Dream

I'm sitting at the table reading a book about dreams and daydreams. I sip my tea, trying to keep it from landing on my lap. Eventually, I tire of the book and put it aside. With a bored look in my eyes, I lean my elbows on the table. My imagination begins to work. I close my eyes and see a large park with an awful lot of trees. I see a small pond and a white dog wagging its tail in all directions. Next to the dog is a boy. The boy has short hair, is quite large, and has a strong build. He has strange eyes, like sapphire, blue saturated with yellow. Charmed by his charm, I approached him and, with a slight fear, uttered a short word: "Hi." A smile appeared on the boy's face, and after a second of silence, he replied: "Hi." Half-conscious and in a high voice, I started to strike up a conversation: "What a beautiful dog!" I cried softly, pointing at the white dog. "Yours?

" "Yes. She's a bitch, her name is Triny.

" "Trinity, a nice name." "So different," I replied, trying to keep the conversation going. "What breed is it?"

Pleased that he could demonstrate his knowledge, he replied, "Rottweiler."

Surprised, I asked, "White Rottweiler?

" "One of a kind, one of a kind in the world. "

And so, as we continued talking, I moved to another place.

The voice of the boy I had named Przemek faded, and my grandfather's house appeared before me. The first thing I saw was an old wooden cross that had hung on the wall for 60 years. The cross was covered in blood. It wasn't a miracle, but my grandfather's death. A beautiful dream turned into a nightmare from which I couldn't wake up. Shocked, I saw almost nothing; all I saw was the cross, the knife, and the wounds on my grandfather's face. I started to run. I thought I could make it, but I remained frozen in place. My feet were glued to the floor, which began to crumble. The pieces didn't fall down, but rose up. Though distraught and terrified, I was thinking logically enough and noticed that the pieces were forming "something." Trying to lift my legs from the ground, I thought the dream was real, and I began to feel truly frightened. Suddenly, the "something" began to resemble a man with bulging eyes and claw-like hands. A faint outline, and yet it terrified me. My heart was pounding in my throat, choking me in the process.

My labored breathing caught my mother's attention, and she quickly woke me from a deep sleep. I burst into tears and hugged my mother tightly. With fear in her eyes, she asked me what had happened, and I told her the whole dream.

Fantasy lands

I woke up.

I heard a voice from the attic. It was a sound I'd never heard before. I went upstairs and saw the sounds were coming from an old wardrobe that had been there almost forever. Suspiciously and cautiously, I peered through the half-closed door. Nothing. I opened it and saw the inside of a normal wardrobe. Well, except for those strange patterns that looked like embroidery on old underwear. But there was no doubt the voice was coming from there. The voice—I recognized it as speech, which became clearer as I reached the wardrobe—squawked and squeaked something about beer, food, and various other elements of a good time. Wanting to finally figure out what it was, I went into the wardrobe. Suddenly the door slammed shut, and I felt something like nausea, or at least the feeling you get after eating a ton of sugar and two hundred kilograms of salted herring.

I don't know how long it lasted, but when my back hit the hard stone, I was wearing a purple suit with stars and a pointed hat with various other fragments of the sky, covered in inscriptions similar to those in the wardrobe. There was no wardrobe. I found myself on a table, among platters and dishes, bathed in the stench of meat, sweat, beer, and sauces. Strange, small creatures sat around the table. Besides, I immediately learned who I was dealing with.

"A wizard! Kill him, fellow goblins!"

A flock of greenish monsters, whose language I shouldn't understand, pounced on me. Still, what puzzled me most was how the wardrobe had come to be in my house. Fortunately, before one of the goblins' rotten fingers touched me, the surroundings blurred, and suddenly I slammed my back into the floor. This was starting to annoy me.

"Hello," said a strange old man in the English medieval garb of a nobleman. "Do they wear such clothes in your area? Who are you?" "

I'm Michał Plummer," I replied, not quite sure why we were speaking so strangely. "I don't know where this outfit came from."

"Ah, so it's as I suspected, you inherited the outfit from the previous owner of the hidden portal.

" "I don't understand. The wardrobe wasn't hidden in my attic at all."

"The portal was hidden in the wardrobe? Oh, how trivial! I'll bring it here right away..." As he spoke, he made a complicated gesture with his hands, occasionally touching my head. Suddenly, the wardrobe appeared right next to it, nearly slamming its door on the cat's tail in the dusty wizard's workshop (with all the accoutrements, from a telescope in the window, through various bottles and containers, to the head of some creature floating in spirit).

"From what I've read in your thoughts, it seems the wardrobe belonged to the wizard Sordid, who isn't very well-known, even in this world."

"World?" I asked, growing increasingly bewildered. "You can't tell me I was transported somewhere far from Warsaw!"

"I don't know what place you're talking about, but if you want to get home, you'd better hurry, because you don't have much time left. The dimeritium needed to maintain the portal is running low and won't last for the return trip. By the way, my name is Merlin and I'm almost four hundred years old, so show me some respect.

" "Merlin?!" I yelled. "The one from King Arthur?" I added when I'd calmed down a bit.

"Indeed. But you shouldn't shout like that. Not many people know I'm this Merlin.

" "Good. How do I get this... dimeritium?"

"Dwemeritium is a very rare metal, but I know where there's plenty. The inner walls of the royal castle are covered with it to protect the king from magic; a single tile is enough.

" "Will I harm the king?" I shuddered, thinking of the hordes of the king's bodyguard chasing me, fearing every spark, thinking it's sorcery.

"Not at all. A large cube in the center of the castle would have been enough, really."

"Thanks. Can I count on any more help? These clothes look ridiculous, and I don't have any money."

"Leave the clothes on, they might protect you if necessary. The hat is an artifact, like a bottomless pit, so check if there's anything useful inside."

I took off the ridiculous hat and, with renewed hope, searched inside for something. However, only after uttering a ridiculous spell did a few coins fall out. The local currency was dragons, but I only had forty septims, the equivalent of four sets at Mc'Bagienny (the local bar). I thanked the kind wizard and, apprehensive, went out into the street. What I saw wasn't so bad. An ordinary medieval town, familiar from books. Only without the stinking gutters and filthy beggars. In the distance, I could already see the golden logo of the bar Merlin had mentioned. A large, upside-down "B" that seemed to indicate good food and a place where one could learn something.

Once inside, it turned out to be quite large and packed to the brim with humans, dwarves, halflings, and a few other intelligent races—the only thing missing were elves, but they wouldn't stoop to such food. I walked up to the bar and spoke to a portly staff member.

"Excuse me, do you know anything about dwemerite?

" "This is a bar, not an information desk," the bartender replied with a forced smile.

"Then I'd like the house special." (resignation) The bartender sighed and yelled toward the kitchen, "

Ivan! Swamp set once! 10 septims," ​​the bartender added, a little more quietly. I realized with horror that this would take up a quarter of my funds. However, before I could protest, the set was already in my hands and I found myself in front of the diner, 10 septims poorer.

In the kit, I found a slime burger, a portion of green fries, and a slush shake. I threw the fries in the trash, but remembering that shakes are excellent lubricants, I kept the wooden cup with something resembling gel. The burger might also be useful for something (besides eating).

I continued on. After a short time, I found myself on the outskirts of town. I reached a lake. I was about to drink the crystal-clear water, but suddenly the water took on a greenish hue, and something visibly gurgled in the middle of the lake. A woman in a flowing robe (what else can you call a semi-transparent tunic?) emerged from the foam, swam, or rather flew, toward me, and called out,

"Where are you from, virtuous... Wizard?

" "From afar," I replied, stunned. "Are you the Lady of the Lake? If so, could I have a sword?" I'm defenseless..." I suddenly felt ashamed for having started with requests so quickly. But the creature spoke.

"Yes. I was waiting for you. However, you'll have to settle for this." She handed me a small but heavy sword. "Arthur took this one, my best sword." He didn't even say a word then. Rude! "

Thank you, my lady. Forgive me, however, that I must leave you to go on a journey to the local castle." "I have no idea why I was babbling so much." "See you soon!" I hurried away. Something told me this young lady was talkative, and I didn't have time.

After a long wandering through strange alleyways, I came across the market square. Unfortunately, all the shops were closed, except for the "Souvenir Shop." I decided to ask around. Inside, I found a man trying to fit himself into a chameleon costume. "

Good morning. " "

Hello. Would you like to buy something funny?"

"Not really. Perhaps you could tell me how to get to the castle?"

"Okay," the man agreed. A long and convoluted description ensued, which I won't repeat here, as it helped me get there. "What do you have there? Could I have it? It would be a great ingredient for my stink bomb!" The man pointed to my swamp burger, which I was happy to get rid of. "Thanks! As a reward, you'll get a sample for only 30 septims." I agreed because it would help me get rid of the guards. I thanked him, paid him, and left, heading for the castle.

When I got there, it turned out I was right. The guards wouldn't let me in unless I paid 2 dragons. Since I'd never seen that currency before, I treated them to a stink bomb. I thought they'd faint, but it was better – they ran until the dust was gone. I almost fainted, but I entered the castle. In the courtyard, some young man was shooting peas at me with a straw.

"Stop it! Ow!" Stop it, you $*@&~`#^%&^%$!!!

-I'll call daddy right away, and he'll have your head cut off! - replied the little guy.

