Blake got out of the VR camera and looked at the clock on the transom out of old habit and went to bed. At first, he tossed and turned, trying to fall asleep on his right side, then on his left, then he thought the room was stuffy, then it was cold, his throat was dry. He asked the AI to open the curtains and watched the yellow clouds through the window, but whether it was a hallucination or a reality, he did not know. When the dream visited his mind, it pierced his entire nervous system with the needles of a nightmare. He did not sleep anymore. Blake rubbed the bruises under his eyes, as if he wanted to erase the dried blue paint, and went to the loggia.

A cool breeze was blowing outside. The water in the lakes and rivers at the very bottom reflected the light of the bright stars and the Milky Way nebula. Blake wiped the perspiration from his forehead and could not stop his shortness of breath. He went into the shower, took the pills, and washed them down with water. There was nothing interesting on TV. Staying in his apartment turned out to be an even bigger nightmare for Blake. He wandered from room to room, like the lonely soul of a madman wandering through the empty corridors of an abandoned psychiatric hospital.

Blake called a taxi, which parked in front of his loggia twenty minutes later. He opened the panoramic window and sat down in the salon and asked the AI to turn on classical music and told it where they were going. The electric eco-motor of the car did not make a sound as it climbed to the third lane of the airway. The trip took about forty minutes. During this time, in a cloudless celestial space, he watched the bright light from the windows of skyscrapers, diode lamps, and fireworks in the entertainment areas. Lights highlighted every detail of the landscape. Cars flew over the oncoming air lane now and then, blinding with low-beam headlights. The border of the city could not be seen at all, it was hidden behind sharp peaks of rocks and went deep into darkness. Blake looked down and watched with interest the changing skyscrapers, which resembled the twisted trunks of giant trees.

The taxi landed on the lawn, mowed and soft. The door opened and Blake walked out. Ahead, on the plain and to the hill behind it, white tombstones of the fallen soldiers stood in the sparse light of the lanterns. Each separate section of the cemetery kept its own history and was distinguished by planted trees: olive, almond, elm, spruce, lemon, and so on. The center was the only place where the graves were empty. The last refuge for soldiers from privates to generals, whose lives were taken by an explosion on the planet NSR-318556A. Their relatives insisted on such a place because they believed that the souls of their sons and husbands would find peace there. In the east, the bodies of police officers who died in the service rested in peace. Right behind them, the heroes who suppressed the terrorist organization in the frosty lands of Antarctica lay underground. Blake headed northwest along the trampled road and thought that something in this world remains unchanged after so many centuries. Calmness replaced the frantic heartbeat.

At the entrance to sector 17, a sign was illuminated with the inscription: “Soldiers of the sixth ITIPS unit are buried here.” Blake knelt in front of the grave dedicated to his father Tyriel and mother Ayren and froze like a statue, indulging in memories of that day of judgment. He asked for forgiveness. The palms clenched into fists with such force that the nails dug into the skin, leaving small bloody wounds. Blake drew a cross on the ground and looked at the tombstones on the left and right. He bowed his knee and lowered his head in front of everyone and apologized. He did not understand if it was madness, but he saw the ghosts of his comrades and heard how they let him go in peace.

Blake held back tears and rubbed his eyes and left the cemetery at dawn and called a taxi and saw a young girl and her little son getting out of the car in the parking lot. Both with flowers in their hands. They looked into each other’s eyes. The son waved his hand at Blake, and his mother bowed her head, looked away, lightly touched the child’s back, and said something to him, and they left.

***

In the apartment, Blake put the first tube in the EF-312 and took out a raw scrambled egg with pieces of sausage and put it in the second box, and warmed it up. Then he took the powder in a vacuum bag from the refrigerator and put it in the lower compartment of the 3d food printer and brewed strong coffee with a cinnamon flavor. With his breakfast in his hands, he sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV, but not to watch something, but to get rid of the silence in the apartment. There, on the channel in the animal world, they talked about cloning pets and recreating ancient, extinct creatures using DNA.

