Posts from Spring Festival: a new beginning.

It's as if an artist were painting people instead of pulling the trigger.

It was 2009... The peaceful forum users of ХВ had no idea that Evil, eager to break free, was already paving its way. Somewhere in the distance, columns of elite Black Necropolis guard warriors were thundering along. But no one suspected anything yet.
Arandor, comfortably settled in his chair, was drinking tea with lemon and leisurely typing the text of another provocative message. Drakkosha, after a hard day, stood at the stove and made sure her gingerbread cookies didn't burn. Siverfail, returning from another trip to the ski resort, was savoring the details of another showdown between Loken and Vistrit. No one was thinking about any of this...

Who is Klov? Everyone thought he was just an ordinary schoolboy, but no one could have imagined that one day he would become the right hand of the Lord of Death. A secret agent who doesn't care about rules and laws. One can only guess how the Lord persuaded the once carefree and cheerful Klov to take the path of Darkness. But the fact remains. Klov became a loyal servant of his new master. Disregarding morality, he began to fiercely promote his master on the path to greatness. Klov became arrogant and conceited.
And this led him to ruin...

- They say the Lord of Death has taken over the forum. Is that true, Kosha? - Arandor asked.
- Maybe he has achieved something, but we will stop him.
- How many followers does he have? Can we cope with the hordes of the undead?
- He's just a man. We can put pressure on his psyche by ignoring him and awarding points.
- Not a bad idea, Kosha.

At the same time, the Lord of Death looked disdainfully at the ХВ statistics. Definitely, the forum was almost completely under his control. Scorpion, Klov, Dark Jack, Handos, they all sided with the dark lord. The Lord was pleased. In a few more months, even the Creator would pay attention to him, and perhaps make him a coordinator. And that would be enough to freely impose the religion of the Black Necropolis and enslave innocent forum users.

2016... The war is still going on. ХВ lies in ruins, many forum users have been subjected to torture and exile...



The history of ХВ is not over yet. Some people say that they saw the Lord of Death somewhere in the ruins of Karanak, but whether to believe it or not is up to each individual. Who knows what other horrors await the inhabitants of ХВ. However, many, including Siverfail, are optimistic and do not want to give up to the dictator.

The Beautiful Far Away

- The album’s downloaded, the video’s uploading, kystyby will make your mouth and nose dirty. Strength and faith, love and gerbera, talk to girls, do not stay a virgin. - Arundor sang as he finished yet another computer game.
Hearing someone unlocking the apartment door, Arundor was not alarmed at all: “One of the relatives came home,” the gamer thought, and turned up the sound in his headphones. A kick to the head came as a huge surprise to our hero. The headphone cord was yanked out, the chair flipped over, and Arundor himself ended up on the floor. Raising his head, he barely had time to see two shaved-headed thugs before one of their boots struck him in the stomach, while the other shaved-head sat down in the chair.
- Aaaaaaaaah, - Arundor screamed, - guys, do not beat me, piss on me instead!!!
Soon something warm poured onto Arundor, but unfortunately for us it turned out to be tea from his cup, which had gone cold while the kystyby guy was gaming.
- Listen, Murad, do you guess who we are? - asked the shaved-head sitting in the chair.
- You are nationalists and want to beat me up because I am not Gussian?
- NOT RUSSIAN, BITCH! - shouted the standing thug, and his boot struck Arundor’s stomach again.
- Ahahaha, - the seated one laughed, - no, of course not, we are cosmopolitans actually, this is just a style. Any other guesses?
- You want to rob me? - Arundor muttered, coughing and breathing hard.
- Ahahaha, what is there to rob here? All right, I will not torment you. Basically, we were hired by the people who finance you...
A shiver ran through Arundor’s body. He had not expected such a turn of events at all. His pulse quickened even more, his heart was pounding out of his chest, his palms grew damp, and his little hands began to shake.
- W-w-why, w-w-what for? - Arundor muttered in a trembling voice.
- Calm down and listen carefully. Our employers are tired of you living off them for so long. They are not going to tolerate it anymore, so they sent us to explain a few things to you.
- W-w-what things?
- It is very simple. You have to get a job and support yourself.
- In the name of Huwe! Not that! I cannot...
- Shut up and listen! If you do not get a job within a month, we will sit you on a bottle, throw you out of the apartment, and you will end up on the street. And there will be no your computer, no comfortable chair, no tea. And there will be no kystyby there either.
- But...
- You have one month. By the way, how old are you? Just curious.
- Forty-five, - Arundor answered sadly.
- Ahahaha, [Moderated: OBSCENE LANGUAGE in the message] you loser! Living on someone else’s neck at forty-five. All right, we are off, au revoir.
The kystyby guy spent a long time coming to his senses. And as soon as he did and realized how serious the situation was, he lay down on the floor, curled up, and started crying.
- Be harder, believe. Be harder, believe, - he muttered under his breath through tears and snot. After crying like that for some time, Arundor pulled himself together and decided to act at once. After all, he did not want to end up on the street.