"Oh, is your daddy a king?" I had to change my tone. "Perhaps you'd like a nice sword instead of that pea? It's a more suitable weapon for a prince, I think."

"Give it!" the enthusiastic boy shouted. We made a strange exchange, thanks to which the little one stopped noticing me, practicing on a puppet standing in the courtyard. I quickly tore a plate of blue metal from the stone walls and escaped, hiding it in my hat.

After returning to Merlin's, everything went smoothly. We loaded the wardrobe and I flew home, bidding farewell to Merlin and this crazy land. Once I got there, I noticed I was back in my pajamas, and the wardrobe looked much more normal – just like it always had. The worst part was that it was almost seven in the morning, and I had to go to school after all this!!!

A day in the life of Zdzisiek

Today was shaping up well. He'd gotten out of bed late enough to flush the last of the alcohol from his system. But he was still thirsty. He hadn't eaten breakfast, because why would he? He'd take it from some teenager or down some chips. He trudged glumly to the kitchen and opened a beer hidden under the sink. "Nothing like a cold beer in the morning!" he thought. But he had to go to work—any more and the boss would get to his... skin. He'd let too much go. "Time to wake up," he dragged his feet to the bathroom. He checked his hair. A shy light blond peeked out from under a thick layer of bright green dye. "Dyeing it again! But not now. I'm already late," he sighed. The left side of his hair had dulled a bit—the spikes were tilted toward the top of his head. He quickly fixed it with a bit of hairspray and some practiced hand movements. It was much better this way. He masked the stench wafting behind him with a layer of spray. He remembered that he had band practice today. He was the guitarist in the heavy – grunge – black – punk – meat – metal band "Śmierdąące kichy." "What should I wear?" he groaned unconsciously, opening his wardrobe. After a brief moment of deliberation, he put on black leather studded trousers, a black leather studded jacket, and combat boots. He also grabbed his favorite black leather-covered, studded baseball bat. "Hmm, I wonder what a baseball bat is?" he thought idly. He took a second, of course... His first breakfast – two beers and a half liter – he packed into his backpack. The bottles barely fit because of all the books. He'd have to get rid of them. He left the apartment. He stuck his hand in and grabbed some cigarettes from the dresser. He didn't lock the apartment – ​​why? His mother was already waking up anyway. Grumbling glumly, he stooped toward inevitable, fruitless (?) boredom. After those few hours of accelerated learning, he probably wouldn't pass the second grade in that damn shack.

The janitor (that old whore) yelled at him again for not changing his shoes. However, she kept a safe distance from the stick that 14-year-old Zdzisiek was using to disguise himself, limping slightly. He went to the classroom. The teacher, worse than the cloakroom attendant, talked the rest of the lesson through about why he was late, where he was, how he was going to pass next year, and what was happening to these young people today. This two-hundred-pound elephant should have retired long ago—and gone on a diet. The bell interrupted his nap. He stood up and suddenly it dawned on him—"Lunch break! Time to relax!" (RELAXATION – in this case, having fun, being a hooligan, smoking, drinking and kicking some ass in one word.)

"I needed this," Zdzisiek breathed a sigh of relief, leaving behind a small cataclysm, a cloud of smoke and a drizzle of beer. As an afterthought, he added, "A few less sweatpants." There were only two more classes left – PE and religion. He was excused from both – the former due to weak lungs, the latter due to an allergy to exorcisms. He could have gone home, but he preferred to go shopping, which consisted of a large amount of provisions for breakfast, as well as new strings – the ones had burned out after the last concert. That was when he changed his hairstyle – his previous hair had been badly singed. Time for rehearsal.

Someone offered him cigarettes, someone beer, a joint. They liked him here. Time to let off steam on his instrument.

Staggering back from rehearsal, Zdzisiek unerringly found his way home (as usual, this is no problem for birdbrains). Along the way, he encountered a red giraffe, a blue hippopotamus, and a half-colored zoo animal. "It must be those joints," Zdzisiek thought. At home, a purple toad—his mother—opened the door. Squawking and gurgling, she led him to his room, which was thickly plastered with posters of files. Zdzisiek undressed and collapsed unconscious on the bed

Words

"

- Yes. I fell... I looked away from the Light to sink into the bottomless void. I made that desperate gesture. How foolish I was! Only now do I see it. Only now, when time has healed the wounds. I can boldly say I regret it... Funny, don't you think? We were meant to be messengers of order and truth, but we brought only sorrow and anguish. We strayed, and I strayed the most. I admit...

- There's nothing wrong with wandering.

- You're mistaken, Angel. Wandering often leads to evil. It should be avoided.

- Everything has its meaning, though often hidden from our eyes. Your intentions were pure, and you will be held accountable for it.

Lamiel smiled sadly. A warm gust of wind blew her hair into a dance, only to depart a moment later, leaving behind quivering leaves on the nearby trees and a cloud of dust, settling lazily to sleep.

"Good intentions are not enough to erase the burden of sin. By pleading ignorance, shortsightedness, or stupidity, I only add another sin to my account."

The white-clad stranger sat across from Lamiel, on a huge, flat stone. His youthful face was tense and serious. The angel looked away, drawn by the electrifying gaze of his warm, brown eyes. After a moment, she broke the silence.

"Oh, if only the world didn't have two faces in every aspect. Everything would be so simple. Wherever white is found, there's black, and good can always turn out to be evil, with the passage of time. How can I grasp this, understand it, make the right decisions? I can't find the answer."

The man smiled, tilting his head to the side. With amusement in his voice, he said,

"The Lord is testing you. You're not afraid to take it, are you?"

"Oh yes! I knew you'd say that, Radiant One. It's your eternal song," Lamiel snorted, shaking her curls. The sun glinted off her hazel locks. "The Lord is always testing us. He is tireless in this."

"So you think he does evil?"

Surprise showed on the angel's face. She hadn't expected such a question.

"Why are you silent, Lamiel? I know you know the answer. The evil that befalls us strengthens us; suffering gives us strength, opens our eyes to truth, allows us to understand. Appreciate the obstacles that stand in your way.

" "It's hard to appreciate something whose consequences we don't see from the first moment. Our memories are too short to enjoy what bears fruit years later."

The man smiled wryly at these words. He stretched out his legs, shod in time-worn sandals.

"You just said that shortsightedness is a bad excuse."

Lamiel looked sharply at the stranger. He surprised her. She ran her fingers through her hair, tossing it over her shoulder.

"Don't try to take my words, angel," she replied slowly. "It's easy to express your opinions, harder to act on them.

" "And yet you don't throw words to the wind.

" "Where does this certainty come from?

" "I hear it in your voice, I see it in your eyes. You carry all your experiences through life in your heart, you dress them in words, and you let others know. You don't speak of things you haven't had the opportunity to taste. That's wise. Fools are those who speak the thoughts of others as if they were their own, not even understanding the true meaning of those words. Their wisdom and advice are worthless."

Suddenly, a young man, panting, ran from behind the rocks. He stopped before the angel. Lamiel flinched in surprise. The mortal had no right to see them, yet he stared intently at the stranger, while he seemed not to notice her.

"Teacher," the youth said, once he had managed to regain his breath, turning to the angel, "The people are waiting."

"I know, Matthew. Let them wait," he replied with a smile, tilting his head to look the man in the eye.

The wind once again stirred the leaves on the nearby trees. Lamiel rose from the stone on which she sat. Her cream-colored robe flowed smoothly, rippling with the gentle breeze. She slowly approached the angel. The mortal didn't even look at her when she spoke in a whisper:

"Who are you, by the Light?

" "I am the Son of my Father."

The man flinched, surprised, seeing that the words weren't addressed to him.

"The Son of the Father..." Lamiel repeated quietly, narrowing her eyes. "They call you Jesus of Nazareth, don't they? People see you as the Messiah. I mocked that." She snorted softly, turning on her heel. "Why do you speak to me, Son? To one who disobeyed your Father? To the fallen one?

" "And why shouldn't I?" Sinners often show greater kindness than those who pride themselves on it.

Lamiel silently looked over her shoulder at the angel.

"Who are you speaking to, Lord?" the man asked with a frightened expression.

"It's not important, Matthew," he replied, rising. He passed the man and set off down the dusty road. "Come. The people are waiting."

The mortal stood for a moment longer, staring into space. Lamiel glanced at his expression with amusement and, as she passed him, touched his face with the back of her hand. He flinched, clearly frightened, and in great haste followed the teacher. Lamiel was left alone.

Positive thoughts part 2

After that, I couldn't see anything because I felt faint. Whenever I got scared, or nervous, or panicked, I felt like I was falling into nothingness, into something bottomless. I felt that way again now. I closed my eyes and felt myself falling backward, falling into some abyss. When I looked at Damian, I saw his terrified eyes and his body rising from the chair. Then he somehow fell to the left, or maybe I was falling to the right. I don't know, but I felt his hands holding me from falling to the ground. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in the same room as before. I was lying on a soft couch in some room. Damian was sitting next to me.

"Are you better?" he asked. I instinctively grabbed my head because it started to hurt so much I had to close my eyes. I had a terrible hangover. Oh, someone was saying something to me.

"What?" I asked, searching for him. "Yes, it's better, I think."

"Did you faint, was it because of that million?

What million... oh my god, really." I felt faint again. This time, however, I was too curious about this inheritance.

"This inheritance, isn't it some kind of joke of yours? Or maybe Mom wanted revenge?"

