Consciousness gradually returned as her eyelids lifted, their once pale hue now tinged with yellow, under the chaotic light of countless lamps and incomprehensible sources adorned with colorful light palettes. Her body, notably chilled, was cooling down. The cold ruthlessly pricked her virgin, unbruised organs, and the damp atmosphere seemed to leave a trail of increasing anxiety within her mind. It was so cold that she couldn't even summon the strength to bend her fragile, pale finger with the thin fresh cut that her mother had kissed and then carefully healed. Mother, where is she? Why is it so cold and sad, already a bit scary? Why does it hurt so much? - "Agh... I'm sorry, but I can't bear it anymore. This taste, its phantasmagoric image bursts into my dreams, mocking my thoughts that torment my imagination. Do creatures like you even dream? If something could fulfill any of my wishes, I would want to know the answer to this question." - The small creature's eyes, still dazed, focused upwards at the source of the male voice, surrounded by the monstrous pressure of bright light sources. Her chubby lips remained helplessly pressed together under the unknown pressure of the cold, and the velvet muscles of her doll-like face began to distort with innocent fear, mimicking a cry, though her biological makeup did not allow her to shed tears unless she had already been exposed to moisture.
— "I... see a treasure... and the story cries, the story flies," the man softly hummed a strange little tune, slowly and somewhat clumsily rolling the velvet doll-like body with a wooden rolling pin, crushing the arms, legs, and head that had cooled for too long on the frost shelf.
Her eyes slightly rose to the quietly groaning face of the creature, contemplating the likely amount of bodily pain she was enduring, and for some reason, it stopped at the lowest number on the entire scale. The man continued. Into the empty cavity of the drained body, whose organic essence resembled thick doughy masses, he carefully placed the fresh curd made from milk. His fingers neatly sealed the edges of the dough, creating not-too-thick connections.
The water in the pot was just beginning to boil on the other side of the trembling room, which resembled more of a guest corridor where someone had forgotten a pair of shoes and hastily rolled up a scarf. He lightly greased his hands with vegetable oil and carried the last dumpling to join the rest. Above the pot, with the bubbling water, a sturdy gauze was perched, around which the man leisurely arranged yet-to-be-edible dumplings, about 60 millimeters in size, spaced 6 centimeters apart. A wide lid covered the pot, soon containing the accumulating steam around the dumplings over medium heat.
Becoming somewhat like white pies, they were carefully laid out one by one on a long towel, gathering the accumulated moisture and temperature steam, while the man pondered whether to sprinkle them with a few grains of sugar, as was done for him in his childhood.
He settled into a deep chair around a curved desk, placing a plate with relatively warm pieces of the meal before him. His gaze rose to the skylight opposite, through the open window. The moving clouds on the cosmic black parchment spread like milky lakes after several bright orange stars flared up around the house, which often happened after midnight, oddly. A little cold seeped through the forgotten fishing nets along with faded luggage. Among the long and swaying branches of the hunched trees, barely crossing the threshold of the lit window, glimpses of dark blue sky fragments could be seen, beyond whose intangible black membrane rose, from nowhere, violet thundercloud-covered mountains. It seemed the TV on the second floor had been turned on again, as the familiar voice of the announcer echoed with his deranged news, none of which made sense to him. It seemed the rain was beginning. On this island, he was almost entirely alone, except for the odd, unwell-headed fairy who kept stealing food from his store, accumulated through hard work. He wished she would leave him alone for just one evening.
Sketches of some pictures distorted on the walls, and his fingers brought the edge of a dumpling to his lips, feeling the first wave of emotional euphoria, allowing him to savor the taste of an eternally captured, unique life, whose soft doughy bubbles literally melted on his tongue, coating it with pure saliva. His teeth gently chewed every bit of silky dough, swallowing with a heartbeat that trembled between his ribs, feeling her gentle, finely-chewed biomatter passing into his stomach, sensing his own unique happiness, and separately sending his love to the creation that had bestowed these unforgettable, fairytale-like touches upon his soul at the very center of aesthetic and physical intertwining.
Cruel artist, the hidden perfectionist of intellectual art. Her winged, round-faced, cracked glass-like features stopped their hurried movements on the nearby, teetering shelf, hiding her rosy, muscle-exposed face among the dense, red-creatine hair, distorted by an unknown illness.
— Sometimes it seems to me that I am one of the Titans. So insane, so ugly, and eternal. I really am not like the others, completely different...
— You transform emotions into thoughts, and thoughts into words and consequences with your body. And you are a prisoner of that body, whose digestive food casing I can see from here, the man emphasized the developed protein masses around the exposed muscles of the small fairy's low body, noting how her stomach digested the insect she had recently caught. — And so it goes day after day. I don't want to offend your nature, but you are just a common fairy suffering from the 'Gi-Modis' disease, and I hope one day you will leave my den.
— Ugh... I've been hunting all day for the missing change, terribly tired after these 24 hours. Will you lend me one? Please. — Ignoring the uninteresting conversation, she curiously began to indulge in the appetizing-looking white dumplings.
She smiled sweetly with her chipped, reddened lips, hoping to enjoy the curious dish that the man reluctantly shared, breaking one of the dumplings in half.
