* * *

A line of thunder on the horizon, seemingly tiny and harmless on the second day, turned into an unrelenting storm that pounded the big windows of the coach with heavy slaps of downpours. Dark silhouettes of buildings whizzed by, blurred by the surge of water, barely visible in the yellow light of the roadside lamps. Once in a while, the sky would be illuminated by a flash of distant lightning, giving a glimpse of another nameless village on the left side of the road. For a moment, everything around became incredibly clear, albeit in black and white - one could see the buildings of the village churches, the angular sails of the mills, and the smoothness of the lakes in the gaps in the hills until darkness took the world back. Thunder came, making the old glass shiver with fear. And so - all night long.

Another night without sleep on another route to a town I don't want. Neither did the place I had left. For the second twenty-four hours, I wandered from side to side, trying to get away from who knows what. Not from friends, was it? But I didn't seem to have any more enemies - I was dead to them. Nevertheless, something inside me demanded that I change cities and buy tickets almost without looking, as long as they passed through a couple or three settlements with their bus stations. Sometimes I would change directions, take advantage of passing cars, throw away the tickets I had bought, and walk to the next stop. I changed clothes several times and, like a good detective, even bought dark glasses - which, unfortunately, I had to get rid of due to bad weather.

This should have been the last trip on the way to the railway line and the concrete platform near the rails, where the light train, which passes by once a day, stands for exactly five minutes - so it says on the internet. But it was also the most exhausting - the bus was very old, hitting me on the back with its hard seat and turning my head hot and humid - water was seeping out from under the rubber pad, accumulating in large drops and dripping near the seat.

The glare of a tiny colored television set was walking around in the cabin, its barely audible mutter diluting the noise of the rain, the measured breathing of the sleeping passengers, and the awake engine. Of the people, only three were awake: the driver, myself, and the specialist recommended by Uncle Kolya - he sat next to me with a deceptively sleepy look, his eyes closed. I once checked by trying to touch his nose. He was definitely awake and also biting painfully.

The specialist's name was Valentin, he was two decades older than me, and from the first moment he disliked the address "Uncle Valya", asking me to call him Wolf - and I even know why. I hired him to watch over my sleep, but rather I guarded his anxious slumber several times a night. But Valentine bought tickets, politely specifying at the small windows of the ticket office: "For me, and my son," and would go shopping with me and make arrangements with the taxi drivers. He also did not ask a single question, was silent, and soon came to be seen as a very necessary, indispensable mechanism. I even stopped saying "we" when planning my next move, replacing it with a simple "I". My guard became part of the journey, not a companion.

About a decade and a half ago, when I was not yet in this world, Uncle Valya served under Uncle Kolya and was the only one who came to see the former commander when Uncle Kolya was in great distress. His kind-heartedness and loyalty, however, did not prevent him from taking as much money in three days as my shop had earned in three months by exchanging several bundles of money for a piece of stamped paper - with his and my signature. The agreement promised that no one would know about the journey together and that my life would remain with me, as would the contents of my pockets.

"Who will ensure that the contract is fulfilled?" I asked two days ago in the car park outside the train station in the sun-heated interior of the Volga.

We took a seat in the back seat - me and Uncle Kolya. Simon politely left us alone, informing us that he was going to look at the engine and to be sure, he shielded himself with the wide bonnet. Valentin bored beside him, prompting something in a confident, quiet voice.

"No one," Nikolai answered honestly, folding back the corner of a thick rectangle of paper. "If he wants to get rid of you, no one will find a trace of you."

"Then what's the point?" I pointed to the contract in his hand.

"Pay taxes," he shrugged, then raised his head and looked me in the eye. "Sometimes you just have to have faith in people. Let them show that they are worthy of respect.

I could hear the reproach in his words, the remainder of the half-burned building behind me, and looked away.

"Did you believe in me?"

"I keep believing in you," a hand touched my shoulder, "even now. And you, please, have faith in your friends. Don't scare them away with a bad word, like you did with Tolik."

"He started stealing, even though he had enough money."

"He almost ran away from town," he added cautiously.

"He could have just apologized," I shrugged.

"After all I've heard about you and boarding school, I understand his fear."

"What have you heard?" asked without much interest, looking at the commotion near the platform.

"You made them pay for the right to live," Nikolai said.

"Not true. I was offering an interesting and fun day out for a small fee."

"And those who didn't pay?"

"They lived as they did before. Only soon they regarded their ordinary lives as punishment." I turned to the uncle, expounding without any remorse.

"Nevertheless, even your friends are afraid of you."

"I didn't want that."

"Aren't you curious as to why this happened?"