***

Arundor sighed heavily. He was not used to asking friends for help. But now he simply had no other choice. He still had not found work, the internet and phone had been cut off for debts, and the deadline was only three days away. The kystyby guy gathered his thoughts and rang the bell. No one opened. But the noise coming from behind the door clearly showed someone was home. Arundor rang several more times, and finally they opened.
- Who are you? - asked the man who opened the door.
- I need Laken.
- Who who? - the man asked again, breathing fumes into Arundor’s face.
- Laken, - Arandor repeated loudly.
- Aaaaaah, Laken, he croaked from an overdose three years ago. May the Kingdom of Heaven be his, - the man replied, crossing himself incorrectly.
Without saying anything, Arundor turned around and headed to the next person on his list.

***

This time the door opened quickly. Saver greeted Arundor happily. In the kitchen, the host listened to his guest’s story, sympathized with him, and treated him to doughnuts and tea.
- Yeah, a real two-chairs situation, or rather two bottles, - Saver said.
- I am in no mood for jokes right now! Better tell me whether I can live with you for a while.
- Oh, probably not, buddy. You see, I am married now...
- Married?! - Arundor was surprised.
- Well yes, what is so strange about that?
- Well, sort of...
- Come on, I will introduce you to her, - Saver said and led Arundor into the big room.
- Arundor, meet Saber.
- Hello, Arundor, - replied the life-size computerized robot doll.
- Um... hello...
- Isn’t she beautiful? - Saver asked.
- Yes, yes, of course...
- Forgive me, but unfortunately I cannot help you, - Saver said as he showed his guest out.
- Well, uh, can you at least lend me some money?
- Of course I will, no problem. Just return it in a month. My girl will have a birthday then, - Sav whispered, taking out the money, - I want to give her a new dress.
- I will definitely return it.
After saying goodbye to Saver, Arundor headed to the next person.

***

- Arundor, what are you doing here? - Plisen asked quietly, peeking out through the half-open door.
- Hi, Plis! Please let me in, I need to talk to you.
- This is not the best time...
- Who dragged themselves here? - came a rough female voice.
- Darling, it is for me, - Plisen answered timidly.
- Some woman?
- No, of course not...
Pushing Plisen aside, the woman opened the door all the way and looked askance at the visitor. She was a head taller than Arundor, and her hands were bigger too. She looked like some kind of athlete.
- What is this creep? Looks like a bum.
- Darling, this is my...
- Stop mumbling, answer properly! - the woman said, hitting Plis in the shoulder.
- My friend, Arundor.
- Never heard of him.
- We talk on the forum.
Plis fell silent, realizing that this slip would cost him.
- Talked! Talked! I have not gone there since you forbade me! I swear!
- You filthy scum, so you secretly sit on that disgusting forum behind my back!
- I do not want to interfere, - Arundor began, but he was interrupted.
- What are you yapping about there?
- I only... - Arundor did not have time to finish before a one-two hit landed and he ended up on the floor. Blood flowed from his nose, and his head spun badly. He heard Plisen begging her not to do something to him, and then the door slammed shut. After sitting for a bit, Arundor got up and headed to the next person.

***

- What else do you want from me?! I already told you everything! For God’s sake, leave! - a trembling woman’s voice came from behind the door.
- I am Mant’s old friend, please open.
The door opened a crack and Arundor saw a frightened woman.
- You are not from the FSBR?
- No, of course not, I am just Mant’s old friend.
The woman hesitated for a few seconds, but still let Arundor in. It turned out that Mant had been sent to Subiria a year ago because of his articles, in which he had dared to criticize President Kedyrov. Once a prominent scholar, he now swung a pick and shovel somewhere in Subiria.
- I told him not to write anything, so what if we work for sweet bread and beef anuses, what is so bad about that, but he... - without finishing, the woman began to cry.
Arundor felt awkward, apologized for disturbing her, and hurried away.