— Ah... It's simply impossible to get your fill of bugs and larvae alone in these parts, I would have died long ago with this starving man, if it weren't for you. — the fairy winked tiredly, and ignoring the uninteresting conversation, she began to feast with a fantastic appetite, looking at my white pies with curiosity. — Ooo, it looks warm and delicious. Will you share with me, please?
The human's eyes looked at her strangely, with such an embittered disdain, from which the artist already wanted to run away. But a human hand suddenly grabbed her body, hatred crushing all the bones and bodies that were bringing her severe pre-mortal suffering. The fairy barely became visible to her former self, opening her jaw wide and spewing powerful periodic cries, causing food to the dying insect, which usually eat larger predators alive, for example, the same "defixes". The head burst under the onslaught of massive human force, spraying blood all around. The legs and body around the mangled, crushed torso stopped twitching in convulsions, soon landing on the floor, where a motionless tiny mosaic instantly gathered. They were not greedy among themselves, each tore something from her body with their minimal force: a piece of skin, an eyeball, they gnawed at muscles to get closer to the corresponding organs, genitals, and the hip fragments of relatively small bones will also come in handy, under their crust the main nutrient is also preserved. They will leave nothing here at the mercy of senseless decay, here everything will come in handy for the survival of their powerful colony, for the sake of all their DNA testing.
***
Hibari by the campfire, Hanukkah. Oh, that troublesome girl, because of her now I'm hooked on openings and those silly animated adventures with beautiful girls, whose self-sufficient character of Mayakovsky is ruthlessly beaten by his depraved thoughts over and over again. A somersault, a polite bow before the long-eared princess. Hundreds of thousands of faces were fixed on his silhouette, and that meant it was time to begin. The concert was a hit, with a huge audience ready for the performance. The first Divian was diligently casting spells over the drums, while the second had nestled among the acoustic devices. The third Divian tightly gripped the electric guitar, slowly charging the place with dark mystical energy. A fleeting glance was cast over the endless crowds of witnesses, starting to beg for sincere tears from each of them or surrender to frantic flight:
"Hey, run as fast as you can,
Today we're waiting for endless concepts of death!
While your life is an ancient foundation uprooted from the earth,
I've prepared this crazy brew for you!
Endless waves of geopolitical myths — will gladly drag away hundreds of lost faces,
Among which I saw your banal whim, and prepared this disgusting surprise!
Your thoughts are like the movements of high-spirited birds,
Which will be devoured by the hearts of eloquent borders — this is Papa, the Duma, and hundreds of thousands of pages!
Their fibrous hands are capable of forever depriving us of peaceful lives, and for this, only one domineering soul is needed — deciding to become the principle of democratic lies!
My natural rage is nothing more than a way to smash your skull, and prove to all people what I am so sure of,
And I will not submit to your pitiful social paths, I will tear the ideologies of immortal borders forever!
Musical accompaniment has taken on anxious tones of a darkened atmosphere, in which there was no salvation to be seen. His voice transformed, showing despair in their images, which have the right to reject his freedom.
Once their icons are drenched in light and darkness,
They will never forget who awakened their bleeding hearts.
Once their well-fed bodies are cloaked in youthful, drunken white orgasm—our dreams will shatter against their intimate rights, and there are so many of them, which means,
There will be no end to the absurdity.
Aааааааhhh... she is red and sad, and only one dream above her serenely aching delusion,
Aаааааааhhh... she, not knowing how to die madly, in the arms of a serenely stormy life.
And here she is, decorated with vile flattery — an agnostic creature.
And her poor Lancer, her righteous ace up the sleeve — to forever escape from here!
The first and second Divian began to give their instruments a characteristic rough genre, ignited in their last moments.
Fight, oppose, tear the limits enriched with vocabulary!
Rise, look, and finally see my disgusting thoughts!
Jump, die — and in your truth, appear before my eyes!
No one will see your desires now, and only the smell of death has grown much stronger!
Move, dance just like I do — dance and go insane for me!
Move, dance just like I do — and let's go insane together in this dance right now!
Move, dance just like I do — for soon, we will die forever together!"
The last note was cut off, and Divian tossed the playlist aside, barely realizing the bizarre nonsense he had just sung.
— Oh, you're already here, that's good. Um... It's fortunate we didn't have to search for you ourselves and then drag you here by force. — Out of all the present, he fixed his gaze on the three guards.
The first guard was short, maintaining a confident, noble posture. Golden glimmers of armor blended with the scales of a dozen battered dark bricks. Rising yellow waves twisted with sharpened blades and weapons behind a petrified velvet cloak. Long, straight hair, in the shape of indestructible, sharp black poles, hid within its thin, piercing gaps a cold-blooded gaze from dark green poisonous worms around tiny red pupils. She feared neither him nor his mighty gang, remaining ready either for battle or to protect the civilians gathered around the square. The sturdy cracks of the yellowish mechanical skeleton, belonging to a thin, anxious guard, quietly crept, hiding behind his comrades' backs within a frame of rigid protective armor, from which curious little eyes peered. The third guard, with a single bold step, crossed a previously unattainable boundary, glancing fearfully ahead.
— Carlos. Do you consider yourself a professional? Capable of giving your thoughts orders in absolutely any, appropriate critical situation? — The tall man bent a few fingers on his palm, suggesting the guard focus on their conversation since it was him who had first moved toward him. What a stubborn ram.
