NISO

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I turned the key in the ignition and immediately heard the characteristic "vzhh," proof that the car was still in working order. And really, what could have happened to it? No one had used it in all these years; it had simply stood alone in this old, filthy garage outside the city. Rummaging through the glove compartment, I found a pistol, a photograph, a case, and a compact disc, all carelessly tossed aside and forgotten. The disc turned out to be Nelly Furtado's album "Folklore."
- Mm-hm, - was all I managed to say as I sent the piece of plastic into the player. The familiar music struck my ears at once, and the events of days gone by came back to me unbidden. This music no longer gave me the pleasure it once had, but perhaps driving with it would be more pleasant than driving in silence.
Many faces could be recognized in the photograph, including my own. In my hands I held a statuette made of pure gold on the eve of the opening of a major event. The other participants, like the host, were filled with life, and who knows how many hearts still kept that hot fire? Certainly not mine.
The pistol proved to be my old friend, a Beretta 92, and in the case I found old but still perfectly intact sunglasses. An indispensable thing in such overcast weather. I put them on, and a minute later drove out of the garage, heading toward the city.

Leaving the Revmobile in the parking lot, I stopped at a local restaurant. My white trousers and jacket of the same color fit perfectly into the design of the establishment. Tapping a finger on the tabletop and humming "niso! kuroiro niso!" I waited patiently for the waitress, in no hurry at all, but instead of her an old acquaintance sat down with me, now a policeman in this city. We exchanged empty looks, after which he demanded my documents.
- Ehsa Aileri? - he said, examining my driver's license with curiosity.
- Any problems?
- Yes, Revan. - The cop fixed his dark eyes on mine. - You have serious problems.
- What are you talking about, Siver? My name...
- This is not about your name. - He interrupted me and held out his smartphone. - It is about this.
A suspicious video began playing on the mobile device's screen. Expensive apartments, probably a penthouse from whose windows one could see a good half of HeroesWorld. Two people, one of them me. We are talking about something; I touch the other person's cheek with my palm, and then our lips meet. The video ends there, and the guardian of law and order snatches his phone from my hands.
- I will not ask where you got that recording. - I commented indifferently. - And? Why did you show me this?
- Do not play the fool! - Siverfail struck the table with his fist. - You betrayed your convictions, you betrayed all of us, you betrayed HW. You were with a guy... I thought better of you.
- Have you said everything?
- As soon as the order comes from above, you will lose your head. - I rose from the table and headed for the exit. - Money and influence will not help you this time! - he threw after me.

My next stop was the headquarters of the organization Revan Entertainment. The place where my successful AAA products had once been developed was now in a deplorable state; sales were going badly, and all new content was being spread by vile pirates across the expanses of the internet, dooming developers who put their souls into these projects to inevitable death by starvation.
Arriving in my office, I collapsed into a comfortable beige armchair and relaxed, staring at the monotonous ceiling.
- Meeeh, - I groaned from boredom. I had arrived too early; I should have driven around outside the city a little longer. It is not easy being the owner of such a large organization.
After some fifteen minutes, the company's employees asked me to give them some time, and I agreed. They turned out to be programmers, designers, and people of other specialties whose names I could never remember. As expected, they began complaining that I had not paid them the money they had honestly earned through their labor for a long time.
- Mr. Revan, my children are starving and I have nothing to pay taxes with...
- Ah yes, I understand, I understand you perfectly! - I answered sincerely. - I understand with all my soul. But wait just a little longer; as soon as HWcomnadzor shuts down the damned torrent trackers, everything will immediately become normal. This year I also managed to buy only three new yachts... Ah, damned pirates!
Having escorted the negligent lot out of my office, I sprawled in the chair again, sat like that for several minutes, then lowered my fingers onto the keyboard, woke the computer from sleep mode, and began entering the text that had come to mind.

"The day was cold and windy. Bare trees, having shed their yellow-red garments, stood all around; the last swallows could be seen in the gray sky flying south; winter was drawing near. Toward evening, when he reached the city, the sky was covered with black clouds, and soon a downpour began. Hiding from the bad weather, Umil took shelter in an abandoned barn now inhabited by rabble who had no homes of their own; these people were pitiful, worthless, and cowardly, but he differed little from them, and wore the same rags besides.
