Revolution

He ran up to the first floor without looking back. He knew they were behind him. He knew they would catch him. But he ran. It's always worth living a few moments longer. Turning into the hallway, he fired a few shots toward the stairs. He couldn't see any, but he knew they were there. They were coming for him. They were coming...

* * *

The day began for him around 6:40, when the terrible shriek of his alarm clock roused him from the depths of sleep. With a deft flick, he knocked the digital clock off the shelf, silencing it once and for all. He considered taking another nap, but finally climbed off the black couch around 7:00.

It was pouring outside. The rain beat steadily against the windows, which didn't improve his already miserable mood. He hated the rain, the humidity, and most of all, the sleet that filled every corner.

From the closet, he pulled a black suit and a pair of patent leather shoes, fastened his watch, and put on his tinted glasses. He grabbed an umbrella from the rack. He left the apartment at seven-twenty.

The worst six hours of his life were about to begin, but, of course, he couldn't know it yet. Outside, it was almost as nasty as in his world. A cold November evening, a light drizzle, a strong wind.

This time, he didn't light a candle. He handed each of the Light Ones a cheap flashlight. Today, they were wandering the sewers. And the mood was the same. The actress had been replaced by a policeman; instead of a spy, a mafioso wandered the cesspool. Only the alchemist hadn't changed a bit—he oversaw everything from above. The master narrates, trying to express the stench there, to describe the terrible atmosphere, and above all, to leave no ambiguity. The new Light Ones seem intelligent; they ask a lot of questions. Perhaps the enormous beast lurking around the corner wouldn't get them? * * * There was no problem getting a taxi. He'd barely imagined using this service, and it appeared out of nowhere, right before his eyes. The Master was paying less and less attention to the world. As he drove there, he wondered if this was a good thing or not… * * * The policeman, cursing, waded through the canals, looking around carefully. The flashlight carefully checked every corner, searching for the supposed monster seen by several people. Step by step behind him was a mafioso posing as a private detective, his pistol ready. They walked. And the antiquarian, leaning against a street lamp with an ironic smile, smoking a cigarette. He waited. He had arranged to meet here. * * * He didn't quite know why he had refrained from illuminating that spot, why he had decided that it wasn't, that the monster couldn't be there. But it was too late.

The monster leaped from the pipe with a tremendous howl, flailing its four hand-like limbs. He had a moment to examine it closely. Greenish, rough skin, six limbs, a huge, crooked muzzle, two pairs of bluish eyes. A long tail, curling in all directions, ending in a sharp spike.

He didn't think twice, pumped the entire magazine into the damn thing, screaming into the sky as he did so. When he realized it wasn't having any effect on the monster, he tried to flee. But he was too slow…

The gangster, meanwhile, was on the run. He knew that once the beast finished with the cop, it would catch up with him. All that was left was to flee.

Halfway there, when he thought he was safe, a second beast dropped from the ceiling in front of him.

Jasny refused to listen to the description. He simply turned off his flashlight.

* * *

"What's going on here?" The antiquarian finished one cigarette, then immediately lit another. And to think, just a few weeks ago he was always pointing out that smoking was bad for your health. "What the fuck is going on here?! "

I don't know what you're talking about.

" "Don't bullshit, Smith. At least don't bullshit. At least tell me the truth. Those two are probably dead by now; if one beast hadn't defeated them, eight would have, or more. "

I'm just the Dark One." The killer checks the gun, adjusts it slightly, then pulls out a cigarette himself, stops it halfway to his mouth, and throws it away. "Smoking is bad for your health."

The antiquarian snorts, glancing around the area. The rain is getting heavier. Everything around is rippling, flickering. No lights in the windows, nothing. Complete emptiness. "

Shitting the bamboo," he indicates the area to Smith. "This has never happened before, you have to admit." "Never, has it?"

The agent nods shyly.

"He left this world, hasn't he?" That's why I managed to break free from Jasny's control, and now he thinks I'm still standing there, supervising the situation. "

You're wrong," Smith adjusts his glasses and coughs. "You're still there. If you can call it that. And you're talking to me because…"

"Because?

" "Because you've been dead for twenty minutes now."

In the distance, lightning strikes a tenement building. If its residents had bothered to get a lightning rod, nothing bad would have happened. And now… The tenement building is burning.

All hell is breaking loose.

The antiquarian can't believe what he's hearing. But he knows Smith isn't lying. He's not in the habit of lying. He's a professional.

* * *

"How so?!" Jasny slams his fist on the table, the glasses on the countertop bouncing. "Just like that?"

"Exactly." The Master's voice is calm, unremarkable, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. And in the last four minutes, he's killed all the characters…" "Any objection?"

"Nothing." The light one's face reddens, and he clenches his fists. "You just screwed up our entire session. Nothing more."

The Master simply smiled. "You wanted it to be hard, didn't you?

" The light one says nothing more. Silence falls. The Master rubs his hands together. Smith had failed. But monsters are usually reliable.

* * *

He ran to the first floor without looking back. He knew they were behind him. He knew they would get him. But he ran. It's always worth living a few moments longer. Turning into the corridor, he fired a few shots toward the stairs. He couldn't see any, but he knew they were there. They were coming for him. They were crawling to get him.

He ran forward, pressing the handle on each door in turn. They were all locked. Besides, he wondered what it would gain him. Such a beast would wipe that kind of door off the face of the earth with one weak blow. They would get through anyway.

At the end of the corridor, a large window. He runs up to it, deciding to jump into the street. He stops, terrified.

It's hell beyond the window. The Game Master's city, enormous monsters running through the streets, the surviving Dark Ones screaming, begging for mercy, running in terror. The beasts catch them easily, killing them, devouring them.

Two tenement houses collapse, the fire spreads incredibly quickly, yet it's raining. Clearly, the Master has bent the laws of physics to create atmosphere and simultaneously destroy everything effectively.

A damn showpiece.

Meanwhile, the monsters are already reaching the second floor, approaching slowly. He can almost feel their breath on his shoulder, knows that in a moment the blow of their enormous paw will take his life. If he doesn't jump.

He doesn't want to jump.

He tucks his sunglasses into his suit pocket, runs his hand through his hair. He would reach for a cigarette. But smoking kills.

"We'll have some fun."

He turns quickly, nimbly. He already has a pistol in one hand, the other drawing another, hidden behind his back. He starts shooting. He doesn't have to worry about ammunition, doesn't have to reload. He shoots, consumed by rage. He knows bullets won't kill these monsters. So what?

He shoots.

The city burns.

* * *

The Master rubs his hands together. In one day, he destroyed his entire beautiful world, lost his friends, annihilated his most perfect creation, the killer Smith. But he feels good about it. He knows what he's capable of.

He's gotten to know himself, his nature. He'd be the perfect murderer. Maybe he'll even think about that, in the future?

He looks out the window. It's stopped raining. Jasna walks down the street. His beloved Jasna. He looks at her intently, observing her every smile, every wave of her hand, from the third floor of the yellow apartment building.

He knows she's not there, that only his imagination has created her there now. He doesn't care much.

"Forgive me, the actress. I had to," he whispers to himself.

He lowers the blinds.