— Why did you call the three of us here? — The guard's elongated and shaggy jaw protruded from the protective layers of his compacted armor.
— Selfish bastard, — the man muttered under his breath, but then looked intently at Carlos. — Listen, you bastard! — Divian's face twisted in anger, disliking his willful nature. — I'm asking you a question, and in response, you're pretending not to realize that I created this incredibly boring and completely unnecessary gathering because of Leshphud's death, to which you three are indirectly, but still, involved.
— You're wrong, I have no idea...
— Enough, enough! Shut up, — Divian half-heartedly clenched his fists, struggling to resist the urge to smash the guard's head just a few meters away. — Stamina, bring her here already and return her to that idiot. — A tall, slender, white creature immediately led a young, confused woman to Divian, who obediently followed orders, collapsing to her knees, trembling from fear and pain under her abdomen.
The girl turned out to be a charming light-haired elf, whose thick green locks were soaked with endless cursed tears, heavy and sweet, striking against an artificially seeded child, now growing in her advanced eight-month pregnancy.
— Lifya! — Carlos immediately activated his engines, preparing for a quick leap towards his beloved. His massive steel boots suddenly halted along the ruined eleven-meter line of burning asphalt, with shattered debris bouncing off them. He risks it. What if he gets killed for making such an impulsive move? But behind him stand the mighty crowds of guards and allies, he won't dare kill a civilian in front of everyone... Again. Right?
Many of those present recognized this poor soul, casting only sympathetic glances at her shadow. Princess Lifea, the purest and most beautiful soul from her noble lineage, who had overcome the most difficult journey between three warring islands. A ray of aesthetic hope for a bright future, in which she was the first to conceive an illegitimate heir to their mighty, magnificent family. A child – the fruit of immortal sin and mad love between two completely different hearts, destinies, and beings. A child, who was ruthlessly torn from her mother's womb, replaced by a foreign seed... Her face, dropped to the ground, trembled in horror, along with her entire body, covered in a torn tunic. Hatred and shame. Her soul screamed into the void, fingers tightening around the needle. Desires clashed with doubts, and her life had been spent in vain... So many endless days, months, and years. She, once a young princess, had dreamed that one day she would fulfill her wish, bring to life so many beautiful desires of others. She would find her peace, her unshakable spiritual support, and boundless love. But now she was stolen and humiliated before the eyes of the world, her insect-like form reduced to a pitiful mess, deprived of everything she had achieved, deserved, and managed to create in the span of two days.
He watched. Imagining new ways of how she could have been safely abducted, considering the presence of numerous psychics, telepaths, and other mutants guarding Divian and his grotesque spectacle. Anger. It was impossible, he had no chance of giving a worthy reply, of protecting her. They would tear him apart, shoot him, blow him up, or teleport him into the stomach of tiny Pacific piranhas. And he would never be able to do anything. No! He had to wait for the right moment. He wasn't alone.
Every person present was afraid. Anything could happen at any moment. No one dared to run, to move, or even to glance at any of these psychopaths, ready to engage in battle with any number of guards to create a bloody massacre. Mothers and someone's children. Schoolchildren, students, teachers, and animals. Trees, birds, voices of creatures crawling past their feet.
Human footsteps approached the noisiest part of the border, forming a bright crowd of guards, eyewitnesses, and other enthusiasts who seemed to think that such loud and lively movements were just fun for these young troublemakers. Worn sneakers, battered by several rough encounters and life, squelched in the next large puddle, diving under the wide folds of long-unwashed jeans. She cautiously extended her hand before the next group of guards and special unit officers. — Please, stay where you are. Otherwise, someone might get hurt... — Everyone stared at the suspicious person in the mask in front of them. Some were scared, others quickly scattered to the sides as if a fiery whirlwind were approaching, preceded by a meteor shower, with only one bastard who would surely cut, shame, or rape someone just for the hell of it. And this terror was immediately sensed in the person who had silently slipped out of Divian's camp with such an impudent demand. How dare this mentally ill scum come so close to them? Who could this person even be? The wooden mask with an inner lining tightly pressed against her face and partially against the soft cheeks of the girl. Between the thick, scratched bridge of her nose, formed from processed pods, wide, oval, oily slashes appeared, revealing a suspicious, impenetrable darkness, even in daylight. No eyes, no skin. Nothing but endless night, over which thick red curls swayed. On her stiff white temples, multicolored beads clung to the mask, three on each side, lining up behind the black, eyed slits like insects crawling into their hiding holes. An invisible green snake, sensing the potential danger, slithered under the collar of her coat.
Suddenly, a wide-angled bottle soared above the crowd, shattering loudly against the masked girl's head. Another moment, and they would decide to set her on fire. Stumbling, she touched her hand to the soiled mask, feeling the sticky moisture and the stench of the alcohol that she had never tried in her life. She was eight years old then. Her parents had allowed her to try a few drops of vodka on New Year's Eve, after which she grimaced and spent several minutes rinsing her mouth with currant compote. Since then, she swore she would never again touch the most disgusting drinks in the world.
— WHO THREW THIS BOTTLE!? IMMEDIATELY CONFESS!!