Blake finished his meal and felt sleepy, and yawned wide. He put the plates with pieces of food in the AB-100, pressed the green “on” button, and the box buzzed. It was 6:40 in the morning. Around nine, he could go back to the game. Blake thought he could, at the very least, take a nap.

“Blake,” the pleasant female voice of the AI spoke, “I received a notification that if you will miss another veterans’ aid group meeting, the veteran association will exclude you from the lists for an increased pension.”

He stood up like a lifeless copper statue dedicated to a grieving soldier and after a dozen seconds, raised his head up and said:

“What the fuck did you just say?”

AI repeated what it said earlier. Blake shook even harder with anger.

“I fought for this fucking country! They have no right to do this to me.”

“It’s not for me to judge. Talk to Lorry.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“No. He’s your curator.”

“When can I call him?”

“From three o’clock in the morning to one o’clock in the afternoon.”

Blake had forgotten that the one who controls his fate lives in a different time zone. He contacted Lorry, who informed him that the next gathering would be in fifteen minutes, at exactly 7 o’clock in the morning. The curator of the group of assistance to war veterans, as well as the others, was a participant in combat operations and a retired officer. After three dozen successful military operations, he was sent to the strategic center with the rank of general of the Federation Council. After ten years in the office, something happened that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

From the information that Blake possessed and the one that Lorry himself told, a group of terrorists seized power and demanded autonomy and immunity. The Council, based on intelligence data, considered the fact that the enemy had nothing but old plasma guns from the 22nd century. Lorry, along with most of the other chiefs, voted to send several strike groups to a covert operation on Mars to suppress the armed conflict. No one from the government advertised this.

Two weeks later, several hundred soldiers of the Earth died under the yoke of modern terrorist weapons. They recorded a video during the fighting and posted it on the Internet. Although the government tried its best to delete all the information, the cat was out of the bag and got into the independent media. There was panic in the military council. People took to the streets. They demanded a scapegoat they could hate.

The Supreme President delayed the decision, hoping that everything would calm down. Yet the people kept up the pressure. Factories, restaurants, cafes, and IT companies had stopped working in hundreds of regions around Earth and Mars. The government had no choice but to order the military council to choose a culprit. This exile, by his own will, became Lorry. He took the hit and resigned. The government announced this on the news.

The next day, a veritable nightmare began. In the morning, hackers leaked Lorry’s location to the network and published his background online. Universal criticism fell on him, people threw rotten vegetables and fruits at his house, refused to sell food and water in stores, his e-mail was bursting with angry letters, newspapers called him a murderer of the younger generation, and articles ended with the phrase “Why is he still not in prison?” In some ways, as Lorry confessed later in group classes, they were right.

Soldiers in the service and retired officers were the only ones who supported him all these years and who did not allow him to give up and commit suicide. They hid him in their homes, shared stories, and mistakes, told how they struggled with PTSD and pressure from people. A few years later, when the noise around Lorry subsided, he created his own group to help war veterans, which five years later found support from the state.

Blake did not know why he hated the curator. The man always treated him with understanding and all he asked was to attend classes, even if he said nothing. For this, he filed a petition a year ago to assign Blake an increased pension for combat veterans, and also requested additional funding for the construction of a smart home.

The heated floor creaked with every slow step. The wall light, lowered to one out of five, hardly diluted the morning darkness of the apartment. That Friday, 01.09.2311, the AI auto-selected a fragrance with notes of tree bark, nutmeg, and absinthe, turning into the smell of rose, magnolia, and jasmine. Blake went to the VR booth and looked at the time again and opened the door and went inside. In the internal interface, he selected a special tab for virtual conferences. In the pop-up window, he typed the code and found himself in a dark blue room. There were ten chairs, on one of which Blake himself randomly appeared. In the center sat Lorry—a fat man with a bald head, a second chin, narrow eyes and an aquiline big nose. Dressed in a black jacket, under it a blue shirt buttoned up and a tie with light blue and black stripes. Lorry nodded in greeting.