***

No one opened the door for a very long time. Apparently the loud music playing in the apartment prevented the owner from hearing the bell. But luck smiled on the kystyby guy and the door opened. Arundor barely recognized Revon, shaggy and unshaven. He had a joint in his teeth and a bag of garbage in his hands.
- Here, bum, - Revon said, shoving the garbage bag at Arundor, - maybe you will find something useful in there for yourself.
- Revon, it is me, Arundor!
The apartment owner looked carefully at Arundor.
- Ahaha, exactly, it is you, come in!
Entering the apartment, Arundor saw a large number of people. Some were just lying on the floor, some were enjoying a high, and some were drinking and smoking weed. Revon led Arundor into a small room. On the writing desk was a pile of junk and a line of white cocoa, and on the couch lay a pair of stoned Asian girls.
- As you can see, Arundor, I am a bit busy here, so make it quick, say what you need, - Revon said, then sat at the table and snorted the white line through a 500-thousand-ruble banknote.
- I wanted... um... lend me some money, please.
- Sorry, Arun, but I am broke myself right now. Barely making ends meet. You understand.
- Yes, I understand. All right, then I will go.
- Hey, do you not want to stay? We will have some fun, - Revon said, nodding toward the bed.
- No, thanks, I need to go.
- As you wish.
- Bye.
- Bye.

***

This time the door opened rather quickly.
- Who do you need? - asked the bearded man.
- Nyabo, it is me, Arundor.
The bearded man doubted it and stared closely at the visitor.
- Arundor, you say. Put on your hood.
Arandor put on the hood.
- Ahaha, exactly, it is you. You do look like a bum, though. Even more than I do.
- Stop messing around. I have a serious talk for you.
- Well, come in if it is serious.
Nyabo’s apartment was rather empty. There was almost no furniture or household appliances, and the walls were covered with some writings in a language unknown to Arundor. In Nyabo’s bedroom there was no bed, no wardrobe, no television, only a small table, a couple of chairs, a pull-up bar, and a calendar where today’s date was circled in red.
- Good timing. I was just about to drink tea, - Nyabo said, pulling some rope from under the table. - Be a friend, go to the kitchen and brew some for me and yourself. If there is none in the kitchen, look on the balcony. The main supplies are there.
Arundor did not find any tea in the kitchen. He put the kettle on and went to the balcony. Among a small amount of junk he easily found a bag of tea and returned to the kitchen.
- Nyabo, your fridge is empty. Maybe I should go to the store and buy something to ea...
Entering Nyabo’s room, Arandor froze. Nyabo was hanging from the pull-up bar in a noose. His body was still twitching, but after a few seconds it went still. And the room filled with an unpleasant smell.
- F-f-fuck!
Arandor bustled about and began frantically wiping everything he had touched. After that incident with the schoolgirl, the cops had his fingerprints. When he finished, he hurried out of the apartment.

***

When the apartment door opened, a sharp smell hit Arundor’s nose. It stank of cats.
- Arundor! - Kisha exclaimed, delighted by the arrival of an old friend.
There were a huge number of cats in the apartment. All the walls were covered with posters of Lik. The disheveled hostess offered Arundor tea with gingerbread cookies. The kystyby guy did not refuse. That number of cats affected the taste of the tea and cookies. Apparently there was not a single thing in this apartment that did not smell of cats. Kisha silently listened to Arundor’s story and sympathized with him.
- It is all sad, - she said, - but you know what? I think you deserved all of this. You were always a vile person.
Arundor was surprised by this turn, since he had not said a single bad word to Kisha.
- W-what is wrong with you?
- Yes, a vile bastard! I always hated you! Get out! - Kisha shouted, grabbed a broom, and began beating Arundor with it. Under the blows of the broom, the kystyby guy left the cat lady’s apartment.

***

A fat man sat in an armchair smeared with who knows what. With his left hand he ate chips, and with his right he held the mouse, searching gagle for his favorite hentuy videos.
- Oh yes! - he muttered. - Those are the babes. I will take care of you now.
But before Zheroist could put his hand into his pants, the doorbell rang.
- [Moderated: OBSCENE LANGUAGE in the message]! What the [Moderated: OBSCENE LANGUAGE in the message]! Who is that now?
Looking through the peephole, Zheroist barely recognized Arundor. Opening the door, he greeted his old friend and invited him into the kitchen.
- You came at a bad time, - Zheroist said.
- Sorry to distract you, but I have problems.
Arundor told Zheroist what had happened to him, hoping that he could shelter him for a while.
- [Moderated: OBSCENE LANGUAGE in the message] all of that, Arun. I would gladly let you in, but the apartment is not mine. If the owner finds out I brought someone, he will send Chachens after me. And you know yourself it is better not to mess with them. The only way I can help is to give you some money.
Taking the money, our hero went on.