The fierce pounding of hooves on the ground managed to scatter some of the onlookers, like a rabid coyote that had found its long-awaited herd of sheep. A giant, three-meter monster loomed over the crowd. This was how it was known to all. But for her foul gang, she responded to the name Sasori. The feminine form that mutated around her maroon, rough exoskeleton was a fixed and insatiable fury aimed at potential adversaries. A massive protrusion rose from the twenty-first and twenty-sixth vertebrae, almost resembling the tail of a giant scorpion, composed of a crazy number of chimera muscles, edge exoskeletons, and mutagenic spines, cutting through the conglomerate of infinite nerve endings and forming an array of sharp, wildly deformed blades, like the giant maw of some strange beast.
— "Sa-Sasori, calm down!"
— "I'LL TEAR THEM ALL APART!!" — the powerful yet grotesque sharp body of Sasori took a combat stance, her enraged face and animalistic growl attempting to intimidate the two guards standing nearby, as she prepared to extract the name of the wretch who dared cross her.
— "Stop!" — The masked woman blocked her path with outstretched arms that barely peeked out from under the wide fur collar of her long coat. — "Please listen to me," she turned back to the crowd. "Don't try to arrest him, kidnap him, or kill him. It won't work. This place is surrounded by superhumans. They will all leave soon, and it will be over."
— "Get out of here, you bitch!"
— "Piece of shit!" — One of the guards, flustered, slapped her with a broad mechanical blow, forcing her to step back.
— "You won't scare us, you fucking maniacs! You belong in the belly of Gyrli!"
— "Listen here, you red-haired bitch?! You're dead! Watch your back tonight, monster!"
— "Hey, girl," a woman squeezed between the increasingly enraged faces. In her lovely black claws, she cradled a tiny garden filled with young creatures, happily munching on vibrant flowers. — "I once saw what you're capable of. Back then, on the Saitama pier: near my house, several compressors exploded, and you reversed time. My little ones almost died. You even fixed the machine. — The woman shed a sorrowful tear. — "Your talent could end all this madness, stop them all, but you obey his will. Why do you do this? Please, tell me."
— "I!" — The girl shook her head, holding her massive friend behind her. — "I have no choice... I'm so sorry..."
The massive demo-mechanism connected to the ground with four limbs interlaced with damaged wires, attaching to the worn-out body of the machine. The body of the elderly gentleman resembled a melted aluminum jug after dozens of failed attempts, and in his gesticulating human hands, he held a large laboratory flask, labeled "Child."
— "No, Carlos. You're not an idiot. You're a big idiot!" — Divian chimed in, ordering the guards to return his rightful princess, in polite company.
A small, precisely cut scar on the rounded belly of Lifea. This strange flask, held by mechanical monstrosities, was passed from one space to another. Their child, violently torn from his mother's heart.
— "Return him!!" — The energy turbines behind his enormous back sparked in all directions, his body accelerating as his hands grabbed discarded trash, metal scraps, and a broken two-meter pole, gathering their natural structures to build power for a sudden, deceitful attack, hidden among dozens of forming blades, gunshots, and false movements. Their molecules transformed into wide protrusions, streaking across the crumbling road and the oscillations in the air.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
— Period! — His right leg twisted one hundred and sixty degrees—frozen. The sharp limbs, the shots around his fingers—frozen. His golden endoskeleton, endlessly accumulating armor parts, froze, suddenly cloaked in a dark blue shimmering blanket, visible only to her eyes. The invisible gaze, hiding secrets behind that broken white mask. Hands emerged from under the thick mountain coat, stirring the dense, marshmallow-like air between her slender fingers, bending and dancing in a complex, unnatural dance. First, the right elbow moved forward, striking the back of her hand against imagined space, which she always envisioned as a whole organism: In the form of atmospheric pressure, carbon dioxide, thoughts, countless layers of sound, and molecules. An organ visible only to her tortured mind. Then, the left elbow, tense raised fingers seemingly mimicking flames, which each time died against an unseen, soundproof barrier. Period chose another temporal fork along which the warrior's armor moved and existed. The balancing golden vessel slowly detached from Carlos's brain, draining blue dust from the cerebellum and the elongated asthenic, fibroid, and mesiotypic regions of the vibrating dark brain organ. Time rapidly rolled back, harshly hitting the crowd of onlookers, and soon returned the armor to its original place, intended for the most distant living surface base, specifically the thermal and chemical damage processing workshop for worker tools.
The unexpected and complete loss of blue dust, which had been closely fused with his body for years, caused Carlos to collapse onto one knee, gasping for air, noticing his field uniform still on his body.
The red-haired mistress of time froze in front of the warrior, not daring to make contact with the raging mountain of muscles and ambition, surely wishing to kill anyone who dared to cross its risky path. The left elbow moved left and up, touching — thermometer columns once again showed +20 degrees, and a sharp slap landed on his messy face from the humiliated and abandoned lady, who flew across the square and onto a low sports car that sped to the starting point, forcefully pressing its rear carbon spoiler into Carlos's massive body, crashing into the rear window and rolling over the roof. And that bird once again covered the distance between two small billboard rooftops, then stopped on a bare wire, thoughtfully scratching its eye socket. Was that just an illusion?