As a boy, he had dreamed of joining the prince's retinue, helping him with sword and counsel, becoming a respected man and starting a family: he imagined himself the master of a fine house, the husband of a beautiful, kind, caring wife, the father of healthy and cheerful children, but fate had prepared another path for him. His father was a mason, while Umil, with his weak health, was unfit for such heavy work, and all the more so for the military craft. By the age of twenty-one in his foolish life, he had tried many crafts, but had never learned to do anything properly: he had neither aptitude for it, nor health, nor even desire. Now he was twenty-nine, and he had gone to Milograd for work, practicing his special trade for the seventh year already.
Milograd, the capital of Belovodye, was a majestic city, the largest and most densely populated in the entire region and rightly considered its center. The towering white-stone walls were famed for their impregnability, and nevertheless a vagabond from the Sladogor principality could not be distinguished from a commoner of Belovodye, and so the path into the city was open to him.
Fatigue after the long journey on foot took its toll; Umil dozed off and awoke only when night was threatening to pass the baton to morning. "Overslept again," he thought with irritation, stepping over hills of sleeping, stinking bodies. Going outside, Umil filled his lungs with fresh air and looked around; Milograd truly justified its name, but the vagabond had no time to admire its beauty. Walking through the city, Umil very quickly found the building he needed: the two-story mansion of the local goldsmith, adorned with a wooden rooster on top and beautiful patterns painted in red paint on the wooden walls.
Looking around and convincing himself that no one was watching him (he could not be sure of this; his poor eyesight might easily deceive him), Umil entered the yard. The bathhouse, cellar, and storehouse did not interest him, so he immediately headed for the entrance, intending to open the locked door. Long, thin, nimble fingers handled the task without difficulty; the lock yielded, and Umil entered the house, not forgetting to close the door behind him. He had never been a master of stealth, and only over time had extensive work experience allowed him to avoid unnecessary noise. Climbing the wooden steps, Umil once again met the enemy against which he fought every day: he was twisted by terrible pain in his abdomen and nearly knocked down the clay and wooden objects that happened to be at hand. Problems with the digestive organs had tormented him since he was twenty, and therefore this attack of pain was nothing new to him, though he had never stopped being angry about it. After standing that way for several minutes, Umil held himself back from swearing aloud and drew several heavy breaths, after which he returned to work, wishing to finish as quickly as possible what he had come for. Passing everything else by, he entered the upper living rooms, the household's quarters, and immediately caught sight of a snoring man, with a woman lying beside him. Umil was tall, very thin, pale: the complete opposite of this fat man. Without neglecting caution, he examined the man's face attentively: thick eyebrows met at the bridge of the nose; lips and cheeks were full, like the man himself; a large mole was visible on the right side of the round chin. "Just as they described him to me," Umil thought, taking in his hands the knife that had until then been hidden beneath his cloak. He did not know how to handle a sword or axe well, and had never held a bow in his hands at all, but such skills were not required to kill a man. Umil slit the sleeping man's throat like a pig's, and although no one outside the room could hear it, the woman lying beside him nevertheless woke; before she could scream, Umil struck her with the knife too, cutting short another life in that same instant. In the yard the roosters began to crow: morning was coming."

- Pff, heh. Hm. Yes... - I shook my head, pressed "delete," and sent the little file to the virtual trash. I had never had any writing talent.
When that was done, I discovered that a fax had arrived for me: letters from those city residents who had responded to my idea of holding a new event.
"Fuck, I am awesome," I thought after reading some of them. Well, not so bad; this was far more than I could have hoped to receive from modern HW citizens.
- Shima-shima niso.