Damian looked at me with pity.

"What a joke. You have all the documents here. This isn't a joke, Mina..."

Oh, Mina said to me. He hadn't done this in a long time. Okay, I finally looked at the documents without fainting. Indeed, my father left me a million złoty in his inheritance.

"Where did he get so much money?" I asked, because that was the only thing I could think of at the moment.

"From what his lawyer told me, my father was involved in some shady dealings with some shady characters. Do you know what I mean?

Of course I knew. I watch the news every day; I know what kind of scams people can pull.

" "So, did he get involved and earn that much?"

"I suspect he earned a lot more, but the money disappeared somewhere."

He put the money he'd earned into some savings bonds, the stock market, and made a profit. Hence these enormous sums.

God, even more? I don't know, did he kill someone or what? Besides, I wouldn't be surprised at all. The stock market? Did he know anything about it? I thought to myself, we didn't live like kings after all. True, I always had clothes to wear and food to eat, but never anything too extravagant.

"Did Mom know about that?

" "No, no one knew about it until Mr. Pawlicki came to Mom and told me about the inheritance.

From what I understood, Mr. Pawlicki was a lawyer working for my father. Oh my, how stupid and pointless it all was. Why the hell would my father leave me so much money? To clear his conscience before he dies? I wouldn't dream of forgiving him or even giving him any pleasure, either in life or after.

"But I don't want that money," I blurted out without thinking. I would have repeated it just to see my brother's face again.

"Have you completely lost your mind? Have you lost your mind? You haven't sobered up yet," he said now, sounding completely un-lawyered. For the first time in my life, I had managed to catch my brother off guard. I smiled, which only infuriated Damian further.

"I don't want that money," I repeated, louder so he could hear me clearly. I really didn't. Nothing I owed my father was welcome in my life. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

" "You can't do that. It's too much money to just give up like that," he said, reproachful. "Fucking materialistic!

" "It's my money, and I'll do whatever I want with it," I said, saying exactly what came to mind. Damian shook his head. He probably wanted to strangle me.

"At least take it back and donate it to something, or give it to your mom, because she's really tight on money. I don't know, you could give it to someone else, you don't have to take it for yourself. You can't just say no to it, because no one expected you to be the one receiving the inheritance. It was a complete shock for everyone. And now they'll be mad at you.

Ha! Exactly, why not me? Because what, I accused my father of molestation? Was that some kind of sin? He was the bad guy, and now everyone's outraged that I have millions in my pocket. And who cares if they're mad at me? I'm surprised my father chose me. That probably made me even more angry. It turns out he's better than me again.

" "What? Everyone probably thinks I don't deserve this money?"

Damian said nothing, which I took as a positive answer.

I actually thought I could use this money for a noble cause. What the hell, the money would be useful, but definitely not from my father.

"Okay, I'll take it," I said dispassionately, and my brother's expression changed. He was the same stiff lawyer again. God, there was so much hypocrisy and deceit in my family.

"But..." I didn't let him say anything else. "I won't take a single fucking penny of that money."

Damian grimaced again. He could work as an actor, because the volatility in his face was astonishing.

"What do you mean? You really don't want that money? It'll be useful to you, you'll get back on your feet. You won't have to earn those pittances. You'll be able to live a normal life, you'll finish your studies..." Damian spoke, and I listened and listened. He was right; it was all too good to be true. In every sweet happiness, there's a touch of bitterness. If it hadn't been my father's money, I wouldn't have hesitated for a second.

"I don't want anything from him. I'll give them away so poor children don't have to live like I did.

" "You're starting again..." Damian whispered.

"I'm not starting, I'm just telling you what I'm going to do with them. And I don't care if you like it or not!

" "Fine!" my brother practically shouted. I think I'd upset him. "Take them and do whatever you want with them. Your money, your business.

And just so you know, they're mine," I thought to myself. "They'll be useful, you don't have to worry anymore.

" "So when can I pick them up?" I asked, the thought of seeing a million złoty with my own eyes thrilling me. My brother, however, smiled. It probably wasn't a good sign. Later, it turned out I was right.

"What are you thinking, Mina? That I'll just give you the money?"

Well, that's how I imagined it, but I knew it would take a while.

" "So how long will I have to wait?

" "That's up to you.

" "Meaning?" I didn't quite understand that last part.

"Dad set a condition, and I have to admit, it's a bit..." Damian paused for a smile. "Peculiar, so to speak.

" "What do you mean, peculiar? So what am I supposed to do?" I was starting to get annoyed by my father's stupid game. Not only had I had enough of him during his lifetime, but now I'm fed up with him after his death.

"When I heard that, I thought it was some kind of joke, but the lawyer proved me wrong.

" "What do you mean?

" "The only condition for you to get the money is to go to church."

"What? God, what are you talking about? I really don't understand anything anymore. Tell me finally, clearly and precisely, what I have to do.

" "You have to go to a priest named Rawski. You have to confess to him and then tell him that you forgive your father for whatever he's done to you. This won't count as part of the seal of confession, so the priest will be able to testify that you've forgiven your father."

Then I was simply speechless! There's no way to describe what I was feeling. It's impossible, there's no such word anywhere, no one has ever felt like this before, it was a new experience, it has to be patented!

"This is absurd!" I screamed, unable to bear it any longer. I got up from the couch and looked for an exit.

"Where am I anyway?!

My brother was frightened again.

"You're in my apartment," he said calmly. "Sit down, Irmina.

" "In your apartment. Please, what a luxury you've found. I won't sit there because I plan to leave and never come back. This is all ridiculous. It's a shame you wasted your precious time because of me, little brother." I was at the end of my rope. I wanted to throw something at him.

"Calm down, damn it.

" "What, calm down?!!" I sat up because I felt like falling again.

"Mina, you don't have to decide on anything right away.

" "Shut up," I growled through my teeth. "I've had enough of all this. What else do you expect from me? That I'll go to his grave and cry? That I'll tell him how much I miss him? I'll never forgive him for what he did to me!"

Suddenly, I realized my brother wasn't an idiot and must have guessed that my father wanted me to forgive him for a reason.

"Do you know what I have to forgive him?" I asked him suddenly. The words slipped out of my mind. Damian remained silent, staring at the floor.

"Will you believe me now that I wasn't lying when I said what he did to me back then. And now he expects forgiveness from me? He probably didn't want to burn in hell, even though he deserves it, and now he wants my damn absolution.

" "Mina..." Damian replied. "I don't know why Dad set such a condition. One thing is certain: without him, you won't have the money.

That was a fact." By the way, I was really hoping that something inside my brother would suddenly snap and he'd hug me and say he was sorry. For one brief moment, I really thought so. But it passed quickly. After all, my brother had the same blood as my father. So what could I expect from that lousy DNA of his? Actually, I had the same genes too, but they were weeded out of me the moment my father first touched me.

I grabbed those stupid inheritance papers and got up from the couch. Damian looked at me suspiciously.

"So what are you going to do now?" he asked.

"Nothing." I shrugged. "It's my money, but you won't see it for a long time. I'm not going to go to any priest and tell him I forgive my father. Because I'll never do that! I won't forgive him, that's it!"

Damian, with those expressions, had already outdone himself; he'd have a guaranteed role in Hollywood. He looked at me again like I was crazy.

"It's just stupid, I forgive you," he said with his eyes closed, waving his hand like a seasoned lawyer.

"Maybe for you, but definitely not for me. My father expects too much from me, or… did," I added, since he was already dead. "What hotel do you have that suite in?" I said, looking around the room. I wanted to go home. Too much for one day. I needed to think this over in peace, with some good wine.

"I'll take you home," Damian said, rising from the couch.

"No, I'll get home myself; Warsaw isn't that big after all," I told him.

"Will you want to meet with the rest of the family to personally piss them off and tell them you don't want the inheritance?

" "What do they have to do with this?" I asked, surprised. Were they hoping to get a piece of my frozen fortune?

"Well, you know, after all, it's your family, and they obviously had some hopes that...

" "Right." I didn't let him finish, because I already knew what he'd say. "No, I don't want to see anyone."

That was the truth, anyway. I no longer had any positive relationship with my mom, or anything like that. It wasn't possible to just sit with her over tea and tell her about my life. Besides, I wasn't going to confide in her or anything like that. Not to her. Besides Damian, I had a younger sister and an older brother. Weronika was eight years younger than me, so she was twenty now. What a brat, what would she want from me? She had her own life; from what I heard, she'd already gotten married (too young for my taste), and she's even pregnant, although no belly was visible at the funeral. Well, I didn't have a very good relationship with her. Weronika was angry with me, saying I was the reason my dad was so sad and upset. She was little, and I didn't tell her what was really going on. Mom probably lied to her about me, and that's how she got the idea in her poor head that Daddy was somehow responsible for Irmina. Janusz, my older brother, who was now thirty-six, well, I knew almost nothing about him. He moved out when I was eleven. I only remember he had stupid friends who wanted to screw me. Back then, I only associated them with my daddy because they grabbed my ass when no one was looking. Just like him, ugh... what a horror! Janek was always running some business in the yard, the kids were afraid of him, and once I even remember Mom getting really angry with him because he robbed a neighbor and then set her garage on fire. Yes, yes, that was my little brother. He was the complete opposite of Damian. Scary, evil, mean, and he yelled at me when I told him about my friends. I still don't like him to this day. I don't even know what's happening to him; I didn't see him at the cemetery. He's probably in jail, I wouldn't be surprised.