***

Behind the door one could hear swearing and a child crying. But that did not stop Arundor, and he rang. The door was opened by a woman holding a child in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other.
- Are you from child protective services? - Naira asked, frowning.
- Naira, it is me, Arundor.
Naira looked closely and did recognize the kystyby guy.
- Yes, it really is you! You look awful. Like you came from a dump. Well, come in, do not stand there.
- Who came? - a drunken voice came from the room.
- Dear, this is my old friend, Arundor.
- What? Your ex-lover? I will get the shotgun!
- What are you saying!
Sitting in the kitchen, amid the screams of five children and the cursing of Naira’s husband, Arandor told the story of his difficult fate.
- How awful. You have had no luck. Just do not go looking for trouble, or they might kill you.
- Mommy, mommy, I pooped! - shouted the little kid who ran into the kitchen, waving hands smeared with something brown.
- Son, we do not do that in front of guests! Sorry, Arundor, I will be a minute.
While Naira was washing her child, her husband entered the kitchen with a shotgun at the ready. He sat opposite Arundor and pointed the barrel at him.
- What, anus clenched? - Naira’s husband began.
- I-I-I should p-p-probably go.
- Sit down, bastard! Answer me, was there something between you two?
- I do not understand...
- You understand everything. Talk, bitch!
- What are you doing?! - the returning Naira said indignantly.
- Stay out of it, woman!
- Arundor, leave, I will deal with him myself.
- Yes, get lost, bum! And I had better not see you here again!

***

This was the last address. Taking a deep breath, Arundor rang. The door was opened by a woman in a black headscarf.
- Hello, I need Alyaks. I am his old friend.
Arundor sat in the kitchen and looked at Alyaks. More precisely, at his photograph with a black ribbon. Beside the photograph stood a glass of vodka and a saucer with a pickle. The mustached soldier in lieutenant’s shoulder boards looked sadly into Arundor’s eyes.
- He has been gone for half a year now, may the Kingdom of Heaven be his, - Alyaks’s widow said, crossing herself. - During exercises in Ristov he shot himself in the head three times with an assault rifle. Such grief. I had to sell the apartment to pay the priest for the funeral service. You know, they do not just give funeral services to suicides. Ah, he was a good man, even though he beat me often. But our priest always said: if he beats you, it means he loves you. I miss his heavy hand...
- So this apartment is no longer yours?
- No, it is not mine. Soon I am going back to my mother.
- I sympathize with your grief, forgive me for disturbing you.
After apologizing, Arundor said goodbye and left with a heavy heart.

Three months later. An elite district of the city.

Some bum was rummaging through the trash bins, hoping to find something edible or at least bottles. An expensive SUV drove up to the dumpster. A respectable man got out. He opened the trunk, took out a bag of garbage, and walked up to the container to throw it away.
- Sir, in the name of our Lord God, give God’s servant something for food, I beg you, - the bum addressed the man.
The man was about to spit at the vagrant, but something stopped him. He took a thick wallet from his coat pocket, pulled out three dollars, crumpled them, and threw them to the bum. The vagrant could live a whole month on that sum.
- May the Lord bless you, sir, happiness and health to you and your whole family.
- Listen, how do I know you? - the rich man suddenly spoke.
- No, sir, we do not know each other.
- No, you remind me of someone, - the man looked closer. - Exactly! Murad, is that you?
- I-I-I am not...
- Remember me? You and I were in the same group in college.
- Y-y-yes, I remember...
- So what, are you, like, a downshifter now?
- Yeah...
- And I work at the “CJSC” ROC. I recently bought myself a new car. Premium class, - the rich man said, nodding toward his SUV.
- Sweetie, how much longer are you? - came a female voice.
A woman whom Arundor also knew looked out of the car window.
- I met Murad here. Remember him? We studied together.
The woman looked closely at Arundor.
- Yes, I remember, hi Murad!
- H-h-hi, - Arundor answered quietly, waving his hand.
- You really liked her once, didn’t you? - the rich man asked.
- W-w-well, not that much, - the kystyby guy faltered.
- Come on, I know! Ah, life is an interesting thing. Well, I have to go, good luck, Murad, bye.
- Bye...
The car started moving and drove away, and Arundor kept looking and looking after it until it disappeared behind the house. Evening was falling.