At exactly seven o’clock, all ten people were sitting in their seats. The meeting had begun. Blake remembered everyone except for one girl, with gray eyes, a round face, lush shoulder-length hair, and a menacing look. Lorry greeted each participant by name and spoke clearly, pronouncing each letter. An introductory speech based on well-known statistics followed. The leader of the circle made a slight pause after every second word and nodded his head down slightly while he spoke.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Lorry looked at the man sitting to his right, dressed in a military uniform, full of holes and tattered. His greasy hair hung down to his chest. They clearly expressed pain and suffering through his eyes and wrinkles. Judging by the dirty skin and strange spots on his face, this guy had not been washing for a very long time. His name was George. He started talking first and introduced his friends, Anton and Chris, who looked no better than himself. They told their story for twenty minutes, how they lost comrades and how everything got out of control, and did not keep silent about them not understanding why they did the dirty work for the sake of corrupt politicians who abandoned them after retirement for health reasons to the sidelines of life. They asked why the Lord did not take their souls for himself, and why He condemned them to eternal torment.

“Because there is a God, and there is a soldier. And we will always be on opposite sides of the barricades,” Lorry replied, and put his hand on the shoulder of a guy with empty, tear-stained eyes and heavy breathing.

Lorry looked at Blake, who was leaning back in his chair and seemed to doze with his eyes open and said to him:

“Do you want to tell me more about yourself? You’ve always been silent in my classes. Why?”

Blake shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you think because it’s pointless?”

“It’d be interesting to hear the story of the newcomer,” he replied, and pointed to the girl.

Anton looked at him and said:

“You’re changing the subject.”

“And you’re getting into the conversation.”

“What squad did you serve in?” Lorry asked.

Blake pulled up his sleeve and showed them a tattoo that looked like an oval helmet with a visor with three slits for eyes on each side. Everyone looked at it. Chris’s eyes widened in fright. Lorry noticed this and asked him:

“Do you know who this tattoo belongs to?”

“Yes. Anti-terrorist organization. I heard what happened to them there. There were few details, but that was enough for me.”

“Blake, you have a confirmed diagnosis of PTSD. Can you tell me how you cope with it?”

“Yeah, you’re so calm all the time,” said a young guy without a right hand, sitting to his left. “Won’t you share a secret?”

“Pills,” he replied.

“Bull crap. You can tell these fairy tales to others.”

Blake fell silent.

“You don’t see us as comrades,” Lorry said. “But we’re all brothers in arms. Each of those gathered here fought, watched as a mortally wounded friend pales before his eyes as the spirit comes out of him. We all know the feeling when you can’t believe that you won’t be able to play cards, fool around, tell stories anymore in between outings. It’s hard, and it’s worth talking about.”

“Lorry said,” the only girl in the group began, “that people need a scapegoat. Blake needed him, too. So he pulled away from people because he thinks they are to blame. Am I right? But not all people are maniacs and psychopaths, Blake. We do not differ from each other here. The only difference is that you hide behind a wall of indifference, like a child, but in fact, you melt inside. Did you want to know who I am? Your reflection, only more reasonable. Actually, like everyone else here.”

Everyone looked at her and clapped.

“These meetings, boy, will go on for you endlessly until you open up.”

Blake leaned forward a little, kept his elbows on the armrests, and glued his palms together in a lock, turned his head slightly to the side and answered:

“Okay. I’ll tell. I really feel like a dick. There are a lot of issues I have. Smoking, depression, loss of orientation in space…”

Everyone nodded, because they felt the same way, and Blake continued:

“There’s nothing fucking new. When I sleep, I have nightmares. When I’m awake, I see hell that changed my life. The past follows me like a Cerberus on a chain. I know the smell of rot and slops best of all because they have never pursued me after retirement. How many times have I heard my house’s AI say that I’m not myself, that she’ll call a doctor, how many times have the eyes filled with tears of the wives and mothers of my comrades have been looking at me since the funeral? It was only recently that I stopped seeing hallucinations every day and stopped twitching when children were firing fireworks nearby. I guess I’ll never stop feeling that I don’t belong in this world.… But as my father once told me: move into the future, but don’t forget about the past. That’s what I’m trying to do, and I advise you to do the same.”