After all this thought, I decided with conviction that I don't want to see any member of my family, none at all. If my grandparents were alive, I'd probably only want to talk to them. But unfortunately, they're already dead.

"Damian. I really don't want that money. Sure, it would be useful to others, but that condition is impossible for me to fulfill."

He shook his head, and quiet words escaped from under his nose, something like, "I forgive you stupidly." Well, yes, to him it was certainly stupid—I forgive you, but not to me. They taught me in psychology that you should interpret the world through your mind and wisdom, not your faith or your heart, but for me, those teachings were too strange. I'd always believed in God and, in most cases, I'd been guided by my heart (which never led to anything good), so now, when I was faced with the prospect of lying to a priest, God, and myself for a million zlotys, I wasn't so sure of myself. I'd told myself once that I'd forgive my father when I was ready. And for now, that moment of readiness wasn't imminent.

"Well... I'm going," I said after a moment of silence. I held the documents regarding my inheritance in my hand.

"As you wish, Mina," Damian replied resignedly. He probably didn't like losing his cases in court, and this one looked like a disaster for him. "I hope you'll think it over," he persisted. "If anything, I'll be in Poland for another month," he added. He probably believed I'd change my mind in that time. Oh, he was sorely mistaken.

"Okay, if anything…" "What exactly?" "I'll call. Besides, you know where I live," I said, making absolutely no sense. I didn't want him to come visit me at all. "Well, bye," I told him, and left the apartment.

Fish)Eryk - a Christmas story

One night, quite recently, after returning from an evening journey, I went into the bathroom to light a cigarette, to oxygenate myself, to pave the asphalt road on my lungs leading straight to the other world. I knew—despite the slight buzzing in my head—that a carp was swimming in the bathtub. It had been swimming since noon. I didn't want to look at it. Why look at a fish? It's neither pretty, nor does it tickle the aesthetic sense. Maybe a goldfish, perhaps one that grants wishes—maybe it is, maybe it is pretty, yes, wonderful, magnificent—but a carp? A carp is a carp, damn it, it's a fish you don't ask for money, villas, cars, or whatever, but it's a fish you eat without asking unnecessary questions before you die. At least that's what I thought at the time... I pulled a devilishly black lighter from my left pocket, and a moment later, the flames flared. The bathroom filled with smoke. Smoking wasn't allowed in the house. The stench, the curtains turning yellow, the wallpaper turning yellow, the flowers falling—that's what my mother used to say. Like a prodigal son, but still perhaps not so bad, I tried to adapt... And so I smoked, watched my dull green eyes peering at me from the mirror, stared at my hair, glistening with drops that had been white flakes just a few minutes before, and which had apparently decided that they would do less harm if they landed on my long, soft locks than on the paving stones. I felt something strange, I didn't know what, some force, as if I heard a silent scream, as if some metaphysical being were determined to turn my head towards... What? Who? A carp, of course... Before I realized what was happening, I was staring at it, mesmerized by the grace of its movements. Compared to me, it was small, but for a fish, it was quite impressive. He was certainly quite the Casanova in the pond, to put it rather rudely, he was probably getting a bite. "Eryk," I heard, "Ryb Eryk." I didn't know if it was his first and last name, or a nickname written together... "Ryb Eryk or Ryberyk?" I wondered. And he was looking at me. He stopped in the water, gently waving his small fins, calibrating them so skillfully that he stayed in one place. He was still looking at me, his fishy eyes fixed on my face. I knew that from that moment on, we were friends. Friends for life and death, until the end, forever and ever.... I wanted to tell him how I spent that evening, I wanted to ask him about many things, for example about male-female relations among carp, about the life of their community, about their world, about the depths of lakes and ponds, entertainment, religion, economic matters, dreams and goals... I had almost done it when I heard one single word in my head that shook me to the core... "Save me!"... The echo carried it through my head, one word transformed into a hundred identical words, a hundred identical ones! I slowly inhaled my cigarette, trying to come up with a plan, to think about it,How to save (Fish)Eryk... "I'll buy him back from his father, buy him back, and release him into the nearby pond!" I stubbed out the cigarette, or rather what had once been a cigarette, threw it down the toilet, flushed it, and headed towards my parents' bedroom... I came to the conclusion that they wouldn't be happy if I woke them up in the middle of the night because of a fish. They wouldn't understand that he was my friend, that you don't kill your children's friends, they certainly wouldn't understand that their children's friends, even if they were fish, should be their friends. So what if this child had already turned eighteen—even if he were thirty, he would always be their child, and his friends should be treated well at home... Well, my head was spinning more and more, my thoughts were tangled, confused, fading away... Standing in front of my room, I waved towards the bathroom and then headed off into the vast realms of the dream world... The next day, I got up several hours later. A steady, throbbing headache reminded me of what had happened that evening and what had happened in the bathroom. "(Fish)Eryk!" The sun illuminated the entire room. I jumped to my feet like a shipwrecked person on a raft who saw the outline of land. I rushed toward the bathroom. I was frozen, rooted to the spot. If Lot had seen me at that moment, he would probably have shouted with tears in his eyes, "My wife, my wife!" Filled with the worst forebodings, I shuffled to the kitchen... He was there, already there... Headless, in several pieces... My world collapsed, shattered... I quietly whispered the name of my friend, whom my father had murdered in cold blood and with a clear conscience... From that moment on, nothing has been the same, the world has never been the same... I, too, am different... It was the worst Christmas of my short life... I lost a friend during it, whom my entire family ate... And they had the nerve to wonder why I wasn't eating? I looked at their moving jaws, at the pieces of (Fish)Eryk that they pulled out every now and then from their mouths, sadness gripped my insides, I fought back the tears, I felt like vomiting... Since that moment, so memorable for me, I haven't eaten carp, and every Christmas I associate only with my dearly missed friend, whom I never had the chance to meet... with (Fish)Eryk... I can't even light a candle for him, he wasn't even buried... To the family, to those people without feelings!, I will never, never!, forgive this... this... disgusting act of cannibalism!That this child had already turned eighteen—even if it were thirty, it would always be their child, and its friends should be treated well at home... Well, my head was spinning more and more, my thoughts were tangled, confused, fading away... Standing in front of my room, I waved towards the bathroom and then headed off into the vast realms of the dream world... The next day, I woke up several hours later. A steady, throbbing headache reminded me of what had happened that evening and what had happened in the bathroom. "(Fish)Eryk!" The sun illuminated the entire room. I jumped to my feet like a shipwrecked man on a raft who saw the outline of land. I rushed towards the bathroom. I was frozen, rooted to the spot. If Lot had seen me at that moment, he probably would have shouted with tears in his eyes, "My wife, my wife!" Full of the worst premonitions, I shuffled to the kitchen... He was there, he was already there... Headless, in several pieces... My world collapsed, shattered into pieces... I whispered quietly the name of my friend, whom my father had murdered in cold blood and with a clear conscience... From that moment on, nothing was the same, the world was no longer the same... I, too, was different... It was the worst Christmas of my short life... I lost a friend during it, and my whole family ate him... And they had the nerve to wonder why I wasn't eating? I looked at their moving jaws, at the pieces of (Fish)Eryk that they pulled out every now and then from their mouths, sadness gripped my insides, I fought back the tears, I felt like vomiting... Since that moment, so memorable for me, I haven't eaten carp, and every Christmas I associate only with my dearly missed friend, whom I never had the chance to meet... with (Fish)Eryk... I can't even light a candle for him, he wasn't even buried... To the family, to those people without feelings!, I will never, never!, forgive this... this... disgusting act of cannibalism!That this child had already turned eighteen—even if it were thirty, it would always be their child, and its friends should be treated well at home... Well, my head was spinning more and more, my thoughts were tangled, confused, fading away... Standing in front of my room, I waved towards the bathroom and then headed off into the vast realms of the dream world... The next day, I woke up several hours later. A steady, throbbing headache reminded me of what had happened that evening and what had happened in the bathroom. "(Fish)Eryk!" The sun illuminated the entire room. I jumped to my feet like a shipwrecked man on a raft who saw the outline of land. I rushed towards the bathroom. I was frozen, rooted to the spot. If Lot had seen me at that moment, he probably would have shouted with tears in his eyes, "My wife, my wife!" Full of the worst premonitions, I shuffled to the kitchen... He was there, he was already there... Headless, in several pieces... My world collapsed, shattered into pieces... I whispered quietly the name of my friend, whom my father had murdered in cold blood and with a clear conscience... From that moment on, nothing was the same, the world was no longer the same... I, too, was different... It was the worst Christmas of my short life... I lost a friend during it, and my whole family ate him... And they had the nerve to wonder why I wasn't eating? I looked at their moving jaws, at the pieces of (Fish)Eryk that they pulled out every now and then from their mouths, sadness gripped my insides, I fought back the tears, I felt like vomiting... Since that moment, so memorable for me, I haven't eaten carp, and every Christmas I associate only with my dearly missed friend, whom I never had the chance to meet... with (Fish)Eryk... I can't even light a candle for him, he wasn't even buried... To the family, to those people without feelings!, I will never, never!, forgive this... this... disgusting act of cannibalism!From that moment on, nothing has been the same, the world has been different... I, too, am different... It was the worst Christmas of my short life... I lost a friend during that time, eaten by my entire family... And they had the nerve to wonder why I wasn't eating? I watched their jaws move, the pieces of (Fish)Eryk they pulled from their mouths every now and then, sadness gripped my insides, I fought back the tears, I felt like vomiting... Since that moment, so memorable for me, I haven't eaten carp, and every Christmas is associated only with my dearly missed friend, whom I never had the chance to meet... with (Fish)Eryk... I can't even light a candle for him, he wasn't even buried... I will never, never forgive my family, those people without feelings! This... this... disgusting act of cannibalism!From that moment on, nothing has been the same, the world has been different... I, too, am different... It was the worst Christmas of my short life... I lost a friend during that time, eaten by my entire family... And they had the nerve to wonder why I wasn't eating? I watched their jaws move, the pieces of (Fish)Eryk they pulled from their mouths every now and then, sadness gripped my insides, I fought back the tears, I felt like vomiting... Since that moment, so memorable for me, I haven't eaten carp, and every Christmas is associated only with my dearly missed friend, whom I never had the chance to meet... with (Fish)Eryk... I can't even light a candle for him, he wasn't even buried... I will never, never forgive my family, those people without feelings! This... this... disgusting act of cannibalism!