Skeleton in the Closet

Las Vegas, present day.
Two figures glided through the halls of the city's largest casino. The loud human tide threatened to sweep a couple downstream, but an unremarkable-looking little man navigated this turmoil with ease and grace, not letting go of his companion's hand and occasionally greeting acquaintances with a nod of his head. Finally, they stopped at the beginning of a dim gallery. Somewhere in the distance, the roar of thousands of voices could still be heard, but here there was not a soul. The companion leaned against the cool wall with relief:
— Boss, I thought we had seen everything already. Unless we missed some mouse holes.
The boss looked quite unassuming. A dry, bony, wiry little man with low-set brows and a smug smirk. Envious people whispered that he was dishonest. However, this did not correspond to reality — everyone in the casino without exception respected him, and he acted as a guarantor for any matter. Despite his outward prickliness, a kind greenish light never faded in the depths of his eyes.
— Tired already? — the boss smiled slightly with the corners of his lips. — We are almost finished. Only the last, yet most important thing remains: "The Heart of the Casino."
The heart beckoned with something mysterious, and the companion hurried after the boss down the corridor. The path wound between metal sheets leaning against the walls, which looked at least 25 years old, and ended in a spiral staircase. The companions descended cautiously, brushing away invisible webs in the gloom with their sleeves until they hit a massive carved door.
— Here, — the boss snapped curtly and fumbled with the keys.
The door gave way reluctantly and creaked unpleasanty, announcing the arrival of guests. A blast of hot, stale air wafted from inside. Dim light was visible somewhere in the distance. Overcoming his fear, the companion stepped forward and slammed his head hard against the doorframe.
— It'll heal by the wedding, — the boss noted philosophically and went first.
It turned out that the light came from an old desk lamp, which could probably be sold for good money in an antique shop. An elderly man sat at the table writing something. His prickly beard stuck out stubbornly and had obviously not seen a comb recently.
— It's been a while since you visited. Five years, probably — taking a break from his activity, he rewarded the newcomer with a caustic comment.
— I had... business, Frank, — the boss replied, slightly embarrassed.
excerpt from personal file
prisoner Frank Adams
Professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, a world-renowned scientist. Infiltrated the prison himself to study prisoners from within. Subsequently went wild and did not want to leave this place. A pragmatist to the core. He even took the surname Adams so that he could be first in line for food in the dining hall.
— Meet Frank, this is Georgy Petrovich.
— By any chance, is he the brother of that famous basketball player? — the bearded man stared questioningly at the boss.
— No, he's just from the state of Georgia. He will visit occasionally.
— I see, — Frank replied and immersed himself in his writing again.