Everyone bent down towards Blake and did not take their eyes off him.

“Let’s not put pressure on our friend,” Lorry said after a moment of silence, “today he told us more than last year combined.”

Thank you, Blake.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You still haven’t said what helps you cope with the disease?” Anton asked. “Please share with us.”

“With what were you listening to me for? With your ass?”

“One phrase is not enough to deal with the heavy load inside.”

“I didn’t say I figured it out. I said it helps me.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“Anton!”

“Lorry! He does not respect anyone around him and tries to seem comically harsh and gloomy. All he has done now is to tell what is already clear to everyone. Look at him. Yes, it is clear of him he would gladly prefer the infernal cauldron to reality. He’s not sincere. It’s even worse than being silent. What,” he continued and turned to Blake and looked into his eyes, “you don’t have enough balls to finish?”

“Don’t push him. Sincerity is a long job. This guy has known only his father’s love and war all his life. And then he didn’t even have that left. Only PTSD, which he struggles with every day. How do you think a person should communicate in such a situation?”

“Not like an asshole. We all got a lot here.”

“The subject is closed,” Lorry replied in a menacing voice and got up from his chair. “We will not measure our dicks, figuring out who is worse.”

Everyone went quiet. Anton apologized, but Blake interrupted him:

“VR. I play Guns and Magic.”

Lorry’s eyes widened for a few seconds, as if he had seen a ghost, and then came back to normal. The meeting ended ten minutes later.

***

The clock struck nine and Blake went into the VR room and chose the game “Guns and Magic”. He appeared online after a two-minute download and found himself in the blacksmith’s workshop on the bed and rubbed his eyes as if he was still in reality and sleepy, and looked at the cheerful Doffersnoah.

“Has it become a habit already?” The blacksmith asked.

“What?”

“Rubbing your eyes.”

Ronnie nodded and yawned.

“Dreamed what?”

Ronnie did not answer.

“Sometimes it’s better to talk. Believe me. What happened to you there?”

Ronnie rubbed his nose and looked up from the anvil and said:

“Today, so many people try to force me to open up.”

Doffersnoah let out a terrible laugh and tapped his fingers on his breast apron and bared his teeth and asked:

“Veterans’ Aid group?”

“How did you guess?”

“Well, you don’t have any friends except me.”

“If I didn’t like your directness, I would have sent you to fuck yourself a long time ago.”

Doffersnoah laughed again. Ronnie leaned on the table and told the story:

“Okay, I’ll tell you. In my dream, I was walking along a deep canyon. I saw myself from the outside. I was holding a torch in my hands. Darkness was behind, darkness was ahead. On the sides, the dim yellow light of the fire exposed statues of giants the size of a fifty-story house. All dressed in robes, and instead of faces, there were skulls wearing crowns. Some were standing in a prayer pose, some raised their hand as if controlling puppets, others clutched their heads, and others looked into the distance. I was walking along this endless corridor, and at some point, I saw my father was sitting with my mother by the fire. I felt them waiting for me. When I woke up, everything that was in the dream seemed so real. Shit. In short, I went to visit them at the cemetery. In the end, it calmed me down.”

“Bloody hell, does it even leave you?” Doffersnoah asked and brewed herbal tea and handed the mug to Ronnie. “Have a drink, kid.”

“I wanted to ask…”

The blacksmith suddenly jerked in fright. Ronnie looked at him, said:

“What happened?”

“Someone is trying to break through the protective field. His name is Latludious. Do you know someone like that?”