"No."

After a short answer, the uncle's face became very anxious. He touched my forehead for some reason and even shook my shoulder slightly.

"Maxim, you really don't care?"

I looked at my hand, turned my wrist up, and, just like a year and a half ago, I didn't find a single star near my skin. Gone, gone, and with them, as if everything inside had burned out. Or had it burned out before? It didn't matter. There, under the soot of the deeds I had not wanted to do, under the ashes of the expectations that had not survived the indifference of others, lived the understanding that it was better not to do, not to touch, not to touch, not to be disappointed again.

"He has a job, you will become a father, and I will apologize for someone else's mistake. Everything's gonna be all right."

"Forget about Tolik temporarily," the uncle muttered uneasily. "Tell me, your curiosity - where has it gone?"

"I still have it with me," I looked at him in surprise.

"Okay, wait. There, you see Valentine standing there. He has a tattoo on his chest, the top of which extends to his neck."

Indeed, if you look closely, you can see a small flag on the mast, apparently of a ship, showing slightly from the lapel of the T-shirt.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Why aren't you running to him to see what the whole tattoo is like!" As if in pain, Uncle Kolya groaned, running his hand through his hair.

"Probably a ship," I shrugged, glancing indifferently at the T-shirt hiding the pattern.

"Very bad," he added quietly. "But hopefully, it's not too late. Try going to the zoo or the circus."

"No way," I closed my eyes.

"To the theatre? To a children's show! It's fun and very interesting."

"Uncle Kolya, I've arranged for the theatres to come several times," he said patiently, not opening his eyes.

"There are different theatres, and if you don't like..."

"The first of them was about to leave as soon as they heard there would be no television. I raked out almost all my money to make sure they stayed. Everyone was really enjoying it. The second team arrived drunk and demanded a place to sleep, the third..."

"A movie then, eh?"

"Why?" I looked in his direction, lifting my eyelids slightly.

"To bring you back," the kindly gray eyes squinted at me with unconcealed concern. "You must learn to be curious again! At least try ice cream in other cities!"

"The composition is the same, ours is still the tastiest."

"What if there's somewhere tastier?" he teased with a wink. "The water is different somewhere else, isn't it? And the sugar, eh? What if someone uses Indian sugar? You've never tasted sugar like that! Understand. A gifted person must not go against his essence. It is the death of the soul. You must be curious! You don't even see how much you've changed. I thought you were just tired..."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"I'm so tired," I shook my head in agreement, closing my eyes again. "But I'll get some sleep, and everything will be fine again..."

I have not slept for the second twenty-four hours since then.

It was easy. I was just letting the power pass through my body, and the fatigue gave way, hiding near the back of my head in a nagging pain that was tolerable and familiar. Not the first time, really. Things didn't want to move forward while I slept, and plans were bound to collapse when I gave myself a few hours of rest. Everything needed looking after, especially in these strange days when the past was gone, and the future was yet to come.

The morning brought rays of sunshine that broke through the grey sky, and towards noon a strong wind came in, dragging the storm clouds to the east. So we stepped off the bus back into summer rather than early spring. Only the ground, loosening under every step, was a reminder of the bad weather, but then Uncle Valya stepped in, and with his power, he made our way along a meter-wide path without a single blade of grass or drop of water.

"Is it difficult?" I dug at the hard ground with the sharp tip of my boot. The surface sprang nicely beneath my feet.

"It depends," he shrugged, stepping onto the flat surface with visible pleasure.

"And what should I do?" I didn't calm down and lay straight down on the ground, trying to scratch it and even overpowering it with drinking water from a bottle.

"A long time to learn," he decided to slip out.

"What about the essence?" The path tasted just like a cat's nose.

"You have to let the power through by directing a wedge and maintain..."

"Like that?"

"Blood!" He jumped straight into the bushes.

"Where?" I turned my head around and didn't see anything. "What's over there?" I turned to the broken briar bush.

"I'll tell you when I get out," he hissed back angrily.

I had a sudden craving for food. An alarming sign.

"We have a deal!" I reminded him in a businesslike tone, crawling over to the branches on the other side of the path just in case.

"Paragraph six-twelve, the employer's attack on the defender." Out of the bushes emerged the legs and then the whole uncle.

"I crossed him off. I didn't like him right away."

"You can't cross sentences off a form!" Valentine looked around, clearly trying to find me. "Okay, forget it. Get out."

"I don't want."

"Why that?" He frowned.

"There are gooseberries here."

"Then move over. I'll come to you," the uncle grunted in an aged manner, shaking off his trousers and climbing into my voice. "By the way, have you thought about military service?"