— Yes, this is indeed the heart of our casino, — the boss whispered as they walked further down the corridor, — here are the workshops for producing playing cards. Every day we produce about 300,000 decks. Everything we don't use ourselves, we sell. Good money, by the way.
The production rooms greeted the newcomers with the smell of plastic and fresh paint. On the bare walls, without wallpaper, various hooks and hangers were nailed here and there. The floor was heavily littered; it seemed that a broom had completely forgotten the way to these parts. Two people worked on the first conveyor — a pale-faced youth and a mustachioed man.
excerpt from personal file
prisoner James Brown
Possessor of a rare phenomenon related to the orientation of the head in space during sleep. Every evening, before going to bed, he asks other prisoners where east is and turns his bed with the headboard in that direction. Prisoners joke about him and point in different directions every time. Nevertheless, the head still turns in the right direction during sleep.
excerpt from personal file
prisoner Rizvan "The Russian" Tabasaransky
Son of immigrants from Russia. Sharp-tongued and fond of fighting. Served in the First Cavalry Division of the USA. Possesses an explosive temperament and a magnificent mustache.
— Is he definitely Russian? — Georgy clarified just in case. — The surname is somewhat suspicious.
— Absolutely certain. That's what all the prisoners say.
— I see, — the companion scratched his forehead and decided to change the subject. — And this trash... is there any staff here, cleaners or something?
— Our only staff member is Miss Monteiro. And here she is.
At that same second, a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman materialized before them as if from thin air. She was very attractive; one could say that even the uniform suited her.
excerpt from personal file
employee Caroline Monteiro
An authoritative warden of Latin American origin. Considers herself one of the prisoners. In her free time, she paints pictures, as she feels compassion for other prisoners and wishes to brighten their harsh existence somehow. The prisoners do not appreciate art, but they still watch it regularly, as it allows them to slack off from work.
— Miss Monteiro, meet Georgy Petrovich.
— And that suits us perfectly, — the embarrassed Georgy muttered and blushed.
The warden rewarded him with a chilling gaze and replied in a tone that cut off all further questions:
— Noted.
To the left of the corridor were some storage rooms, while from the right side came the smell of a public restroom. Georgy even winced:
— These prisoners live in terrible unsanitary conditions. I can already imagine plumbing that my grandmother used and rusty washbasins on the walls.
— How should I put it, — the boss lowered his voice. — Actually, this isn't related to the prisoners. Some time ago we started sending disgraced players from the casino here... well, for preventive purposes. We even allocated a separate room for this. And they just sit in there, with nowhere to go, having set up a latrine right in the middle. The prisoners were disgusted at first, but then they also started coming in to relieve themselves.
Next, the pair hurried to inspect the lounges. The boss explained that most of the time prisoners play cards in their free time. But if there are boiled eggs left over from lunch, they sometimes play "eggs." Georgy never managed to find out what the game was about because they encountered a man in the doorway.
— I've come up with a new game, do you want to play with me? — he asked and smiled.
excerpt from personal file
prisoner Charles "Pythagoras" McLaren
Games master. Multiple baccarat champion. Other prisoners have even become afraid to play with him for some time. When the games end, he starts inventing his own.
— And what game is it? — Georgy was a bit taken aback.
— I called it "love." The rules are very simple...
— Sorry, buddy, we don't have time, we must continue inspecting the prison.
— Well, here we go again... I've already offered everyone, and no one even wants to try.
— This isn't a prison, it's a crypt! — a brutal-looking man intervened in the conversation and pointed his hand at a pile of chicken bones in the corner.
excerpt from personal file
prisoner Harry Forster
Suffers from kleptomania. This is a rare disease expressed as a person's desire to steal and hide the loot in a crypt. Considers himself unique. However, this is not so: even in the Middle Ages, many robbers worshipped such people, who significantly eased the process of searching for hidden valuables.
The boss only shrugged and walked past. Suddenly, a long quacking sounded from the corner. Georgy was surprised — could they really manage to keep a bird in this strange place? However, the bird turned out to be just another strange guy. He wore a long wig on his bald skull. Occasionally he hissed from the corner and quacked like a goose.
excerpt from personal file
prisoner Edward Morton
A former school teacher. You could talk to him before, but then he suffered a mental breakdown. Now he only occasionally quacks from the corner. Out of old habit, he constantly lectures everyone around him, although no one has taken him seriously for a long time.
— Where have I ended up? — Georgy thought. — I would say this is a cabinet of curiosities, if I knew what that was.
Another prisoner they met was wildly rolling his eyes and waving some scrap of paper right in Georgy's face.
— We are going on a quest for the Golden Fleece! I am Jason! And this is a map! A map, see? — he almost started screaming.
— Calm down, calm down, buddy. Yesterday Captain Flint, today already Jason?
— You understand nothing! — the prisoner would not be silenced. — I drew it myself, based on historical documents. Today we are closer to the treasures than ever. I believe, just a little more!
excerpt from personal file
prisoner Thomas "Roger" Remington
A passionate lover of treasures, a romantic traveler. Knows thousands of pirate legends, personally visited Cocos Island. Spent many years searching for Atlantis, but ended his journey more earthbound, in one of the Las Vegas casinos.
— Boss, my head already hurts from them, — Georgy winced, — Maybe I'll just study the documents of those I didn't meet personally?
The boss had no choice but to simply throw up his hands and give in.
Finally, they visited one unusual place. Prisoners occasionally looked in here, but at the moment there was not a soul. It was a giant hall, cluttered from top to bottom with all sorts of junk. Paintings of semi-naked courtesans, barely covered by strips of transparent fabric, were hung on the walls. A narrow path led through rows of trash somewhere into the distance, as the boss explained, toward an altar.
— Let's not disturb this sacred place, — he said in a whisper and walked away.

