sitting comfortably on the couch, throwing his leg over his foot.
"Can I leave you in the dark?" Threw the blond, dismantling the air pistol.
"No, you did me a favor, now pay me back."
He tensed. He didn't want to tell about the whole Mafia thing, it was too personal, and Simon was too reserved. Of course, the guys had gotten used to each other over the past couple of days, but they hadn't become friends.
"All right. Let's say there's a case for one person," he stretched out, turning a little toward his interlocutor.
"Good or bad?" Danila clarified.
"Bad."
"Do you want to kill someone?" The ursus frowned. "If the person is bad, I might help."
"It's personal." The answer was as evasive as possible, as if Simon were sitting in on an interrogation. His interlocutor went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of tea. Simon tasted it: black, three spoons of sugar. Just the way he liked it.
"Hmm, okay," he took a sip. "Let's just say I'm looking for one person. Not a local, shady type. He crossed my friend."
"So much so that he deserved to die?" Danila arched an eyebrow. "Did he steal your girlfriend?"
"God forbid!" Simon was horrified. By the way, quite sincerely, he suddenly thought that Texas could have had relations with someone from the Family, not for nothing she reacted so painfully to it. "They tried to kill her."
"A-a-ah," the brunet said understandingly. "You should have said so right away. You can't let your friends get hurt." Simon suddenly felt his palm on his shoulder.
He stared at Danila, thinking about what to say. For these two days the maniac had never understood his limits. He could just twiddle his thumb at his temple, or he could stab him at night for his insane desires. Simon realized that this charming guy was not far from the Ursus mobsters from the first meeting.
"All right. I need Lebedev Junior."
He went all in. Probably it was right, because Danila didn't freak out, didn't open his mouth or twist his finger at his temple. He got it.
"David." The brunette standing over him cheered. "And he's Goliath."
"We weren't born yesterday," his interlocutor chuckled. "We know how to draw the bowstring."
"You, Robin Hood, better tell me everything you know, and maybe I'll give you a hint. It's not like you're going after a bunch of thugs."
"No way!" That's when his companion started to feel uncomfortable. "I'm a stranger to you, you shouldn't take my problems upon yourself!"
"We Ursus don't abandon our own," Danila said in a firm tone that did not allow any objections. He wanted to object to him, to say, "I am an Ursus like you are a Lungmenite," but his firm palm on Simon's shoulder left him no choice.
He sighed, finished his tea, brushed the dust off the table. Dark, a little shiny. It was supposed to be picked up with special gloves, but the guy didn't care about that. The main thing was not to get it on Danila. Although for such an uncompromising invasion of his soul he wanted it very much.
"Curiosity killed the..." For the sake of propriety he fumbled a little more, but then he stopped. "Ah, fuck it. Well, listen."
Simon told him everything briefly. Briefly, because he didn't know much himself. A few days is too short a time to prepare such a serious matter as an assassination attempt on Big Brother.
"Here's the plan: I go in the back, get the gun I've stashed away."
"Maybe a bow?"
"Doesn't matter. So, I pull out the gun, and I just shoot everybody."
Judging by Danilin's heavy sigh, which sounded just after the last word, he was not impressed by Simon's rambling plan.
"Do you even know the address, Rambo?" Skeptically asked the brunet.
Simon gave the address of the box with the inscription in Sicilian. And it would be better if he didn't.
"Wrong... number," the guy squeezed out after a fit of quiet, but strong, and surprisingly offensive laughter. Danila was all about it: getting a thought or emotion across in a few words. Almost like a snarling and howling beast.
It turned out to be the very inscription: for Ursus mobsters, Ursus establishments are not local taverns. Simon had seen places for Ursus or Sicilians only, and the first ones were strikingly different from the second ones, more often for the better.
"In short, you go there." Danila tore off a piece of paper and wrote something on it. "And about the plan..."
"You don't know m," the maniac raised his head.
"All right. You want me to show you how to make a hand-made gun?" The guy suddenly offered. The answer was a brief hesitation, and then, "An extra gun wouldn't hurt". "It's not hard, look..."
Danila outlined the future cannon in words. It was two tubes fixed with tape on a wooden frame and moving on a hinge. It was supposed to be loaded by "breaking off" the barrels and filling them with cartridges. It didn't look very good, but the maniac suddenly became interested.
"What does he shoot?"
"Little things. Nails, nuts, shavings."
"Well, the thing doesn't seem to have much power, does it? I'm sorry, I can hardly imagine shooting small shit." Simon justified himself. Danila just waved his hand.
"Nope. Close up, it rips you to shreds. It's called a shotgun. I heard it from one Lateran," the boy said curtly.
They discussed a lot of things. The blond felt much more confident, having learned a lot of new things. Although the whole conversation was haunted by a strange feeling that responded to every word Danila said, he didn't pay much attention to it.
"Thank you." Simon summed it up. He didn't shrug the brunette off, not at all, he just gave the bear-man tit for tat.
"Oh, please," he shrugged his shoulders. "We'll part soon, we'll forget each other, and only 'thank you' will remain."
Simon did the same. Stop…
"You're leaving?"
"Yeah. I'm done here. Time to move on."
The guy suddenly realized: he never asked his companion what he was doing in this hole.
It was so soon, so suddenly. Only a hour, and Danila, that smoky stove with a flame behind the door, is standing in the stairwell surrounded by a couple of bags. He shakes hands with his occasional traveling companion, stomps loudly down the stairs, and dissolves into the evening darkness. Their common room is half empty after he leaves, both visually and in terms of noise.
The guy didn't understand how he could let some passerby into his soul, but there was no bitterness. It was even... pleasant. The support and understanding of a stranger just because they're fellow countryman, not obliging to anything. It's like nothing he's ever felt before. Except from Texas, but that's different. Their relationship is sealed with blood, black and thick.
But this feeling... Handmade guns. Something familiar. Too familiar.
"I do... I remember how they're made..." Simon said aloud curtly. "Nothing new."
Strange feeling. Strange man. Strange situation. "I think it's called a jamevu," he thought, leaning against the wall by the door, and frozen in that position. There was a downside to this situation, though: now he knew exactly what to do.