"Of course I did," I handed him a handful of berries as a sign of conciliation and helped him to spread out on his jacket on the ground. I'd thrown them out anyway; the trousers were intact, but the top was all wet and stained.

"We're great, and the guys are interesting."

"I'll do my military service. I'll hire you," I agreed, nibbling at the sour-sweet yellowish berries.

"Аh?" The man's eyes slammed shut before he got the berry to his mouth.

"Will you serve me?"

"I meant you to us..."

"Not interested," I slapped my knee and started to get up.

You can't eat too many of these berries, though.

"We get paid well," the man said in a slightly quieter voice as if he hadn't heard me say it.

"So far, I'm paying you," I reminded him and walked down the enchanted path first, "besides, I don't leave mine behind."

I made it to the concrete pad in time, leaving myself even two dozen minutes to tidy up my clothes and roll up what looked bad.

The arrival of the huge steel serpent, slithering out under a menacing hiss from behind a distant wood, made you involuntarily shrouded in power and seriously wary. It's one thing to see it on video or in pictures, but it's another when even the ground shakes beneath your feet and the path of the huge machine goes right through you.

"Why do you need a protector?" Valentine tried to push the invisible film over my skin with his hand, but he didn't succeed, as expected.

He spoke thoughtfully, asking himself rather than hoping for an answer.

"So that I don't kill anyone."

The clang of the train's metal couplings drew a line under the truthful answer, which he hardly believed.

The iron lizard rolled on for another two dozen meters before stopping, exhaling a weary white vapor. Following him, two dozen more people decided to take a break from the ride, their bustle and cigarette smoke quickly making the site cramped and uncomfortable, and when two women with huge trunks wanted to pass through the crowd, it became even more of a scandal.

"I will make an arrangement..." Valentine stepped forward, catching sight of the white blouse of the stewardess in the doorway.

Their conversation ended with sly smiles, three notes handed in an inaudible whisper in the pretty girl's ear, and an empty four-seat compartment, in which she promised not to settle in anyone else for the rest of the journey. A little later, we were even treated to some delicious tea, and I was patted on the head.

"May I ask where we are going?" Uncle Wolf put his mug aside and looked at me expectantly.

I was chewing my cracker so hard I couldn't answer right away, but the man understood in his own way.

"It's not necessary," he raised his palms in front of him, "but it would be easier for me to prepare."

"There's nothing special there," I shook my mug and chugged the scalding drink dry in my mouth. "We're going to war."

"My contract does not include..." said Valentine tensely.

"Actually, the war has already ended," I hastened to clarify. "About three days ago..." I glanced at the calendar by the exit and corrected myself. But the completion date will not be announced until next week."

At least that's what it says on the internet.

"Sorry, I'm minding your own business, but why do you want to go there?" Trying to understand, he leaned slightly over the table, drilling his gaze.

Why is it that friendliness is seen as a weakness and wants to be crushed by imposing one's will?

"For the first time, I forgive you."

Valentine tried to look at the bottom of my eyes for a while longer but eventually leaned back and relaxed, folding his arms across his chest.

"As you say, employer."

"So it will be," I said in agreement, moving the biscuit closer to me.

It's interesting, but right now, sixty-one wars are going on in the country. When I read about it, I gazed long and anxiously into the horizon, expecting to see flames of fire - because three of them seemed to be coming very close. Later I understood that wars are very different. Most wars look like discontented sniveling of equal opponents after a hard fight. The grudge is still there, but there are no clear winners. There is still something to beat your opponent in the face, but the pain of the blows and bruises are still there, dissuading him from another brawl. Sometimes such wars go on for decades and very rarely turn into a new fight.

There are far fewer real wars - about a dozen. Somewhere out there, houses and neighborhoods are burning, and the whole world just waits and watches to see who wins instead of separating and reconciling. It's called 'tradition'.

Maybe they do not make peace also because an active war lasts very briefly, culminating either in peace or in a silent confrontation between wounded backyard cats.

My war is the kind of war in which there is a winner and a loser. And the place I am going to is a town that must go to the victor. And I am going there because the victor does not want the inhabitants there - they have served his enemy, paid his taxes, and must go. No one knows where, but they have a deadline from yesterday to tomorrow. It is also written on the internet - if you know where to look.

There's a whole river of people waiting for me, restless and anxious. A drop of that river is about to become me. Hardly anyone would be surprised by an undocumented teenager in a place that still smells of fires, in the company of similar wretches. There will be my new birth.