2025
This city reeks of burning, rot, and hopelessness; clouds of black smoke veil the heavens, bringing a decadent twilight to the half-ruined streets of the old districts. I hurl a smoldering cigarette butt into a ditch full of garbage; fat rats squeak in displeasure in response, rustling packets from cheap crunchies. What forced me to return here, to this abode of all human vices presented in thousands of variations? Perhaps I wanted to show myself my own essence from the outside: a shadow smoking cheap cigarettes, with a glass of watered-down whiskey in a trembling hand. Or perhaps this place had simply been beckoning me all these years, and now my patience had finally run out. In any case, I am once again walking along the cracked asphalt of Khairosvold's central road; the wind tugs at my worn leather coat, scattering dust into my eyes.
The half-ruined houses of the first two districts bare their broken windows at me, black with emptiness, some of them boarded up tight. Once cozy little mansions stood here, with flower lawns; children raced along the roads on bicycles, and adults played golf on a broad course. Dirty, drink-sodden mugs turned toward me for a moment, tearing themselves away from contemplation of the fire burning in a rusty barrel that warmed them on this cool evening. One of the trio opened his crooked mouth, mooed something to his companions, and they laughed. Paying them no attention, I walked on. On the wall of a half-ruined building, an inscription in blue paint stood out; only one word was legible: "forever."
Approaching the third district, I ran into a madman. This man shook a cross made of crookedly soldered metal parts and shrieked curses into the whole street. When I drew near, he darted toward me with an insane smile, muttering under his breath. His old rags stank of cheap liquor, tobacco smoke, and urine; in his mad eyes an expression of the greatest bliss had frozen; a third of his teeth were missing. He suddenly screamed, raising his piece of scrap metal above himself.
- Accept the Cross of Jebus! Accept it! Accept the Cross of Jebus! - he shrieked. - The Cross of Jebus! O great Cross of Jebus! It will bring us all endless prosperity! Sacred abundance of resources! O Cross of Jebus! Holy gold mines will shower us with their gifts! I tell you, we shall bathe in well-being!
I rushed forward, leaving the howling madman behind. This district is now, as before, densely populated. Even five-story little houses rise above the gray asphalt; every now and then there are small groups of people drinking beer from five-liter jugs. They look unfriendly, though when was it ever otherwise here? Lighting another cigarette, I turn at the intersection, heading toward V.O.V. The jumble of colors that suddenly appeared around the corner surprised me greatly: could the fourth district really be alive and well? Who would have thought that in ten years so much would cha... In the distance, above the tallest, twenty-five-story building, the number VIII stood out. Ah yes, I had heard something, slipped my mind: the fourth district was razed to the ground about three years ago, freeing buildable space for a new promising complex of buildings.
The tunnel to V.O.V. is blocked by green moderator tape forbidding entry and exit; farther on the passage is blocked with stones. I climb onto an iron garage that has stood here alone since time immemorial and jump onto the metal mesh rising above the tunnel. Barbed wire at the top tears my sleeve, but I pay no attention; I simply do not care. My boots land with a loud slap in a trickle flowing from a sewer pipe; I shake off the white dust that covered the mesh. It has hardly changed: the same unfriendly houses, half-ruined buildings, places for numerous youth hangouts, piles of garbage everywhere, streetlights flickering and working intermittently. Hah, welcome.
As I quickly walked toward the first attraction I had planned to visit, some kid, unobtrusively hanging around by the wall, called out to me. Smoking a little cigarette, he slowly shuffled up to me, dressed in baggy pants and an equally baggy hooded sweatshirt.
- What up? Haven't seen you before. Interested in LSD? - he rattled off quickly.
- I'll make do with Jack, - I answer, taking a flask of strong drink from my pocket.
- Aight, and how did you get in? There's quarantine there.
- I have my own roads, - I answer after taking a swallow.
- Listen, you look familiar to me, damn, I know you! - he exclaimed, clapping his palms.
- Mistaken identity, bro...
The guy threw back his hood, revealing himself in all his glory under the dim light of the lamp. His smoke-worn eyes, with enormous purple bags beneath them, were still filled with the same sparks as ten years ago.
- Nebo? Is it really you?
- Who else! May the Emperor pardon you, where have you been?!
- Long story.