A second later, there was a knock on the door. The blacksmith walked up to the entrance with an imposing step, turned the key in the lock, and saw a little guy in front of him, who introduced himself, took a step forward, and saw Ronnie inside.

“It’s time for us to move out,” he said.

“What an honor,” Ronnie replied and bowed casually.

“He’ll go when he wants to, chap.”

“We have a contract with him.”

“I’ll come to the Otron’s airport this afternoon.”

“We need to go now.”

“Now my guest is drinking tea. And you went through my protective field without permission, and I’ll find out how.”

“What will you do? Draw a picture about it?”

“Yes. Of the model himself, you and a hoe stuck in your head.”

Latludious grinned and snapped his fingers and turned into little butterflies that flew apart, and after five seconds, gathered together.

“I didn’t come to argue. Ronnie?”

“Beautiful butterflies,” he replied, and sipped some hot tea.

“We have to go.”

“How do you turn into butterflies?” Ronnie continued, looking sideways at his gun.

The blacksmith took a chair and sat down directly opposite Latludious.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have a place for uninvited guests.”

“I imagine a picture in my head with a spell, and if there is enough mana for it, then it happens by itself,” the magician replied, looking at Ronnie like a collector on a debtor.

“It’s time for you to go,” Doffersnoah said.

Latludious examined the room, found a secret trapdoor to the basement. He wondered what was there. On the walls, he saw several katars and swords of excellent quality, as well as small, medium, and large shields. In the end, the SVDK and the silencer for Barrett on the forge table attracted his attention.

“You’re done,” the magician said to Ronnie, not looking at Doffersnoah.

“I’ll be there in the afternoon.”

“You heard him.”

The surf exploded outside the window, and the foam hissed. A clock was ticking on the wall. Ronnie put the cup on the table and walked up to the magician and said:

“Latludious, I still have things to do here. As soon as I finish them, I’ll come.”

“Two o’clock in the afternoon, game time. We’ll be waiting. Don’t be late.”

The magician left. Doffersnoah turned to Ronnie and said:

“Did you see?”

“What?”

“First, that he uses magic.”

“He’s not alone.”

“Not alone?”

“In the city, I met another one, less circumspect. His nickname was Fremaho. In the central square, he was shooting fire until his head flew off his shoulders.”

“Good, I didn’t catch this hackamore. I wonder if they wrote anything about it on the forum. Well... whatever it was, Latludious didn’t pass through the protective field with that spell. It’s a mile up the hills from the closest entrance to here, if not more. Besides, I would have known about the movement of even an uninvited grasshopper in the grass.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to tell you about the fact that the brat thinks he’s smarter than us. He teleported. I’ll bet my head. Be careful with him. If a person tries to fuck you over small things from the get-go, then be sure he’ll fuck you over on a larger scale. Just give him some time.”

Ronnie went to the silencer, attached it to the Barrett and hung the rifle back on his shoulder and said:

“Then the lie will cost him more than he can imagine.”

The blacksmith cleared his throat and said:

“Before you leave. We were interrupted. What did you want to ask me?”

Ronnie hesitated, but did not take a pause and said:

“I take it you went to group therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it?”

“There were people who went through the same thing as me. They understood me. We talked a lot, not only about the past but also about pressing matters, politics, cooking. It was a good time. You’re still small and stubborn, you don’t understand the benefits. I was the same as you. I was furious every time someone asked me something. As if it was obvious what was happening to me. It’s like they have to read my thoughts, see my feelings.”

“Do you think it’s better to trust them?”

“I think it’s up to you to decide. I gave you some advice.”

“See you Doffersnoah.”

The blacksmith put his hands on his knees and got up and held out his hand to him and said:

“Let the bullet do your will. See you later.”

They shook hands, and Ronnie went to his workshop to get everything he needed. He took one last look at the ocean, at its dead calm and the fish jumping in an arc. It’s nice here, he thought. I don’t even want to go back.