White light was streaming out the window and drawing a tiny square on Johnson's back. He and the old man were sitting on a green rug, a bottle of vodka between them. The old man was scratching his long-bearded chin, wrinkles all over the grim face, bald head reflecting smooth sun rays.

"Where did you get it?" asked Johnson

"In the basement. If I'm going to die soon, at least I can do that happily" he said laughing

Wet, moss-covered planks beneath creaked of a slight move. Johnson and the old man spoke about their life, you know, that kind of pals soul-warming conversation. Sometimes room fell silence and none of them had anything to tell. Tiny leak above them spilled water. One by one drops thudded the floor.

"How long have you been here?" asked Johnson

"I've been counting sunrises for a long time, but stopped somewhere in the middle" he said "About 5 years I guess" taking a lazy sip of his little glass

"And what have you been doing all that time?" logical question followed

"Have been repairing thermal implants like yours" said the old man. Suddenly disgust appeared Johnson face. Marcus, that was his name, quickly caught up the moment "I had no deals with Tempos'. My wife was also locked. After her death I promised to not let any victims of those lunatics die. None of us is hurt like capsule-locked. And we need to talk about your thermal implant - Amy" he said

"What do you mean?"

"Thermal implant is a high technology and can only be produced by qualified companies. But sometimes capsules are made wrong. The weakest point of this technology is that it includes human organs, it makes the product cheap, but also vulnerable. Human heart is getting boosted strongly and can chemically produce incredible amount of heat for years. Gladly, as rumors tell, Tempos started making fully mechanical capsules, but that's not our case. Amy's heart little by little moves to the right, it's dangerous. If her heart moves few more centimeters' it will tore apart and she'll die"

From disgust Johnson's face changed to pure shock and anxiety "Then let's fix it, until it's not too late"

"The temperature inside it is too high. It will explode of pressure if we open it" said the old man

"Then let's lower the temperature"

"I guess it will take too much time"

"I can't let her die!" cried Johnson. He stood up, wobbling a little of alcohol running his veins, and started shacking Marcus' shoulders "Think, Marcus, think!" he shouted

This scene lasted for few minutes. Little by little anger accumulated.

"I can't! I would like to, but I fucking can't!!" shouted the old man. He abruptly stood up, the bottle flipped and broke to pieces. "Fuck!"

Marcus anger was absolutely real unexpectedly for a man Johnson knew for few hours, the pain actually was shattering his heart, one more victim was about to die in front of him and he had no way to prevent it. Marcus approached the window, wishing to crash it with his fist. But suddenly he froze. The idea popped his mind. He ran to Amy, grabbed her and left with words "Let's go! We have a chance! Take my instruments"

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It was very cold outside when Johnson came out the building with an instrument case under his armpit. Blizzard was so strong he barely saw anything but blurry shadows. Then he heard someone scream "I am here!". He rushed there through snowdrifts. After getting close enough he saw Marcus strewing Amy with snow, the old man quickly pointed at the shovel lying the ground "Take it and help me!". Wind whistled loudly, so every sound was scarcely legible. In few minutes they stopped.

"Okay, I turned off all her heating processes, so her heart is now beating slowly. Let's hope the snow will help" said Marcus. He had no coat, so he was shivering. His nose was red as ripe apple and words as shaky as earthquake, but he didn't care. They watched as the number on the indicator gradually decreased.

Steam stopped coming out of the snowdrift Amy was buried. "It's not over yet. Now I need to place a fixator and avoid spilling out the fluid" said the old man, his beard fluttering the wind. Marcus opened the capsule and touched the oil-alike fluid with the tip of his finger. He abruptly winced.

"Shit, this will hurt!" he said, taking a flask of whiskey out of his pocket. Greedily drank it to the bottom and started placing the fixator. He shouted unstoppably, his hands were literally boiling in the stew of oil and organs. Sometimes he screamed for some instrument. He sat there for about ten minutes. At some point his pain vanished, his nerves got boiled to numbness.

"Got it!" he said. Then he placed his both hands into the nearest snow "My hands are dead. It seems I won't be able to drink few last beer bottles" he chuckled

All this time Johnson was mouth opened. He was holding back his tears, even though they would just freeze on his cheeks. The old man was kneeling in front of the metal capsule, dying but still repairing it.

"She'll be fine" said the old man, closing it.

"Let's take you home, you'll die this way. Do you have some aid kit?" cried Johnson nervously

"None of it" laughed the old man lying on the soft, snowy ground

"Wait! wait. I cannot just let you die!" said Johnson, searching for anything in his back pack "Here definitely must be something"

"Calm down, John. Better help me stand up" said the old man. Johnson swung him onto his shoulder.

When they got back, Marcus lied on the purple coach, coughing. Johnson was checking all shelfs, drawers and wardrobes around for some medicine.

"Hey John!" said Marcus.

"What?" responded a shacking voice from depths of the house

"Get me a beer bottle from the basement"

"Wait, at first I need to..."

"John" said the old man indignantly

"Okay" said Johnson with a gasp

He trudged down the stairs, so old they were cracking under his feet. Nothing he could see but one lonely bottle standing on the shelf, but when he took it, tears were impossible to hold back. A photo of the old man and his family was right behind the bottle, little to the left, a company of friends. The past of Marcus was already covered dust and spider web. Johnson putted the photo in his pocket and went upstairs.

"Here you are!" said the old man happily "Let's share few last glasses"

"Yes" said Johnson with a mock joy, trying to cheer up both himself and Marcus. He took a small chair and placed it next to the couch. Two small glasses got filled to the top. As Marcus couldn't drink himself, Johnson poured all the booze right in the mouth of his pal.

"Now it's better" said the old man with a sigh of relief, eyes closed

"Here. Look. I found it down there" said Johnson

Marcus' eyes opened again " Yeah, Helen. I miss her. What a great times we had" he said laughing.

"Why are you laughing?"

"No, it's nothing" said the old man, laugher slowly subsiding. Then it fully fade, and that seemed to be the end.

"Marc?"

No response

"Marc?!

No response

"Fuck!" shouted Johnson punching the floor "Again, and again. Why? God, if you exist tell me... why?" the room fell silence. He stood up, head tilted down. He drank all the beer in his glass. Then he calmly, almost whispering, said "Thank you, old idiot" and hit the glass on the nearest table so aggressively the glass shattered to splinters. Johnson threw his glance at Amy outside.