And now the two of us are already walking along the dirty streets of V.O.V., sharing a marijuana joint. Much has changed since then; damn it, the world collapsed several times while I turned to the wall to drool into my pillow. Some stayed, some left, some started businesses, some drank themselves into ruin, and Nebo fell into drug addiction.
- You know how it goes: one joint, another, a couple a day, then you want something stronger, LSD, a little heroin, you get it, it helps me live, brother, - he explained.
I told him many things as we walked toward that very hole which had once stirred the minds of many people. To my surprise, as soon as Nebo learned where we were headed, he began fiercely dissuading me from the idea, refusing to explain why.
- Listen, we shouldn't go there, everything has changed, hey.
- How can I come here and not look into that den? - I wondered.
- Just listen, there is no den anymore, everything is different, we shouldn't go there.
- Come on, let us see what happened there.
Here it is, the legendary hole, the Holy Abode of Debauchery. Practically unchanged, the same crooked little house with boarded-up windows and a blinking, buzzing sign, though now far too quiet. I kicked the door open and stepped into the void, urging little Nebo to follow me. In the pitch darkness of the building it was suspiciously quiet; only occasionally did strange sounds cut through the ear. I flicked the wheel of my lighter, trying to find at least some semblance of a lamp in the impenetrable gloom. In the end I clicked the switch; beneath the ceiling of the Abode a single bulb sparked with dim light, and the strange sounds abruptly grew louder.
- Listen, what is that? - I ask Nebo as I grow used to the light.
- I told you we shouldn't come here, - he whispered.
"Co-co-co," came from somewhere below. I lowered my gaze to the floor and was horrified: several ugly white hens were slurping brown-colored slop from a large flat trough. The hum intensified, growing louder and enriched by other vile sounds. The clang of metal drew my attention; I stepped forward, going around a mountain of chairs piled together.
- What the f...! - I shouted when I saw it.
The figure sitting in a rotten armchair turned its head toward me in three sharp jerks, accompanied by a characteristic clang. Half of the creature's face was made of rusty steel; the other half gleamed with cracked, peeling plastic. Through the torn sweater one could see steel ribs, also covered with rust, a pile of gears, and other mechanical junk in its body. The creature clicked its mouth open and forced out, robotically:
- Corpses. Kill. Pain. Blood. Death.
- Dude, I told you! - Nebo said, spitting on the floor. - That is Mortulus preparing for the year 2045; he replaced parts of his body with this stuff.
- Necropolis. Death. Kill, - the creature croaked.
- And the rest? What is going on here at all? - I asked, bewildered.
- This... is what remains of the Abode, - Nebo said sadly.
From somewhere near the ceiling came a piercing crow, then a grunt, then sounds altogether unpleasant to the ear. A fat pig with chicken feet and wings rose into the air, glaring fiercely at us, the unwanted visitors.
- Roosterpig! Let's get out of here! - Nebok shouted, grabbing me by the sleeve.
I did not need to be asked twice. We shot out of the Abode like bullets, slamming the door, hearing the roosterpig bombard the floor with its droppings.
- That is the scariest shit I have ever seen in my life! - I declare, catching my breath.
- Dude! Next time listen to good advice!
While we lit another joint, recovering from what had happened in the den, a green off-road vehicle drove up to us, and three bodies in green uniforms spilled out of it. Nebo spat, muttering "modders."
- Sauce, boys, what do we have here? - Arandor asked, slinging a moderator shotgun over his shoulder. - Forbidden dealings, Nebok?
His green uniform bore patches with the inscriptions "xD" and "R.P.G. SQUAD," as well as a moderator hammer with the appropriate notes. His companion, armed with an electric katana, stepped forward, baring his teeth in a grin. Instead of "xD," his shoulder bore a patch with the number 25. The year indicated? Right?..
- I will kill you and search your corpse, - Ple-sen wheezed. - Or will you give me a little knowledge?
- Damn, dude, this is already the fifth time this month... - Nebo protested, taking a packet of white powder from his pocket.