Arthur.

The Return, or A Christmas Carol"

When the doorbell rang, she was sitting in the kitchen. She bit her lip and anxiously awaited the next signal that would force her to open the door. "I'm not getting up," she thought. "I'll just sit here, let him knock himself to his damn death!" She feared it was the bailiff. In fact, she was almost certain it was him. Two days ago, she'd received an official letter announcing that she could expect a visit from a professional appraiser within a week. The bell rang again. She rose heavily from her chair and headed for the small hallway. An unpleasant tingling sensation gripped her hand as she touched the doorknob.

"Please. Not today," she whispered, opening the door a crack.

Ever since the official letter landed in her hands, she'd been trying to imagine what the Bailiff looked like. Finally, she concluded it must be a short, stocky man in a gray coat and black hat. She couldn't imagine him any other way. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a tall man standing behind the door, wearing a worn-out jacket instead of a coat and a dirty woolen cap for a hat. He stood in the shadows, staring at the wooden doorstep. "

You idiot!" she heard the voice of Edek, her ex-husband, echoing in her head. "Have you completely lost your mind? Why are you so happy? A damn bailiff can look however he wants! Idiot!"

"Excuse me," the newcomer asked timidly. "Are you okay?"

Ewa's eyes glazed over slightly. How could she have thought she could handle it on her own? When she left Edek, everything seemed different. Now, just before Christmas Eve dinner, she stood before the bailiff. Her children, waiting for their presents, would see this strange man carry away their refrigerator, television, and maybe even a table. No," she decided as she felt her fear being replaced by anger. "Not today." She'd managed to leave her husband after ten years, so she could also manage this intruder.

"No! Please leave immediately! You won't take anything from me today! Please come back next week, not today!"

The man raised his head. Ewa looked at him carefully. He was slim and old. His cheekbones were clearly defined beneath taut skin, etched with long wrinkles. His cheeks were covered with a snow-white stubble that hadn't been shaved for several days. The few thin strands of hair peeking out from under his cap were the same color. He reminded her of Clint Eastwood, as she'd seen him in his latest film. What was his name? At all costs, she remembered after a moment's thought. His eyes were blue and warm, distinguishing him from the Hollywood actor.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he said, clearly disappointed. "I'll go now..."

He turned away, but Ewa didn't let him go. She grabbed his arm and immediately caught the stench of clothes unchanged for days.

"I'm sorry. I mistook you for the bailiff," she said warmly. "Shall we start again?"

He looked at her curiously, and after a moment, his thin lips formed something like a smile.

"Me, a bailiff? Ma'am, I'm definitely on the other side of the barricade."

"Who are you?"

He shrugged, then for a moment, arched his back proudly. That single gesture had shaved at least a quarter of a century off him.

"Stanisław Drukarz." Even though he was hunched over again, he was more than a head taller than Ewa. "Currently, a nameless homeless man from the main train station. I was wondering if you'd invite me to dinner."

She sighed with relief. Her fears vanished, and a huge burden lifted from her heart. Why hadn't she thought of this sooner? Today was Christmas Eve, and she, like every year, was setting the table for an unannounced guest. Suddenly, her ex-husband's voice echoed in her head again. "What are you doing, you stupid whore?" he shouted at her, just like every night before they parted. "You're not going to let that lousy man into your house, are you? A fucking beggar!" Ewa brushed the voices away. After all, Edek was gone; he couldn't do anything to her or the children. Especially not the children.

"I'm sorry. I'm terribly absent-minded. Please come in." A glimmer of hope lit up the man's eyes. "Come in," she repeated.

He stared at her curiously for a moment longer, then bent down and picked up a black duffel bag.

"These are my things. All my things," he explained timidly when he noticed Ewa's searching gaze. "Thank you! I don't know how I can repay you!"

"First, please come inside and close the door before my apartment gets completely cold!" she laughed heartily. As soon as he entered the vestibule, she closed the door behind him.

"Mom, who is that?" a thin, girlish voice sounded from somewhere in the hallway. A moment later, a little girl appeared in the vestibule, dressed in jeans and a black sweater. Her long hair was carefully braided. "Mom, is that an angel?" she asked when she saw the unexpected guest.

Mr. Stanisław's face brightened. For a moment, Ewa felt as if some kind of energy radiated from him, but just as quickly, the unusual impression vanished. The girl immediately shook the unexpected guest's hand.

"Will you stay with us?" she asked, hope in her voice.

"Yes, for dinner," Ewa replied. For a moment, she looked anxiously at her daughter, who was trustingly shaking the homeless man's hand. What if he's a psychopath? Has he come to kill us? But something in the stranger's face dispelled those thoughts. "Now, will you take the man to the bathroom, please? I'm sure he wants to wash up a bit."

The homeless man nodded politely and allowed the little girl to lead him.

"Łukasz! Look! I met an angel!" the little girl shouted to her little brother. "

I'm sorry about her." Ewa was burning with shame.

A three-year-old boy emerged from the room. He was clutching his favorite teddy bear. For a moment, he eyed the visitor warily, and then the small hallway filled with the child's joyful laughter.

"Angel! Angel!"

Ewa looked at her children in surprise. She'd never seen them behave like this. True, Madzia always clung to new people she met and told them stories she'd made up. She was six years old and had an unfettered imagination. But Łukaszek... When she was pregnant with him, Edek started drinking. She remembered returning home, surrounded by the alcohol. She remembered the first time he hit her when she refused to make love to him. She was eight months pregnant, and he raped her in their marriage bed. After that, it only got worse. More and more often, the hand of the man who had promised her love until death landed heavily on her face. She told herself that other women had it worse. The most important thing to her were her children and having the strength to raise them. Dozens of times, she walked the city streets, hiding her black eye behind her glasses, telling curious people that she'd bumped into a door. On average, she'd get them once a week, and sometimes the swelling wouldn't go down for months. One evening, when her husband had been drinking with his friends after work, he came home and hit Łukaszek so hard that a stream of blood gushed from his little head. He did it because the little boy was drowning out his cries with some stupid TV show. It was probably "The Thirteenth Precinct," yes, that's definitely it, she recalled, tears welling up in her eyes. When the boy wouldn't stop sobbing, he tried to hit him again, but then she got in his way... "You fucking whore!" Edek shouted, and lunged at her with his fists. The show was still playing. As they landed on her, Cezary Pazura was acting up on the TV screen, and recorded peals of laughter echoed over and over again. She thought they were mocking her. She was sure the entire audience was watching, laughing at every blow. Ha, ha, ha! Look how he blackened her eye! Ha, ha, ha! Now the rib! You wanted it yourself! The audience, hidden somewhere, seemed to be shouting. "You wanted it yourself!" He beat her until the police, called by the neighbors, stopped him. They were disturbed by the television playing too loudly. Ewa spent a month in the hospital, suffering a broken rib and a punctured lung. She fought for her rights in court for six months, but eventually Edek went to jail, and she received an apartment and custody of the children. That night, Madzia slept over at a friend's house and didn't know what had happened. Łukaszek was a different story; his traumatic experiences and over a month of separation from his mother had left him an orphan. Now he was hugging a strange man and repeatedly screaming, "Angel! Angel!" She understood that new times had begun for her—times of hope. Ewa felt the urge to cry. A cry of relief. She realized she'd never have to see Edek again. She understood that no one would ever mock her again. She succeeded.

"The bathroom is that door over there. It's not big, but it's big enough for a bathtub.

" "Thank you," the old man replied. "For everything.

" "Thank you."

She ran into the kitchen so he wouldn't see her tears.

*

Magda bustled around her, helping carry the dishes to the Christmas Eve table. The girl was clearly pondering something. Finally, she stopped and scratched her head.

"Mom, do angels bring gifts? Are they like Santa Claus?"

"And why do you think our guest is an angel?"

"Well, because he is," Magda said, picking up three soup plates. "

Take four. For everyone," Ewa admonished her. "And where's your brother?" "

He's assembling something by the Christmas tree."