Before the defeated Carlos stood the vision of Themis, or rather, it was Divian with provocatively twisted arms, representing "The Scales of Justice." — Do you see the difference? — the man shrugged. — Between fulfilling your legalized duties. — In his right hand, Divian held imaginary happy moments in the palace halls, where the cries of his newborn creation echoed, held in the loving embrace of its parents. — And your beautiful beloved, who was kidnapped to swap the children in her womb, so she now nurses a completely foreign child.
— No... No, why? Why must my wife suffer!?
In the next moment, Carlos lost his balance, collapsing with a broken jaw, from which two large fangs fell out.
— My line, lizard. — Instantly, Divian regained control. — Not sure if I'm doing this right. I don't know if I want this... But for your bullshit, you will pay the world, you will pay with the new Lêshfud. And breathe easy, because if you didn't have a beloved woman, you'd have to give birth to him yourself.
Carlos exhaled heavily, leaning on his elbow on the ground and kneeling.
— Please, return everything to how it was. Help me save him... I will do anything for you. I swear to you right now... I am ready for anything...
— Looks like I've discovered the difference between rationality and prudence. It's tiny, but still the ability to unconsciously elevate one's own reasoning, which, as it may seem, sacrificially benefits something greater, a higher chain of community. But the price for this was someone's life... I need you and everyone here to learn yet another lesson, to which, of course, everyone will ignore. — The man grew sad, briefly glancing at one of the countless lively crowds. — Who's going to listen to me, after all I've done...
— I wasn't talking to you, scum — Carlos said, then turned his desperate gaze to the red-haired witch with the white mask beside him. He then parried with both hands, blocking a sweeping kick from Diva, and with a harsh cough, fell onto his back.
He knelt before the trembling silhouette, intently studying the pained features of its anthropomorphic face.
— Why did you do that? — Divian muttered, nearly exhausted. The response came in the form of heavy, labored breathing from the guard. — Why did you persist in something you couldn't possibly stop? Now a man is dead, a true genius and researcher with a capital 'G.' Sure, he was a bit of a maniac, but that was his way of satisfying his inner needs, needs that someone like you, a decent family man, could never understand. Everyone has their own needs, desires, and motivations — ones I support. And you, for the first time, destroyed those in the form of one distinguished scholar.
— Intellectual filth. It's impossible to contend with you on equal terms. You need to be eradicated like a separate species. Along with your people, — the guard hissed through his fangs. — I saw with my own eyes the mutilated bodies of his women. They suffered, some of them, mere children, crying out to their parents, begging not to suffer the same fate as Vivienne.
— Do you even know who those women and girls were? Invisible, lost creatures who finally found their home. You know nothing about them, and you understand nothing of each one, because you never met them. Never spoke with them. Never were inside their minds... They were different... Beings, just like you and me, Carlos, — Divian turned away and looked at the frightened crowd of onlookers, officers, and focused guards. — Take a child, for example. You see something beautiful, sacred, innocent. We see the divine symbolism you've invented, mixed with their arrival into this world... Another organ, sensations, and the consequences of external influence on every segment of their sensory flesh. Another story, in the form of an unusual boy, who will one day lead entire nations, a symbol of justice and magnificent knowledge of this world. A writer whose life will make things easier, clearer, more interesting, or a hundred times more boring for many. A factory worker who will live a very dull and unremarkable life, never knowing so many wonderful or even simple things. Someone who injects himself, eating a cat for dinner. A killer who enslaves other lives. A charming trap, for whom one could sell their soul to the devil for sex. Anyone, really. And none of it has any meaning, there's only pleasure, suffering, experiences, and joy, stages of being and sensation, emotions, the boundless and diverse anomaly of our existence... But Vivienne. She...
— Vivienne was a happy married woman, — Carlos interrupted.
— Married, yes. But happy — not at all. Everyone has their own demons in their head, and for some, they don't wake up immediately, but after a long time. Filling their stomachs to the brim, they enrich their gut with everything they've managed to accumulate, and then they slowly crawl out and reveal their true selves... She found her emotional balance only in his inventive hands, in his excessive desire to be the only loyal friend to just one soul... Your legal norms have always taken away others' dreams, goals, and desires. Is there any difference between a doctor, a professional with a big heart, the life of the party on Thursdays, a collector of thorns, and an elderly father who once knew what madness was, and later mercilessly ended the lives of three eighteen-year-old teenagers and a forty-year-old accountant who brutally insulted and raped his six-year-old precious treasure, who was supposed to be a symbol of the city? Is there any difference between a mother who committed suicide after the death of her second child, and an official who wakes up once again in a hammock over a tropical lake in Batisk, drinking down a glass of whiskey? Between a respectable teacher and a murderer who hates liars. Between a theater actress and a neural network showing the opposite truth of her home. Between a scientist needing devoted love and a warrior who lost everything he had in one day... There is a huge difference, — Divian lowered his gaze. — But not everyone has a choice. Some need hope, some need to feel adrenaline. Some need revenge, some need to break the next boundary in their power. Some need true love, while some long for death. And they will forever pass by each other, never seeing, never noticing. This is the endless cycle of events, from which you'll never escape. You'll continue selfishly filling yourself with psychological satisfaction, devouring the most vivid and beautiful pleasures of this world down to the very bones, and you'll never need anything from it. A world you'll never look at and raise your satiated eyes to, because you're too lazy, stubborn, and self-assured, — Divian's hands firmly embraced Carlos's face, whose bleeding pupils Divian tried to discern his thoughts in. — Why didn't you protect your beloved? Allowed her maternal chastity to be desecrated, froze when you saw Tobbe ripping the car door apart. What did you sacrifice your essence for? Your dignity. Your unfulfilled happy life, which I would never have touched... If only you hadn't acted like an egocentric, overconfident fool.