Ple-sen snatched the packet from his hand and immediately laid out a line on his finger. After hitting it, the moderator sniffed, muttering something under his breath like "my character sheet is growing."
I glanced at the sword-shaped pendant on Arandor's chest, shimmering with every color of the rainbow. Just so; he had not changed in the slightest.
- Nice blade, Arets, - I said.
- Who are you, I don't know you, - he said, turning to me. - The pendant, yeah, I totally like it, made of top-grade divanite.
- His mug looks familiar to me, - Ple-sen muttered. - I definitely... saw him somewhere.
- Yeah, familiar mug! But I can't remember! Hey, let's check the database.
A shotgun blast knocked several little pieces of stone out of the wall, only lightly scratching my green mesh electro-shield, which had still retained its functions from old times. We ran as fast as we could, hiding from the modders pursuing us. From behind came an enraged "stop right there, bitch! this is my territory!" We dove into one of the abandoned houses. The modders switched on flashlights and rushed after us. Running up to a window on the third floor, Nebok shouted "jump!" and dived down.
- Are... you... f... insane... - was all I managed to squeeze out as I fell, a couple of meters, then rolled down the sloping roof all the way to the ground.
And of course I landed on my knees right in the ubiquitous thread of stench from a leaking sewer pipe. I got to my feet and ran after Nebok, who was already climbing over a wooden fence. Gunfire sounded behind us; the stinking puddle answered the shot with a joyful splash. Grabbing Nebok's outstretched hand, I pulled myself up and threw my body to the other side.
After running far enough, we stopped to catch our breath. Nebo rolled another joint and lit it with my lighter. I leaned out of our hiding place in one of the abandoned houses and looked around. The pursuers seemed to have fallen behind. Unlikely for long; they would probably just bring dogs and other animals into the search.
- You cannot leave V.O.V. the same way you came in, dude, - Nebok said, releasing a cloud of smoke from his mouth.
- What do they want with me? I will wait a few hours and slip away.
- Naaah, bro, won't work. Arandor has long wanted to settle the score with you for everything.
- For what?
- For EVERYTHING, I don't know, dude, don't strain me. He wants to settle the score, I don't know. He even ordered a divanite bullet specially for you.
- What should we do? - I ask, taking the joint from his hand.
- I think in a certain place we can find certain suitable gear. Your moderator rights are still valid, right?
- Seems so.
- Then we move to the modder warehouse under the KK tower. No one has opened it since then.
- Sounds like a plan? - I drew in the haze.
- Yeah, dude, what up, bitches, no one will stop us.
We went through a chain of abandoned houses, making our way over roofs and through yards overgrown with trees. In two hours we reached that very KK tower, which I had absolutely no memory of. On the roof of this building sat a girl with cat ears and a tail, frantically drawing something. I recognized her at once.
- Is that Drakkoshka? - I hastened to confirm my guess.
- Yeah, dude, like, well, it's her, KK, - Nebo hesitated. - About five years ago she went mad over something or other; first she walked around the city shouting that no one loved her, then demanded to be called Drakkosha, then Kkosha, and then KK altogether. Now she never leaves the roof of her mansion, endlessly painting pictures, but not one of them pleases her.
And indeed, hundreds of crumpled canvases lay on the ground by the house. Nebok nodded, inviting me to go down. We approached the very doors, partially smashed by numerous vandals; the glass on the tower's lower floors had been broken, and probably everything valuable had long since been sold at the market by drug addicts. I grew very curious, picked up one of the paper balls from the ground, and unfolded it. The painting showed a bright clearing full of smiling people; the caption read "Khairosvold, 2008." I quickly tossed it aside, now understanding why Drakkoshka had gone mad living here.
We went inside, descended the stairs, and found ourselves before a thick metal door. The fingerprint scanner still glowed green, ready to admit the owner inside. I placed my hand on the reading panel; the scanner beeped, buzzed, and the door creaked aside. We entered a dimly lit room, inside which there were only metal lockers piled in a heap, cobwebs, broken glass, and posters of half-naked cat-girls on the walls.
- Looks like there is nothing here, - I concluded.