Ewa picked up a tureen of borscht and set it on the table next to the other dishes. There weren't many. She managed to make mushroom dumplings and a vegetable salad. There was also jellied carp, which a neighbor had given her for free. She looked around for her son. The little one was sitting by the artificial Christmas tree, curiously shaking a package. She took him under his arms and sat him down at the top chair.

"You're already sitting down.

" "Angel? Where's Angel?" the toddler asked.

In answer to his question, their guest appeared in the room. Ewa almost screamed in surprise when she saw him. Despite wearing an oversized flannel shirt and jeans whose legs he'd had to roll up several times, he looked significantly younger. Now she'd estimate him at no more than 50. He didn't slouch and was about two meters tall. His straight, snow-white hair reached his ears and was styled into an impeccable coiffure, as if he'd just left the hairdresser's. His stubble had disappeared from his face, though Ewa didn't remember keeping shaving kit in the bathroom. He held his travel bag in his hand. He found a place for it, finally placing it under the Christmas tree next to two small packages. He smiled brightly as he looked at the table.

"I see a real feast is in the making!"

Ewa blushed. She thought the newcomer was mocking her, but she couldn't detect a hint of deceit in his voice.

"I'm not a good cook," she tried to explain. "

Taste comes from the heart, not skill," Stanisław explained, sitting down at the table. He rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, but they slipped down again, obscuring his hands.

"I apologize for the clothes. These were the only ones I had." Stanisław looked at her gratefully. He had extraordinary eyes; she saw centuries of experience in them. Centuries? How is that possible? she thought, but the thought vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Mom! It's cold!" Magda shouted as she ran into the room. "

Sit down at the table," Ewa ordered, feeling the hairs on her arms stand on end. "I think there really is something wrong with the heating." She was about to get up when Stanisław stopped her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Easy." Nothing's happening, he explained in a warm voice, and she immediately felt the chill disappear. "Do you have a Bible?" he asked suddenly.

Ewa began to look nervously around the small room. She searched for some escape, but couldn't find any. The children stared at her expectantly, and she finally stammered uncertainly,

"Unfortunately. I'm not a believer."

"It doesn't matter. I think I still remember it," he replied, scratching his beard. He thought for a moment, then began to tell his story. "It was a long time ago; no one remembers those events anymore..."

He spoke like a storyteller, not a priest. His words contained no Bible verses; he spoke as if he were witnessing events from two thousand years ago. He spoke of the Archangel Gabriel visiting Mary. He spoke of the journey of Mary and Joseph. Finally, he arrived at the story of the birth of Jesus. They listened with bated breath, gazing into his eyes, which almost held a glimpse of the past. His face changed as he told the story; sometimes he brightened and smiled, sometimes he frowned. As he spoke of Jesus' coming into the world, a few tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. When he finished his story, they stared at him in a silence that no one dared to disturb. He broke it himself. He extended his hand and reached for the wafer lying on the table.

"My dears," he declared. "Thank you for your hospitality, which has been incredibly beneficial to me. I hope I can be of service to you too. The Lord loves you, so love each other." He looked serious, but a moment later he smiled broadly. "Happy birthday!" he exclaimed, and shared the wafer with them.

Ewa watched, captivated. She felt as if she had met her father. A father she had never met. She wondered who the mysterious visitor was. Could it be an angel? A real angel? She asked herself as she poured red borscht onto their plates.

"I haven't had Christmas Eve supper in a long time. For years," Stanisław declared, and tasted the soup. "Delicious! "

"Mom makes a great borscht!" Madzia exclaimed joyfully. "Young parrot?

" "Łarszcz," Łukaszek agreed, much to the delight of everyone gathered.

"How do you do it?" Ewa asked after a moment's hesitation. Even though the guest had introduced himself, she couldn't call him by his first name. "You spoke so beautifully! Were you ever an actor?"

"No. Never." He smiled warmly. "Maybe I should try it sometime?

" "Do angels have actors and televisions too?" Madzia asked. "

Are you starting again?" Ewa admonished, but there was no anger in her voice. "She's got it in her head that she'll be an actress someday. Now I'm tormenting everyone with questions and stories about television. She's completely obsessed with it.

" "Mom, can I open my present?" Magda got down to business, and before Ewa could answer, she was already struggling with a small package under the Christmas tree.

She looked at her with a sad look. The little girl wanted a doll like her friends'. A plastic baby that would cry, pee, and laugh, like a real child. She couldn't afford such a toy; instead, Magda would find a cheap doll from a newsstand. She bit her lip and looked impatiently at her daughter. She wanted the package to contain the gift she'd always dreamed of. Children need so little to be happy. She averted her gaze and looked at her guest. Stanisław was calmly eating a jellied carp, savoring every bite like a dish at an expensive restaurant. When he realized she was looking at him, he looked up and smiled mysteriously. She felt relief, and even Magda's joyful cries didn't surprise her.

"It's just what she dreamed of! Great!" the girl cried, tearing off the wrapping. A completely different doll from the one she'd bought her. "It's great!"

"Show it here for a moment."

The girl obediently ran over, clutching the toy.

"Alka!" Łukaszek shouted cheerfully.

Ewa lifted the doll. It was definitely a different model than the one she'd bought and wrapped in Christmas paper. She turned the toy over in her hands and looked at it in surprise. The doll's plastic eyes regarded her with a blank stare.

"And she pees, cries, and screams, and she's cool!" Madzia recited happily.

"Ika! Ika! Pee!" Łukaszek joined the conversation.

Only Mr. Stanisław sat quietly, a mysterious smile never leaving his lips. Time began to slow. His breaths grew longer and longer. His hands moved slower and slower, as if surrounded by water. Stanisław knew this moment would come. He waited. Finally, time stood still.

*

When time stands still, nothing happens before or after. Everything is now. It's a strange feeling, unlike anything anyone has ever experienced. Stanisław was not human, nor was his interlocutor, who stood before him. He was a black angel. The angel of death. When time stopped, he appeared, but not with a bang. He simply stood there, as if he had always been there. Darkness surrounded him, transforming into black wings. His black robes and hair flowed gently in the imperceptible breeze, also merging with the darkness that enveloped him. He had a pale face. His exceptionally beautiful, boyish features were distorted by an expression of dissatisfaction. His blazing black eyes regarded Stanisław with superiority and dislike. His thin lips opened, revealing a row of perfectly even, white teeth.

"So you've returned, Raphael," he said, his voice coming from all directions, as if he were everywhere at once.

Stanisław smiled, revealing equally white and symmetrical teeth. Small flames flashed in his eyes, a light so bright that a single glance would blind a person.

"You're the first in centuries to call me that," he said, his voice even more powerful than the black angel's. "Go away. You have nothing to look for here."

"You saw him. True," he stated, for he wasn't in the habit of asking. "Time is running out.

" "Go away. And let them know I've returned," Raphael declared. "Say that Azariah has returned. Say that Raphael has returned. Announce it, Black Angel."

The Angel of Death nodded, then leaned over Eve, frozen like a statue.

"Their time has come, Raphael. I'm taking them," he declared, touching the woman's cheek with a white finger. Suddenly he recoiled as if scalded. "Raphael, you can't! It's the humans who can't!"

Raphael smiled broadly. His eyes flashed with fire.

"I can. I'm part human now. I've done it before, and I can do it now. Do you overestimate your power, Angel?" I turned off the gas; they won't suffocate. They won't die today or tomorrow.

"How dare you! You will be punished for this!"

"That's not your decision," he replied calmly, but the flame in his eyes never faded. "I turned off the gas. There is no cause, no effect. No one will die in this apartment, for I control it." "

Remember, Raphael, you are not welcome here. Not even as a messenger of the Lord."

"Much has changed since I was last here. Depart, Black Angel, and announce my return." "

As you wish, my lord," the Black Angel replied, his voice brimming with contempt and fury, then let the invisible wind blow away.

Raphael sat in a chair and watched the family across from him. He loved humans, once paid homage to them. Not all angels did so. For centuries he had been nonexistent, part of the Lord, and now he had returned to Earth. He had only just awakened, but he was quickly regaining his strength. He was calm and composed, knowing he would soon discover the purpose of his mission. He had almost forgotten what wonderful creatures humans were. One good deed from the woman sitting across from him restored his strength and memory. He kissed the woman on the forehead, then placed his hands on the children's heads. He was back.

Ewa

felt something fall into her eye and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, their guest was gone. She shook her head in disbelief. A half-eaten bowl of aspic carp lay by the empty place setting. She stared at it in surprise, until she finally realized she must have put it there herself. For a moment, she felt a certain emptiness, as if someone were missing, but after a moment, that feeling vanished too.

"What, the Angel?" Łukaszek asked, pointing to the empty chair. "What?"

Ewa looked at him in surprise. She didn't understand what he meant. Magda had probably told him some nonsense again.

"Mom, where did he disappear to?" Madzia asked.

-Who?

-Oh, an angel! The one who had dinner with us!

"Have you got something on your mind again, huh? Admit it!"

The girl smiled slyly.

"If I did, where would this come from?" she asked, pointing to a large black travel bag lying under the Christmas tree. "Look, there's a note here." She studied the inscription for a moment. "For Ewa. This is for you, Mom!"

The woman approached the bag, smiling. She was convinced that Madzia had given her a gift. She kissed her daughter on the forehead and reached for the bag. It was heavy, as if someone had stuffed it with lead. She looked at her daughter in surprise and pulled the zipper. She almost fainted when she saw the gold bars that filled the bag. Little did she know that the guest she had long since forgotten had also saved her life by turning off the leaky gas boiler that heated the apartment.