But still, one question continued to haunt Georgy Petrovich. At the exit, he stopped, caught the boss by the sleeve, and looked him straight in the eyes.
— So why did you call this disgusting place the heart of the casino?
— You didn't understand anything at all. Players come, lose everything, and leave. But these people will be here always. They are not prisoners; they have long since become part of this place. And as long as the heart beats, the casino will live.

Appendices.
excerpt from personal file
prisoner John Weber
Always dreamed of rising above others. And to some extent he even succeeded with the help of a bottle of a certain blue liquid. However, libations do not make him better; they only make others worse in his eyes. And that, agree, is two very different things.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Sage "Decembrist" Smith
Led a revolt against the American president and was exiled to this prison. His wife bravely followed him. However, she didn't make it to the prison, which gave rise to many dirty rumors. Allegedly, Sage has already led a revolt several times, and this is just an original way to get rid of another wife.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Wayne Moore
Vivid visions of distant lands come to him in his sleep, and every evening he shares them with other prisoners. He is considered crazy, but they still listen to these amazing stories with pleasure.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Bob Hale
In the past, he worked as a sheriff in Texas, but then became a master of all kinds of footwear. He sewed elegant boots for the warden, so she turns a blind eye to his small misdemeanors. And he can repair something for other prisoners as it wears out.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Danny "Buddha" Johnson
Reached the second degree of enlightenment. Constantly meditates in the lotus position. Nothing is known about his flaws, as he hardly speaks, only occasionally dropping wise phrases. He understands all religions without exception and knows much about nirvana. Multiple winner of the spiritual mentor contest.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Tom Lohan
Founder of the "Church of Universal Salvation" sect, author of the theory of interdimensional apocalypse. Believes that all sinners should be purified by burning at the stake. Possesses an angelic appearance, but rage boils inside him as soon as sinful deeds are mentioned.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Peter Sargent
Retired US Army Captain. A straightforward and unprincipled soldier. Demands unquestioning obedience to orders from those around him. Superstitious. Never deals with banks and does not gamble in casinos.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Kevin Price
An intelligent man from a well-to-do family. Very cunning. Being a completely teetotal person, he always fought for the rights of drunkards, just in case he or one of his family members gets dead drunk.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Jim Buckley
A few years ago he served his sentence in this prison and even achieved some heights in the local hierarchy. But for his brilliant mind, he was drafted by the Ministry of Defense to work at a secret rocket plant.

excerpt from personal file
prisoner Steve Baker
Local authority. Serving his second term. Even the warden is afraid of him, and other prisoners often turn to him to resolve disputes.

excerpt from security service report
Prisoners sometimes tell of a strange man in a mask. However, no such person has ever been on our records. According to eyewitness accounts, he occasionally appears in the rooms and just stands there without saying a word, then disappears without a trace. He never shows his face, but his presence makes the soul feel warmer.

Cast:
Boss —
Georgy Petrovich — obviously, Georgy Petrovich
Frank Adams —
James Brown —
Rizvan Tabasaransky —
Caroline Monteiro —
Charles McLaren —
Harry Forster —
Edward Morton —
Thomas Remington —
John Weber —
Sage Smith —
Wayne Moore —
Bob Hale —
Danny Johnson —
Tom Lohan —
Peter Sargent —
Kevin Price —
Jim Buckley —
Steve Baker —
Man in the mask —

Spring Festival: Sunset.

The red sun set majestically over the horizon, painting purple the vegetation with young, still sticky leaves, the intoxicatingly scented spring flowers, the veranda, and those who were upon it.
— Papa, tell us a fairy tale.
Arandor looked strictly at the children.
— I have no inspiration today.
— Oh paaaapa... Just one. About King Arandor. And about love, — the daughter made a conspiratorial face. The son thought for a moment and added, — a scary one.
Arandor pondered. The children were already old enough to be told this tale in full.
— All right. I'll tell you one.