- Yeah, dude, I thought since this place was closed, they must have left something here...
I went up to a wooden table blackened by damp, tried to pull out the first drawer, but it fell apart right in motion. The middle one was sturdier, so it simply had to be thrown aside. In the third I found a little box upholstered in pink-dyed leather. I placed it on the table, clicked the lock, and opened it; inside was a large white pistol. Pink stripes ran along its entire barrel, converging at the grip, where they formed the pattern of a moderator hammer and the inscription "paternis. maternis. moderatum." On its upper part was stamped B4N114MM3R. On the lower part of the magazine was a cat face with angle-bracket eyes.
- Oh-ho-ho! - Nebok exclaimed when he saw my find. - That is the coordinator's weapon!
- Only two... - I whispered, stroking the two gold cartridges with pink stripes with my fingers.
- This thing will punch through modder shields with no trouble. Suitable gear, but not enough for everyone.
Suddenly, a risky idea came to me.
- But they do not know we only have two shots. Do you have a working car?
- I do. Why?
We took one of the cars that could still move under its own power and raced to the tunnel. Nebok sat behind the wheel, while I settled in the bed of the open little truck. As I expected, the greedy modders were already waiting for us there. Arandor grinned insolently, stroking his moderator shotgun, already ready to shoot through the violator's chest. Ple-sen bared his teeth, shaking his katana, plainly intending to squeeze the last crumbs of goods from poor Nebok. The third moderator was rummaging in the trunk of their green SUV, assembling something important.
- You really are that stupid! - Arandor shouted. - You came here yourself! Ha-ha!
- Loot, knowledge, your corpses will bring us much use! - Ple-sen hissed.
- I have a special little thing for you! - I answered, raising the barrel.
The moderators instantly scattered for cover, and the bullet, leaving the muzzle with a loud howl, slammed into their vehicle at supersonic speed, leaving from it only a cloud of pink dust rising into the air. The pink trail left by the bullet slowly dispersed. I rose from my position in the pickup bed and shouted:
- Open the quarantine, or I will shoot you all!
- Could've done better, moron! - Arandor answered, hiding behind a piece of wall. - How many rounds do you have? Three? Two? A coordinator cannot have more than four at a time, and wherever you stole that little thing, your shots are very limited!
- Enough for you, certainly!
Suddenly Arandor sprang from his cover, holding something heavy that flickered with green light.
- He has a Tachyon Clip Adder, get down! - Nebo shouted.
A green beam struck the place where my head had been a second before. They are not giving up! The plan failed! And then another idea came to me, no less risky than the previous one. I shouted to Nebok, "drive at the tunnel!" and got ready. The green beam cut through the cabin and came out the other side; molten metal hissed, flowing downward in green foam. A little more to the left and both of us would be finished. Nebo slammed the gas pedal, setting course for the tunnel blocked with stones. I hope this works! I aimed and fired at the pile of rocks. At my hit, the obstacle dissolved in a pink flash, freeing the road. I threw the pistol at the moderator aiming at us, hitting him in the chest; he staggered and fired completely the wrong way. Our car stopped beside the old garage, refusing to go farther. I jumped to the ground, catching my breath.
- Come on, brother, good luck! - Nebo threw to me as he climbed over the grate into his native V.O.V.
- See you someday! - I shouted after him and ran.

A man whose face was hidden by a hood sat on the roof of an old house. He did not want to join the people wandering somewhere below; the position of observer suited him perfectly. And the longer he sat, the clearer the frightening truth struck his eyes...
The city was living out its final days. The board game club, once packed to bursting, stood empty more and more often. The man in the hood remembered the days when he had been a regular there and smiled with light nostalgia. All the games had long since been played for him, and fewer and fewer games remained for the other players before departure. The day was not far off when the last visitor would close the door of the old club forever...
Elsewhere, colored lanterns swayed quietly over the square. How many cheerful holidays and contests had been held there! The man in the hood could list them without hesitation, for he himself had hosted many of them. Once he had even been awarded the title of king of entertainment. Would people gather again for several nights of fun without sleep?