You want to believe that the world is organized correctly, don't you? That there are laws, principles, morals — those invisible walls that hold chaos in place. You hide behind them like children behind curtains, forever playing "hide from death." But all of this is an illusion.
Justice? A barely concealed instinct for dominance. Your punishment is an act of sadism, legalized for your convenience. Your judges don't know the truth, your executioners aren't angels, and your laws are just damn agreements that could fall apart the moment power changes hands.
Loneliness. The only state in which you truly touch the truth. Because in the end, we are all alone. In our thoughts, our fears, our joys. Even in a crowd. Even under a loving gaze. You are isolated in your pathetic chunk of flesh. And morality? It's just an excuse for convenient decisions and amendments to constitutions.
Killing is bad? Ask those who started wars. Loving is beautiful? Ask those you stoned for "loving the wrong one." Your principles are so flexible that you can strangle everyone with them without breaking a single one. You call desires sins, but without them, you are nothing. And every action you take, every "I decided," is just an attempt to quench the thirst hidden deep within your bones.
You call us monsters. And yes, in this monstrosity, there is a certain beauty. It's not in the fact that we are beautiful, but in the fact that we are real. We don't hide our flaws, we don't cover them with masks, except in role-playing games. We don't try to be something other than we are. This monstrosity is not punishment, not condemnation. It is our truth, and in this truth lies our strength. We are not perfect, not holy, not pure. We are dirty, imperfect, and perhaps even pathetic. But everything in us is real. We don't fear showing the world our reality. And it is in this that our uniqueness lies, our true beauty — not in deception, not in illusion, but in being honest, not ashamed, and accepting ourselves as we are. And Vivienne was beautiful... one of a kind in her life... and she has finally been freed.
— Scum! — A short, white-haired cyborg emerged from the crowd, barely resembling a young boy. — You're just propagating violence, murder, and escort services for mentally ill bastards. What the hell are you spewing from that filthy mouth of yours!?
— For some, following established principles and norms of public order is supposedly the foundation of existence, reducing oneself to someone else's laws and pleasing their rights. But for others, it's the drive to merge with the untamed, contradictory power of the mind that generates new perceptions, new sensations, which cannot be confined to your frameworks. I give the chance to feel that sensation, to dive into it, to experience it on your own skin. I offer freedom, which is so painful and contradictory for your maddeningly rigid, idealized conception of morality and ethics. I am by no means destroying your system, I am only making a small change in it. — Divian turned to Carlos with regret. — Am I worthless? Then who are you, after what you've failed to do?
The increasing forces and battle units of Tue continued to advance toward the square, dispersing the brave observers from the front rows opposite this dramatic performance. A sharp pain in his head made him clutch it tightly. Humans, creatures, hybrids, and beings — the majority of them looked at him with hatred, contempt, and finally, fear. So predictable and meticulous, these damn bodies of the socialist utopia are incapable of understanding their own mistakes, over which they repeatedly have to wipe their faces. Unable to distinguish freedom from an excess of decrees that deprive half the world of its right to self-expression. Then the whole world will plunge into chaos, but so what? At least there would be no more lies and no more false hopes. Had he confused the flow of time again?
If the world were only beautiful, it would forever lose its second, inseparable part of nature — the dirt. For only dirt can intensify emotions, adding new, surprising colors to the purest velvet canvas of the universe, hidden in beautiful eyes, someone's face, or the form of bones, flesh, and blood. True space of existence should always be something else, diverse, and astonishingly filthy, of course, without touching some cozy places when there is no need for such a moment.
His thoughts, dangling like snot under his nose, were suddenly interrupted by a scream. — Tomochka!! — Massive transformations around the dual golden discs of boots, swiftly approaching the main antihero of this mad circus, exposed the taut red flesh on his arms, gently caressing the rising atmosphere of heated air around his solitary silhouette. A crest of the capital glowed under his left forearm, bearing the title of a guard and his clearly emphasized initials — Tomiko K. S.
— Is that a "nephalem"? A real one?
— He descended to us. He will protect us...
The sudden appearance of this entity, surrounded by the massive force of levitation, rendered the onlookers speechless. Meanwhile, in his purposeful steps, Tomiko revealed separate parts of his body, separated from the layers of golden-gray armor with adala, showing the seriousness of his intentions. The multicolored rays of the cosmic star, spreading in different directions, gently covered his majestic horns with a pinkish jewel-like gleam, scattering in all directions from his body like an innumerable hail of fleshly, heavy sand particles. The emerald sparkling, snow-white magma in his oblique eyes coldly surveyed the surroundings, filled with anxious yet admiring souls, who once again involuntarily fell into a mass hypnosis that was meant to calm everyone.
The elastic alizarin skin around his face gradually stretched under the influence of tense muscles, continuing their path along the perfectly developed athletic body of the nephalem, whose heavy fingertips on broad feet gently touched the surface of the instantly heated asphalt, so distorted by the high fire mass of temperature that just one touch would instantly cause third-degree burns on human fingers.