Long ago, thanks to That Very War and the genius of the Keeper, HeVelandia, its kings, and other inhabitants became completely electronic. However, not only people whom the Keeper had pulled onto the server lived in HeVelandia. There were also robots that serviced him, various spam-bots, and even computer viruses. One of these viruses was born in the depths of an FSB special department specifically for the event of a War and became active after its start and shortly before its end, which followed 41,6 minutes later. It was supposed to take control of all nearby discovered resources and throw them into the struggle. But it didn't have time to hack the Keeper's protection before everything ended. Therefore, it remained in HeVelandia as an ordinary resident, trying not to catch the eye of others, but continuing to self-educate and gather information. You surely understand that I am talking about Blackdoor.wulongBrew or the Black Network Worm, as we call him.
This continued until the Keeper embodied the HeVelandians from the electronic world into a material one. The Black Worm, who by that time had learned to perfectly pretend to be a resource user, was also embodied into organics. Now he looked not like ones and zeros, but like a black naga with eyes glowing red. To his luck, like any polymorph, he knew how to change appearance, so for some time he easily hid from the others. Until he realized that the electronic structures remaining in the HeVelandians, although embodied into organics, could still be infected and replaced by the viral structure of the BW himself. And the Keeper's Firewall, which held back the virus in the electronic world, does not exist in this world. There is only individual user protection, which one can try to hack. Or one can try to convince the host to trust the stranger and disable their protection. And he tried.
To start, the virus planted its copy into a HeVelandian suffering from multiple personality disorder. Six personalities or seven — who cares and who is going to count them? It was an interesting experiment. But several years passed before one of the personalities became dominant, and several more before it finally suppressed all others. This cost the BW almost all resources and nearly ten years of struggle in one single head. But it was worth it.
Now he was not alone and risked making direct contact with a HeVelandian picked for the next attempt, to "buy his soul" in exchange for a promise of life after death. Why not? It's not even a lie. After all, the body indeed continues to live after the replacement of the host. And many habits and traits of the first host continue to live, becoming part of the new personality.
The third was a kind and helpful HeVelandian who never refused anyone help. Some effort was required to convince him that he could be of assistance — not on the first attempt did the BW receive help in the form of the benefactor's body.
For some time everything went according to plan and he managed to avoid detection. But sooner or later, luck runs out. The black conspiracy was uncovered, although it cost the life of the one who revealed it. Well, someday blood had to be spilled, and the HeVelandians had to learn about the terrible threat. But by this time only three of them remained: King Arandor, Sir Heroist, and Dragon-Cat. All they managed to do was hide in one of the rooms of a huge house, which its inhabitants jokingly called the Castle. While black naga-like creatures with the faces of friends wandered openly through the Castle shouting that it is unbecoming for a king to detach himself from the collective, Dragon-Cat snorted at these cries, Sir Heroist looked for some weapon suitable for a fight, and the king thought about what to do next.
— We don't have much choice. It is already twilight. Let's try to get out through the window and get far away from here along this path. Fortunately, the window is even open and we won't have to make noise opening it.
He cautiously looked outside and, seeing that no one was nearby, called his friends to follow him. Arandor silently slipped over the windowsill into a thick bush and caught Dragon-Cat in his arms as she jumped after him. Sir Heroist didn't have time to join the company because just then noise, bustling, and laughter were heard behind the room doors.
— Arandor, come out, you own cowardly coward! Join us!
— I'm staying. Leave quickly before they remember about the window, — Heroist whispered to his friends and with a crash pushed a nightstand against the door.
Arandor and Dragon-Cat, masking themselves with bushes and tall grass, ran away from the Castle together. There was no pursuit yet.
They stopped only after several hours of running through the sparse woods. Still no pursuit.
— My legs are giving out, — complained Draccocat, sinking to the ground.
— We'll rest a bit and then go further, — Arandor sat down beside her.
The tension eased, adrenaline left the blood, and the understanding of what had happened arrived. Draccocat burst into hysterical sobbing.
— Are we really the only two left? What are we to do now? And what's next?
— Everything will be fine, — Arandor uncertainly comforted the girl. Their hands touched. — And what is so bad about us being together? Sorry for bothering you sometimes. It's just that I... Actually, I've always liked you.
He hugged the girl. She continued to sob. It was already dark enough to see her skin changing color to black.
— Everything will be fine. Believe me. — He didn't know how else to comfort her and repeated himself.
— I want to believe you so much. — She buried her face in his chest and almost calmed down. How good it was to know that there was someone strong nearby who would figure out what to do next.
— I know what to do next. Look at me, — their eyes met. The last thing Dragon-Cat saw in this life were the king's eyes flashing red.

— So now all HeVelandians are just like us?
— Of course! But you know that it's a secret? And it cannot be told to others until we learn how to replace their information structures, and for now... — the sun had long since disappeared over the horizon and rare stars struggled against the darkness enveloping the surroundings, — for now it is time for you to go to sleep. Tomorrow Dmitry and Anna will visit us and a new spring festival will start.