4 seconds

The city. A shapeless, festering organism, incurable of its deformity, concealing its infirmity under the black cloak of night. The shadows of concrete coffins have become a habitat for bipedal vermin, vying with each other for the status of humanity.

All this is hidden in the mind of a hunchbacked sage in a ragged black robe, who daily fills his filthy syringe with deadly nectar. Feeding his body with an intravenous injection, he bestows upon humanity another sick vision of reality, born of his imagination.

Today, the streets are filled with grim apparitions, steely caricatures of ancient beasts, and lifeless colors stripped of their former luster. All this, as if in a hurry, tries to hide from the approaching golden morning.

Modern structures, yearning to reach the sky, have become home to numerous noble spiders, dignified cockroaches, and humans intolerant of them.

Thousands of television sets, illuminating the darkness of their homes, replace the sun and moon for their owners. Each day, increasingly drained of life, they fade to black and white. Trying to protect themselves from the dichotomy, they create surrogates of reality around themselves, embellishing everyday life with lies and artificiality. But can a person living in Technicolor truly be real?

Connected to others through the surrounding high-voltage lines, telephone cables, sewage pipes, and even a shared indifference to everyday life, we form a seamless whole with the city around us.

Somewhere below, hundreds of emaciated couples, sacrificing the remnants of their lives for one last animalistic copulation, die in a romantic embrace on their cardboard floors, next to a garbage can brimming with the scents of humanity.

Meanwhile, in warm, single-family homes outside the city, happy shop mannequins share a tin wafer flavored with cinnamon.

From here, however, one can glimpse the magnificence of this place. I wonder how long it would take a person to fall from this height…

4:16 AM. Wake-up call. Once again, I was brutally ripped from sleep and deprived of rest. Outside the window, soulless blackness battles with a billion tiny lights. Not yet fully awake, I watch the raindrops fall. Single ones, somewhere in the distance, and a few much larger ones a little closer. However, they all took on various shapes, as if to reveal the inner scream hidden in their lonely flight. When I rubbed my sleepy eyes, it turned out they weren't raindrops, but a downpour of suicides.

A Christmas Carol

###DAY###

My tooth hurts. No, that probably doesn't best describe what I'm feeling right now. I'm sure you've felt this pain yourselves, which, although it originates in one spot, radiates throughout your jaw. And even to your cheek and ear. And I can't do anything about it. I can't do anything for two reasons. The first is that I'm standing behind the plastic, blue handle of a supermarket trolley. A supermarket colorful with tacky Chinese lamps and reeking of fried carp from the tasting menu. The second reason is lack of money. I'm afraid to ask my parents for fifty złoty for the dentist, because I know it might ruin their holiday. I don't want to limit the number of dishes on the Christmas Eve table, because there aren't many of them anyway. My dad lost his job six months ago. He still can't get another one, and the benefits barely cover the bills. Oh well, these are the times. Others have it worse.

There's carp in the trolley. The cheapest, probably caught from the most sludgy part of the fishpond. Next to it, a net full of beets, eggs, and some spices. Everything's the cheapest. The most important thing is that the price doesn't exceed the value of the voucher, or there won't be anything left to pay for it. Just some ham and a canned food, and we can start preparing for Christmas. It won't last long. One salad, one cake, some herring, and a carp. The same one resting in a plastic bag at the bottom of the cart. Actually, resting sounds strange. It reminds me of resting, but it clearly isn't resting, just darting around looking for something to fill its gills. There are only a few jars left on the caviar shelves. I still don't understand who buys it. It's expensive, and no one can eat it. And probably few people like it either, but it's just not passé to talk about it openly or not have it when guests come over. Now to the checkout. Next to the red Santa Claus Coca-Cola, the blue Pepsi, and the green Kamis spices. And finally, you can stand behind the redheaded couple, the elderly lady in the mohair beret, the mother with her child, the Juppie wearing a tie, and a cell phone in her hand. Painfully flashy, with polyphonic jingle bells and a contact list of 2,500 names. After an hour at the cash register—which was apparently manned by a newly hired cashier, a blonde at that—and after dropping a złoty into the rectangular slot of the ZHP can—you can finally go to the bus stop. The bus, as usual, packed to capacity, and free, takes us right to my friend's house. We still have about a kilometer to walk.

The apartment welcomes us with an open door. And a million mingling scents. However, the most noticeable is cabbage. I hadn't eaten dinner today, so the scent effectively tempted me. I filled my stomach and went into my room. The tightly closed door and open window made it almost impossible to smell the food. I love the freshness that greets me whenever I clean my room. 7 p.m. The news arrives, and, tired from the day, I throw myself into bed. Just before the weather clears, a text message arrives. "Are you coming over?" They're predicting a snowstorm on Christmas Eve. And that's just as well, I'm not going anywhere, even though the atmosphere will improve a bit. "Okay, I'll be there soon." I leave without buttoning my shirt, without putting on my scarf. My gloves are torn, so I won't take them either. I won't be parading around like some tramp with my fingers hanging out. A five-minute walk and I'm there. The bell rings, I stroll down the stairs, and at the door, I'm greeted by a pretty girl in a tracksuit.

"Did you want something?" he asks, surprise in his voice and expression. "

I came to check the plumbing," and I add, almost shouting, "Good evening!"

"Come in, my parents are out shopping."

She looked as usual. That is, as usual to me. A friend. Pretty enough to see her beauty, not enough to tell her. I turned right and sat down in the strangest, but to me, most relaxed position you can imagine at that moment. Kaśka brought in the tea and turned on MTV. The first sentences were, as usual, complaints about the tiring day, the shitty weather, and a general lack of ideas for the evening. Except I had the idea, but what don't you do for friends? "

That new Bloodhound video is great. But I preferred Foxtrot," I break the silence and my staring at the fourteen-inch TV.

"I'll show you what's great in a moment."

She turns off the TV, opens the drawer of her red alder desk, and pulls out a disc. Probably burned with illegal MP3s. The remote, two clicks, and the disc tray of the silver LG player opens. Kasia places the disc on it and taps the buttons on the remote twice with her finger. The sounds of a Christmas carol slowly emerge from the speakers hanging on the walls. American. I might add, my favorite. Frank Sinatra dreams of a white Christmas. I suspect that if I were someone like Sinatra, I wouldn't have to dream of anything. To be clear, I'm not complaining. And I know others have it worse.

"But after we go to New York, will we spend Christmas together? You, Daria, me, Darek, and our children?" A hint of doubt appears in her eyes.

"No, just you, me, and our—I emphasize—children.

I'm not thinking about our children or marriage to my best friend. I'm just teasing. I love her reaction. It's always the same.

-Fuck you.

Someone might find this offensive, but our relationship has advanced enough that we can afford absolutely anything. I check my watch. It's almost nine. Another hour and a half has passed, talking about nothing. Meanwhile, my parents have returned. Of course, I've said hello. More music videos worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Boring, but not tiring, and split in half. I feel like sleeping. I tell Kasia about it.

"Actually, maybe you could come over on the first day of Christmas? Maybe I'll come over on the second?" I hear instead of the usual, "Go ahead." "

I don't know if I'll be home all Christmas," I lie. It's good that I haven't told her my holiday plans. Not really mine, but forced upon me by the small amount of money I have. I don't want to invite her to a holiday she saw on the news, where they said not all families can afford to organize holidays. And that we should help them on that day. On that day. I'll gladly help. Or I'll trade. I'm not in the best of shape either; I'd trade a piece of bread for a plate of borscht.

"Okay, cool. Go away then." Kaśka looks sad, but doesn't seem surprised.

I'm leaving. Of course, I said goodnight. I didn't wish her well, because we'll see each other again tomorrow. It's cold outside. Colder than when I left the house, so I had to zip up to my neck. The bus splashes over an old lady, but I escape unscathed. I'm going home. I was going to go to bed, but I decide against it. I search through my videotapes and put one in the player. My parents are leaving Kevin home alone. I start daydreaming and feeling envious. My Christmas will be hopeless, as usual. The lights flash, and the world slowly disappears behind my closed eyelids. I fall asleep.

###12:00 AM###

I wake up, the alarm clock says the ghost hour. I get up and, as usual, follow my need. I don't turn on the light; I won't need it, and I don't want to wake up. I'll just sit down. I head to my room. The smell of cigarette smoke and the glow of embers.

"Shhh, shit!" I collapse to the floor, terrified. For a moment I don't move, telling myself I'm still asleep. I turn on the light, and the nightmare vanishes. I smile to myself and press the switch again. I lie in bed and pull the covers over me. I smell smoke again. I turn over and hear a cough. And again, as if someone were choking. Was my father drunk and my mother kicked him out of bed? That's the only possibility I can think of. I turn on the bedside lamp. In the chair, at the desk, sits a twenty-something yuppie. The one with the polyphonic jingle bells. From the supermarket. So I'm still asleep. Only everything seems too real. Even the toothache.

"This isn't a dream," the yuppie reads my thoughts—not reality either. I won't explain, because you wouldn't understand.

I stare blankly. I don't know what to do, but I don't feel afraid. I'll say right away that I believe in ghosts, so it was easy for me to believe his words.