The shouts in the neighboring house were growing stronger. Again the neighbors from the top floor had started an endless argument. The confrontation, which had begun as an innocent conflict on the stair landing, had in some insane way engulfed the entire house. These people had forgotten work, food, and sleep, and spent most of their time plotting against one another, plainly and openly. The house was perhaps the only lively place in the city.
Three people climbed onto the roof: a tall blond man in a crown of gilded foil, a man in a police uniform, and a small girl wearing a headband with cat ears.
- Revan, you called us and we came, - said the blond.
- Arandor, Ment, Kosha, - the man in the hood turned around, - did no one else respond?
- I don't know, - the blond shrugged. - We did not ask them.
- Well... - the girl began bending her fingers. - Siver does not want to come, Sezam left, Loken cut off all contact...
- I see, - Revan waved a hand. - I hope they change their minds.
- I would not count on that, - Arandor observed. - Everyone is satisfied with everything.
- I am not, - Revan stood up sharply. - I do not want to sit and watch our city turn into who knows what. I... I want everything to be as it was before. For our whole company to gather together in a warm atmosphere and simply have a good time.
- There is the board game club, - Ment remembered.
- Everyone got tired of games a year ago. Me first of all.
- Let us go to my place and have tea, - Kosha suggested. - And then we will think of something.
The guys looked at one another. Revan jerked his shoulders and headed for the stairs...
…
- Wonderful tea, Kosha, - Ment nodded contentedly. - Where do you get it?
- Trade secret, - the girl smiled, pouring the fragrant drink into the emptied cup.
Arandor took a fifth kystybyi from the table and bit off half at once.
- No, Kosha, you do not know how to make proper kystybyi, - he said with his mouth full. - Completely unlike the ones at my home, - the blond bit off a second huge piece.
The doorbell rang. Kosha sprang from her place and ran to open it; curious Arandor followed her.
On the threshold stood a swarthy guy with a rapier at his belt. Behind him loomed a gloomy blacksmith.
- Siver, Loken, - Kosha smiled, - come in.
- Look who it is! - Arandor jumped into the corridor. - Loken, long time no see!
The blacksmith demonstratively rolled his eyes when the blond dragged him into the living room. Deep down, he was probably pleased with the reception, but he was not going to show it.
- I probably spent three hours persuading him, - Siver whispered to Kosha.
-You did great! - the girl smiled broadly.
Kosha had only just started to close the door when something red-haired flew through it with an indistinct cry.
- Am I late to the party?! - the redhead stopped only at the wall.
- Almost late, Neyra. But I think there is still tea left, - Kosha smiled sweetly.
- I hope Arandor has not gobbled up all the pastries, - Neyra rushed into the living room, and Kosha and Siver followed her.
No one else came, although many were missing for the company to be complete. Talk of their absence gradually shifted to old times. They remembered the conflict near Esailam, the eccentric from the club who was eager to fight over every remark, the young mechanic who liked deliberately breaking rules, the circle of amateur astronomers, and the deep well beside the club... Those were cheerful times, but irrevocably gone. And everyone at the table understood it.
- Maybe we should leave? Well, after Sezam, - Arandor suggested. - We could live together somewhere in a little house in the forest, plant tomatoes, all that...
For most of the time Revan sat silently; he did not even remove his hood. These gatherings were so similar to what he was used to, but rather, they resembled the agony of a dying society, the last attempt to put everything back in its place, to do everything right...
- How many times has our city died out already? This is not our first time like this, - a fragment of someone's phrase reached him.
And that was true. Not the first time. Before the board game club there had been a club of word-game enthusiasts; before it, a computer club... Now, perhaps, all that was needed was an idea. Revan knew that he would surely come up with something astonishing. And, looking at the company at the table, he understood more clearly than ever that whatever he came up with, there would always be those who supported him.
The guy removed his hood and smiled at his friends.

Стартовый пост - Квенты - Разное - Список НПС -
Резара - Аксель - Орвальд - Эмилия - Стэфания - Амвросий - Лестер - Альсира - Алария -

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