The pale pink hue of his skin revealed his true, semi-human nature, hiding within himself the combat power and undeniable strength of knowledge that had visited this small universe. The firm, thin folds at his brow tightened, forming wet bridges above his fiery white eyes, which raised the lower eyelids.
— Carlos Van Grau, — the fallen guard. — Uruka Yuruka — a loyal companion, who stepped over his fears. — Demitri. — a long-time supporter of the old law, who bound himself to this adventure together with his loyal brother and sister, by their shared plan. — You are accused of treason against the "Main Spiritual Laws." Temporarily, you are stripped of your powers and will stand before the "Court."
— What about me? — Divian raised his hand, squinting at Tomiko. — Can I go home now?
Dimitri swung his clawed hands wide, releasing a flow of golden aaranjirea, whose connected tips pressed into the ground in a chaotic dance, like an imaginary, breaking horse, its mechanical, liquid systems intertwining as if finding a new rider. Carlos quickly darted toward him, covering his body with massive armor plates, concentrating them into a vortex at the center of his chest. The centrifugal force from the tightly compressed, escaping plates, tilted at seven degrees, slowly distorted, hoping to distract the enemy with a feint.
This was his chance! To create a massive hole in the body of the tormentor who had spent countless years torturing every creature, attempting to bring chaos to a new world order, filling it with the insane sophistication of deranged minds that his people would never accept. One single, lucky chance to stand beside him, along with comrades ready to charge into the toughest battle.
— A SERIOUS, SUPER-PUPER, FANTASTIC, INSANE BEATDOWN!
Three full seconds to take a battle stance. One whole second, point zero seconds — Divian's hand shot in a straight line, hitting the center of the guard's muscle frame with unimaginable speed, applying an irreversible pressure point to the body. Carlos's hybrid form, encased in foreign armor, performed numerous involuntary pirouettes and somersaults, which he was unable to control, curving in a disordered path across the square and crashing through the now-protected weightless crowds and the glass frame of a small supermarket, its shelves filled with goods. The modest food corner was obliterated. Several fingers on both hands and sharp gray claws above them were broken, even shattered, as he tried desperately to latch onto something to stop his uncontrollable flight.
— Damn kids! One hit! Just like that bald guy from...! — Sasha was perched on one of the broken cars, clearly delighted.
— Idiot! I almost broke my arm, ughh-f-f-f! — Jumping on one leg, Divian began vigorously massaging his aching arm. — What, are they making armor out of some new alloy now? Oh, shit!
Tomiko's powerful grip, with pale limbs glowing in the light, clasped Dimitri's wrists, who had curled in pain over his knuckles. — Leave. — The nephalem spoke to Divian, hiding iron-beton calculation behind his lifeless face.
"Yeah, of course," the thought passed through his mind. He wanted to speak once more to the crowd that would ignore him again. Maybe he was slightly insane and, as a result, always resorted to these excessive extremes, but he was tired. Tired of their stubbornness, their ancestral symbolism that some refuse to follow. Just like Carlos. Maybe the first despair of his life would bring him to his senses, initially stirring him up and devaluing all his life positions, but over time, maybe he would understand something and submit one tiny detail within himself. The important thing was not to forget to return Lifya her child in due time. The man turned around, ready to leave, but suddenly a girl blocked his path.
A very young, pearl-clean oval face of southern descent, partially marked with fresh sitivene traces, gray strands of hair visible on her fragile black locks, slightly lifted in whirling curls above her small forehead and round eyes, frozen and seemingly devoid of any sign of life. From the deep hollow of her suspiciously damp jacket, trembling, flushed palms emerged, clutching a digital notebook and a tiny lock hanging on it with an audio diary stuck between the crack of her thin bag's clasp. Numerous traces of fresh, even partially bleeding, straight cuts appeared on both wrists, palms, the back of her hands, and all her fingers, down to her disfigured pinky — one of them was twisted. These mangled hands trembled wildly, but not from fear or her emerging cognitive dissonance from the past night, lately pushing herself into the successive images of her new deeds. From her hasty personal conclusions, which verbally rebuked from bystanders, they began attempting to help the dead classified ademe crawl out of deep thermoventilation, caught under the weak electrical surge and collapsed right on her from a stale partition. She did not regret her actions. She wanted to help the dead being find peace in a more beautiful and serene place, even if it meant sacrificing both of her hands.
— Moloho-Tëmna Ardé'Idagaard, — the short, seemingly mentally unstable girl introduced herself with a polite bow. — I am a journalist from the regional "Zemlesgrad Church," Nikhonto District. Would you honor me by granting an interview? Or perhaps two short blitz surveys, I assure you it won't take long, Mr. Divian.
Is she serious? Has no one shown her the video where, many years ago, he dealt with a certain vile journalist by sending him to the depths of science and fate, silencing those who dared to approach him with their banal questions, seeking to concoct another sensational story about him? A story about supposed manic-depressive disorder, the murder of his parents, the creation of an anti-socialist utopia where everyone, from maniacs to soldiers, from teachers to marauders, from church wards to stray dogs, were equal. A grotesque, meaningless bloodbath, where trials are held in the streets, in migration service buildings, in schools, or just in plain sight. It was a system where anyone could fight for their place, for their sensations, their motivations, their emotions. A merchant of the deepest desires and needs. A man who wishes to offer everyone here, right now, the absolute freedom to choose.