By evening Uncle Wolf had calmed down and stopped glaring at me thoughtfully when he thought I couldn't see him. And after a new visit from the conductress and quiet whispering behind the compartment door, he smiled dreamily, glancing at his watch.

"I'll be gone for a couple of hours?" Valentine looked at me pleadingly, waited for a slight nod, and with a contented look, headed for the exit.

"Don't overindulge with the sweets," I said to the uncle, who stumbled awkwardly at those words.

* * *

A black minivan scampered across the broken tracks of the industrial estate, backing away and stalling at the sight of the trucks flying towards it. The image of a covered eye on its body looked unthreatening amid the dull concrete fences and painted rusted fences as it squinted against the pungent dust that rose behind oncoming cars. And it was as if the place was not afraid of the sovereign's guests, which infuriated the trainee Lipatov, who expressed his feelings with silent rubbish, once again twisting the wheel to dodge a head-on truck.

"I told you there was a sign," the mentor reminded him melancholically, not taking his eyes off the open file of interrogation reports.

"Who are we and who are they," Lipatov grumbled angrily as he continued to fight the flow.

"What difference does it make if they weigh twenty tonnes more? Where both ignore the law, the one who crushes the obstacle and drives on wins."

"Would they be hanged then?" The trainee looked at the mentor incredulously.

"Maybe. If they are found," he shrugged. "So just pull to the side of the road and move quietly towards that gate over there."

The industrial site smelt of fuel oil, burnt grass, and sweets, depending on which way the wind was blowing. A small area behind a solid four-meter high fence of welded millimeter steel plates, with barbed wire on top, was just the source of the pleasant vanilla scent that stood in its way.

"The owners!' Lipatov banged his fist, trying in vain to find a gap in the fence to look inside.

After a while a flap slid silently aside, revealing the rectangle of the courtyard - or rather, its reflection in a mirror set at an angle. The guests looked up into calm grey eyes, framed by a grid of wrinkles.

"Nikolai Ivanovich Roskov?" said the older man rather affirmatively, checking the file in the folder. "Colonel Sergeyev. We're here about the fire."

"My kids told everything to the investigators."

"Would you be so kind as to grant permission for a second interview? We have new circumstances in the case."

"No," the reflection shook its head, "they're very worried. I don't want to remind them of the tragedy."

"Just half an hour, no more," Sergeev continued to insist. "A specialist psychologist will conduct the interview. We need your help, Nikolai Ivanovich."

The bad mood and ostentatious humiliation of his superiors in front of some ordinary peddler literally infuriated Lipatov, prompting him to take a sharp step forward, during which he managed to snatch a metal Service badge from his breast pocket and a pistol.

"Do you see the sign?" he pressed the first one against the window with the second one.

"I see," the man on the other side closed his eyes in agreement. "Do you see the sign on the gate?"

Lipatov tried for some time to break his opponent's will with his gaze, but not seeing any shadow of fear in his response, he took two steps back and turned his head upwards.

At the very edge of the fence, there was a clamped wooden plank, blackened by age, cracked by rain and heat, with an intricate, though crude, pattern, definitely seen somewhere before. But where?

"Have a good day," the flap clangs.

"Lipatov, you won't pass," Sergeev said with conviction, closing the folder with a loud clap.

"What?!"

"See the number of notches on the lower edge of the coat of arms? He served with the Dreviches for twenty years. What the fuck are you doing out?!" Spitting on the road, the colonel turned back to the car.

"So now he can keep us in the street and dare to refuse us?" Lipatov scowled as he stood by the open car door.

"Get behind the wheel now." The colonel cut off unnecessary talk in the street and only continued after the green self-isolation light flashed. "We are the Law, not the Authority. You want power, go back to the police."

"Ours hanged an aristocrat yesterday - and nothing. He's hanging on, not pushing his rights," grumbled the trainee, steering into the flow.

"He was abandoned by his own. We were carrying out someone else's sentence," the colonel exhaled, calming down. "Do you see how well we are going? And why is that? We move in the flow. And we serve in the same way! As long as our interests do not interfere with the owners of big heavy trucks, everything is going fine. And you can even ask their drivers to do what you want."

"Humiliate ourselves every time?"

"It's an honor to help us," the mentor looked condescendingly at the trainee. "They would be glad, out of respect for our master or hatred for the competition. Just one condition - show courtesy."

"What do we do now?" Lipatov was saddened, to the colonel's delight realizing his fault.

"Let's ask our voivode to ask the konung of this distinguished man to ask his children to answer our questions," he shrugged.

"It's so long," the trainee grimaced.

"I'll tell you more - after what you've done, it's also useless."

* * *

Chapter 20

Insects and slippers