Mars, 2103. Ten Earth Years before the events of Chorus of the Dead

I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Cyrille.” Piotr Ivanov was standing in front of a metal desk in a small, drab office. He looked about ten years younger. His hair was short and an electric blonde as opposed to the muted grey of his older years. He was clean-shaven and a fair bit smaller, due to not having all day to work out the way he did later in his life. Sitting at the desk was a man about his size and build, with short blue hair. The two could easily be mistaken for brothers, and they often behaved like they were. Cyrille Krokodil rested his head on his hand, his eyes wide with concern and shock, unable to process the ultimatum he’d been given. “I . . . I just don’t understand . . . how . . . what?”

“I tried everything I could, but she was gone,” Piotr said consolingly. “When she started attacking us, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“REALLY?” Cyrille’s tone shifted to a brief moment of anger as he threw himself up from his chair and stared daggers into young Piotr’s eyes. “YOU TRIED EVERYTHING?!”

Piotr didn’t really know what to say. He stood there, mouth agape, until Cyrille looked away in shame.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry I lashed out like that. I believe you . . . I’m just having trouble . . . What am I going to tell the kids?” Cyrille began to leak slow, pitiful tears from his blue eyes as Piotr stepped forward to wrap his arms around his friend. “I have four kids, Piotr . . . And my Civ . . . all it can do is make Chorus. How am I supposed to provide for them?” moaned Cyrille, spiralling as the two embraced. Then, the two looked up and their eyes met. “At least I have you and Natasha, right?” Cyrille asked. Piotr let go when he said this.

“Um . . . Cyrille, I . . . Natasha . . . she thinks the heat has gotten too hot. We’re leaving in a few days.” Piotr answered sheepishly, unable to look his friend in the eyes.

Cyrille just looked at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t.”

“I’m sorry, Cyrille, but she’s right. It’s too dangerous for us to keep doing this. There’s the police. There’s that phantom hand guy . . .”

Cyrille looked furious, his eyes burning with rage at someone he’d once regarded so compassionately. “You’re just going to leave me? You let my wife die and then leave me and our children to ROT!?” Cyrille screamed.

“Calm down, Cyrille!” Piotr shouted, and Cyrille stepped back from Piotr. The two stared at each other for a moment.

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”

Once Piotr had left, Cyrille sat down at his desk once more and held his head in his hands on the table as tears slowly trickled down his face. Everything he had built—gone. In an instant. I don’t know what I can do. Celine, Rosemary, Aria, Dominic . . . they have no mother anymore. And no money. Chorus alone can’t keep us afloat, I need muscle. I need power. I need Piotr and Natasha. Cyrille’s Civ, Chorus, was only useful for creating liquid Chorus, a blue-and-pink substance that, when ingested, would cause a person to re-experience their memories as though it was for the first time. He had contemplated this ability’s usage in combat but found it too unwieldy to activate. But there had been moments where he had seen how his Civ had truly worked. Moments of stress or pressure, where the liquid wouldn’t come out as a goop but as a solid. And very weird things had happened when solid Chorus had touched something.

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Don’t cry, Cyrille . . . You don’t have time anymore . . . You need a plan. And you need to act on it, now. Cyrille’s contemplation was eventually interrupted, however, by a loud knock at his office door and the sound of it creaking open.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

Cyrille looked up, trying to wipe away his wet and bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of his suit. Standing in the doorway was his only son. Dominic Krokodil.

“Hi, Son.” Cyrille sniffled, again attempting to hide his sadness from his teenage son as he stood up and walked over, hugging him suddenly. Dominic seemed surprised.

“What’s . . . what’s all this?” Dominic asked tentatively as he slowly returned the hug.

“I love you. I feel like I don’t say it enough. And I want you to know that I’m always here . . . for you. Always.”

“Dad, I know you love me!” Dominic laughed as the two stopped their hug. “Besides, Mom tells me all the time anyways,” Dominic answered as suddenly, his three sisters appeared in the hallway he was standing in. Cyrille didn’t say anything, and instead, it became harder and harder to hide what he was feeling. When Dominic saw his father slowly cry, his own smile faded away, melting into a look of terror.

They didn’t take the news well.

* * *

Piotr watched from far off as a small crowd congregated around a small plot of dirt—some of the only dirt in Neonight. The reason dirt was so important to have for this specific occasion, was because most people didn’t want their loved ones buried in anything else. Piotr hadn’t been invited to Lana Krokodil’s funeral, but he knew her well and decided to come regardless. Provided he could remain hidden.

Cyrille held his children around him as they wept. Today had been chosen for Lana’s funeral because it wasn’t going to rain, but with how many tears had flown today it would be hard to tell the difference if you just looked at the ground. For this reason, Cyrille had an incentive to stay strong. He would need to be their rock—their hinge—a whole lot more now. I’m done losing people. I’m done. Cyrille looked at his children as they wept over their mother’s freshly filled grave. And something very strange happened. Their tears, for a brief moment, flowed upwards, before falling back down.

Cyrille had been told by Piotr after their conversation a few days ago that Lana had somehow lost her mind during one of their raids on a rival gang and attacked the Ivanovs. Cyrille rustled inside the pocket of his black funeral attire and found a chip. This chip had been found inside Lana’s body, along with her Civ. He was told by Piotr that this Civ must have been what drove her insane. Piotr wouldn’t lie about this, he thought. They both liked Lana. They wouldn’t just kill her unless they had a very good reason. And, besides, they’re my friends. Cyrille played back the story over and over in his mind. But again . . . Piotr lied about how she died the night it happened. And this Civ . . . No, there's no way. Did Lana somehow gain a second Civ that night? One that made her lose her mind and attack her friends? Or did Piotr just . . . I don’t know which one’s harder to believe. Cyrille pulled the Civ chip out of his pocket. I have to know . . . and I can’t let the Ivanovs leave town either. Not until I’m entirely sure.

Piotr had stuck around even after the Krokodils had left. He felt a degree of responsibility for what happened to her, and he wanted to pay his respects more personally. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Lana. I feel as though I failed you. Both Natasha and I—we both do,” he whispered. Suddenly, a breeze rushed past his head, and he heard a voice speak into his ear.

“Give me a call when you’re all done, okay, darling?” The voice was female and possessed a calm, ethereal quality. It was as though the dead were speaking to him now. It almost gave Piotr a heart attack.

“Don’t use your Civ to talk to me when I’m at our friend’s funeral! You almost killed me!” Piotr shouted into the hologram that appeared on his Unit, albeit in a half-joking tone.

“I’m sorry! I can’t control if the voice sounds like a ghost, and you had your Unit off, so I didn’t know how else to contact you!” Natasha responded. “Maybe I should use Talk to the Wind to do more ghost stuff, though, if it gets you so worked up.” Natasha laughed to herself as she made this suggestion.

User: Natasha Ivanov

Civ: Talk to the Wind

The user is able to transform sound energy into wind. This wind can be telepathically controlled by the user, allowing them to blow away or lift up objects or enemies. Turning sound into wind also causes that sound to become muted, allowing the user to mute their footsteps or other noises and move completely stealthily. They can also turn the wind back into the sound that generated it, allowing them to create distracting sounds in other places to confuse their enemies. The wind gets less forceful the farther it travels, meaning that the best way to hurt someone is to transform their own sound.