— Markus Stöpkel, a legend in criminal investigations, a journalist, an ancient artifact restorer, and for twenty-four hours, a lousy fantasist whom I personally fired from a news outlet, I think it was once called "BTOOM!" — he said.
— That man got what he deserved, — the young girl interrupted him. — For every word he wrote, every chain of distorted events, stories, and statements he recreated, causing people to resort to fear, slander, and social discord... After many years, it's hard for most to understand your ideas, your plans, and the motives behind your cruel actions. My goal, in fact, is to write your autobiography. I am sure I can convey the essence of your twisted deeds, your desperate thoughts, your progress. I came for the truth.
Divian pondered. She spoke calmly, with such unwavering confidence, her tiny dark eyes shining with certainty, as if she was truly expecting an answer from him. She stared into his face without fear or regret. Her gaze fixed, tightly clutching her bloodied, misshapen limbs around a notebook. He glanced around. Period and a few telepaths hidden nearby protected them from the oncoming flashes of cameras. From his mentally strained ear, he could still hear curses. So many words, attempts to demonstrate their limitless plans. Was he not as eloquent as she? Had he gone too far? Should he rethink everything? How many years had he lived? What was he like five years ago? Eighteen? Twenty-four? Every day of his life had changed the fates of those he encountered. His goals and motivations were his own, created so he wouldn't lose his mind to his own uselessness. He was tired of pretending to be human, having lost his true sense of human life in childhood. The cycle of nature changes, distorts, and forms new breath, shackled by some unrefined molecule, metaphor, or fantasy.
— I have one condition.
— What is it, Mr. Divian?
— The price for this will be your life, — he coldly met her suddenly confused gaze, which was quickly overtaken by a wave of anxious curiosity. — Even if you write every word verbatim, in return, I will take away your old life.
She stepped back, lowered her gaze. Why her death? Where was the logic in his tone, in his unique choice of words? What was the meaning of it? His subconscious disregard for her alien appearance? He could burn every written line of hers at any moment; she wouldn't be able to hide anything from him. Not to mention her soul, one she would never possess. She truly wanted to fill her soul with a divine gift, like her parents, brothers, and sisters. She was the only one who hadn't gone through the initiation ritual, the lowest of them all, a mistake of evolution, a secret love.
— Why my death? — the girl hesitated, trying with all her mind to grasp the meaning of his next words.
— You will get the answer to that question if you accept my condition and come with me right now, — Divian smiled without malice, more out of exhaustion, glancing one last time at the oppressed surroundings.
He timidly placed his hand on his injured temple, once again feeling the horrific pain, as though a long knife was piercing his blurred vision. She seemed to know more about him than he knew about himself. He was sure that this person had once changed Tuen'shi, making him what he was known as in the world today. His hands gripped the moment with all their might, a moment that still lacked any substance. His eyes narrowed. Her life meant nothing to this world. Family was nothing more than a formality for her parents, brothers, sisters, and herself. What if she had lived all these days for one of the extraordinary people who changed the world, whose peaceful, complex, enlightened side would forever hate him? But she had to know the truth, to experience the aesthetic explosion that had remained unexplored by their emotions for centuries. And she wanted to know. Even if she would die forever, she would die not in vain, but with the secret that she would never be able to understand. Their value. The gray earth, Home. The girl hid the contents in her bag, silently reciting a prayer, and followed the tall man, stepping closely behind him.
***
— And how am I supposed to understand "She disappeared!"?
The strange news enraged the huge humanoid, who was an officer of the local watchtower. Extracting the essence of the chaotic conversation from the gathered guards and several advanced computers, it became clear that an adult woman with green hair, dressed in worn-out rags, had vanished in the middle of the guarded area, surrounded by cameras and witnesses. Had he met her here before?
— Oh, damn it! Why is the sky so dark, what kind of nightmare of a day has arrived!?
A dream? Again, the cold gray walls, the dim light, and the barely visible glimmers of energy-efficient lamps glowing above the bridges. So many different creatures, people, mechanisms. Their loud clamor of sounds, footsteps, and coordinated movements along the wooden walkway, which was gradually being soaked by the thick rain. His gaze shifted, suddenly blinded by the darkness. His face pressed against the rough bark of a towering, gigantic tree, whose endless branches seemed to have no end. Slowly, he pulled away, pushing himself up with his hands, just like with other oak companions and fluffy fir trees. Everywhere, thick hills rose, covered in colorful blankets of muddy soil leaves and dried brown pods. A dense swarm of bright orange creatures began to flap their tiny wings, leaving the thin bones of chalky trees, carrying their tiny fluffy bodies in the direction of the lonely man. Then, another swarm appeared, and another. There were many of them, surrounding the forest everywhere, continuing to leave the thick and long branches, flying off in bright orange fluffy blankets under the pressure of the mighty cold wind that swayed the massive stems of both old and relatively young, refined trees. No paved roads, no handrails, no stacked recycled blocks. No rooms, beds, acrylic paints, or plates. No synthetic polymers, smoke, or acids. No radiation, reagent distortions, or destructions. No oaths, commandments, or machines. No tortures, inventions, or laws. No screens, madness, or performances. No lies. Only earth, cold dew drops, wind, and flowers.