"The rules require me to introduce myself. I am the Ghost of Christmas, Happy Only in Appearance. I know it's a bit long, but distinguished individuals have many names. Da Vinci, for example. In life, I was David, so you can address me that way." He stubbed out his cigarette on the desk and coughed again.

"Cigarettes are bad for you." That must have been the first words I exchanged with the ghost.

"Tell that to the dead.

" Not only did I start stupidly, but it was also pointless. Dead. But why did I see him in the supermarket?! Could it be..."

"An hour later, I died on the highway in my BMW. Good thing I was at least exceeding 200 km/h." I don't know what to call his expression. One of the thousand emoticons available on his phone would probably do it best. I'll call it a grimace of anger laced with pride. Maybe you can imagine it.

"But why are you here?" More and more questions are pressing to my lips. "Your presence only reminds me of that fable about the miser..."

"Exactly," he interrupted.

"But I'm not Scrooge. And it's not even because of my financial situation, so to speak." Surprise flashes across my face. Not the kind of contrived, artificial kind you see in movies, but genuine, human surprise.

"Well, that's the detail that sets your story apart." He smiles, and for a moment he looks genuinely pleasant. For someone who died in an accident. "Come on, let's not talk, I'll show you everything. Explaining won't help, and we don't have much time."

The ghost snaps his fingers. I start to feel dizzy. After a moment, everything straightens up again, and I feel snow on my nose. We're hurtling at unimaginable speed through streets lit by streetlights. Snowflakes disappear behind us, looking like the stars from Star Trek, when Captain Kirk ordered the hyperspace launch. We slow down. A large white house with a balcony and a red roof comes into view. Lights glow in the windows. Walking through the walls is a stranger feeling than I expected. We're standing in a beautiful room. My dingy pajamas don't match the marble interior. I instinctively back away from the Amstaff running past us.

"Don't be afraid," Dawid reassures. "He can't see us. No one can see us."

This time, on foot and without passing through walls, we enter the living room. There's a buzz of conversation, about twenty people at the table. The notes of "Silent Night" slowly flow from the speakers. The table and décor are opulent. Kossak and other greats adorn the walls. Unfortunately, most are obscured by baubles and chains anyway, with only fragments visible. The faces of the diners are smiling, full of joy. Everyone is reminiscing. Jurek's First Communion, Marian's incredibly funny skiing accident in Zurich, Stefan's grandfather, and a host of other experiences. The smell of cake. Baked by Jena from the best bakeries in town. A kilogram cost a fortune, as if diamonds had been sprinkled instead of poppy seeds. I look around the room. I go to the other side of the table. Under the Christmas tree are a multitude of presents. Some spent more on wrapping than my Christmas Eve.

"I don't understand," I look at the ghost. "Did you bring me here to see what I'm missing, what I'll never experience?" Did you intend to hurt me, or was it an accident? An accusatory tone, an accusatory look. And a genuine pain in my heart.

A woman rises from the table and heads towards the kitchen. A man emerges immediately after her. Most likely her husband.

"Come on," Dawid follows them, beckoning me with his finger. I obediently follow him.

A couple is standing by the five-thousand-dollar dishwasher. The same ones who left the table. They're arguing. But in whispers, so no one in the room can hear them. I hear everything.

"Luckily, my mother only had two of you; you're just as messed up." The hand next to his leg clenches into a fist. "And luckily, tomorrow I won't have to smile or pretend to be delighted by her arrival."

"You should have thought about it fifteen years ago," the woman says, returning the favor. "

I was twenty, and if it weren't for the fact that I had sex with you and the consequences, you could be shining my shoes today." The man's face is covered in sweat. She wipes it with a white handkerchief emblazoned with gold initials, "Like your father."

"Fuck you." The woman picks up the crystal platter and leaves. The man slams his fist on the table.

The ghost looks at me with a smile.

"Idyllic, isn't it?"

We return to the living room. I notice two people I haven't seen before. Familiar faces. I see them every day when I come to Kaśka's. They're her parents. But she's not at the table. I turn to the ghost.

"Where is she?" I look straight into his blue, tired eyes.

Dawid walks down the hallway, I follow him, until we reach a closed door. Walking through the wall again. The tooth is nagging again. The room is roughly the size of a living room. Instead of paintings, there's soundproofing wallpaper on the walls, and thick curtains on the windows. In the middle, there's a carpet. God, it's so pleasant to walk on it with bare feet. On the carpet, there's someone I'd recognize even if all my senses were taken away. I'd feel her presence. She looked beautiful. Dark hair a little past my shoulders, gray eyes, a shiny black choker around her neck. White shirt, black skirt. Tears run down her cheeks, and she wipes her mascara with her hand, smearing it even further. She looks at the TV. A plasma, forty-two-inch, Phillips. A movie on it. The girl looks at the boy. "Promise you won't fall in love with me..." I know this scene by heart. We've both cried a hundred times watching it. But now Kaśka isn't crying just because of the movie. I see it, and my heart aches terribly. The family, with plastic smiles plastered to their faces, poses for everything to be done in accordance with current fashion. And she sits alone on the carpet. She picks up her phone. Four words. "Merry Christmas, I love you." The melody of a received message. "I love you more." It must be me.

The ghost grabs my hand and whispers in my ear. Time to leave. Ten minutes to one a.m. And again we're hurtling through the dark streets, flying over apartment buildings, sports fields, and cars. Free, absent, forgetting our worries. We're back in my room. Dawid dusts off his suit and lights a cigarette. "

Lie down. You have a long night ahead of you." He disappears before I can say anything.

My eyelids grow heavier and heavier until I fall back asleep. I hadn't had time to start dreaming when a rustling sound woke me. I glanced at the alarm clock. It was:

###1000 HOURS###

Another ghost sits at the desk. This time it's a woman. The scent of perfume fills the room. I turn on the lamp. I want to laugh, but laughter would be out of place. Marilyn Monroe sits in front of me. I smile and try to smooth down my hair.

"You don't have to. I don't pay attention to it anymore." Despite her words, she smiled flirtatiously. Or maybe not flirtatiously. Maybe it was just the smile showbiz taught her, and that was the only way she knew how to do it. "I am the Spirit of a Lonely Christmas. I will show you the saddest truth about the world. I will show you that a person only loves when they need it, that they discard unnecessary burdens. I will show you that the greatest humiliation is not spitting in someone's face, but forgetting them when they stumble. I will show you what each of you secretly fears."

The light fades, and we rush. Icy needles pierce our faces again, but the streets disappear, and we fly over the forests. Faster and faster, until I'm out of breath. I faint, and after what seemed like only seconds, I wake up. We're in an alley, dark, stinking of garbage and filth. I kneel and rub my chest. I slowly gasp for air and recover. I stand, and Marilyn lights a long, white cigarette. Despite the subzero temperature, she doesn't feel the cold. The ghost winks at me and gestures for me to follow him. We reach a bend. A man stands by a steel barrel filled with newspapers, wood, and rags. He's wearing at least two coats peeking out from under a short jacket. On his head is a pink and purple hat with a pompom. His greasy, matted locks fall over his forehead. He's breathing on his hands, which are clad in black, fingerless gloves. He steps away from the barrel, scoops up a passing cat, and sits down on a pile of rags, probably his. He strokes the cat's head. The cat looks into his eyes and escapes his arms. The tramp smiles and reaches into the inside pocket of one of his coats. He pulls out a photo. An old, crumpled one, still in black and white. I walk over to take a closer look. The photo shows a family. A woman, a man, and a child. Most likely a girl. I notice the resemblance between the beggar and the man in the photo. It's the same person. I look at Marilyn.

"Yes, that's his family," he says, anticipating my question. "They abandoned him eighteen years ago when he lost everything he had on the stock market. They just walked away and left him like an unwanted puppy. They even forgot to take him to the shelter.

I get the idea. This is his Christmas. By the glow of the burning bucket. With his family in a photo. By the Christmas tree from Central Park. Christmas Eve dinner will be tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow, or in two days." A tear rolls down my cheek. This man holds all my fears, anxieties, and nightmares. I wipe myself with the sleeve of my flannel pajamas and turn to the ghost.

"Let's go," I say. "I understand what you mean, and I don't want to look at this anymore. Take me back.

" "Look," the ghost says, pointing behind me.

I turn and see a woman. Older, the same age as a tramp. Dressed like him and probably just as lonely. She walks up to him and sits down next to him. They stare at each other, embracing. People only understand each other when they're in the same situation. And only then can they truly love. Sad. And more brutal than a Van Damme movie. Despite everything, it's nice to watch this couple. Nice to see people truly sincere. Maybe for the first time in my life, I see love. No more looking. Marilyn puts her hand on my shoulder, and everything disappears. I must have blacked out again, because I wake up in bed. Alone. Without Mrs. Monroe. And the time is later than I expected. Just in time for the last ghost to arrive.

####2.00 HOUR###

An old man stands in the doorway. I only remember him from photos, but I recognize him immediately. My grandfather. He died when I was three. A wonderful man, he fought in the Home Army, and later, during communism, he was in the underground. And I don't remember a single minute spent with him. Not even through the fog. He smiles. His smile radiates warmth and sincerity. He knows I've met him. He sits down on the bed and places his hand on mine.

"You expected death, right?" he asks, his smile never leaving his face. "You'll meet her and me at the same time. And I think I'm prettier."

I smile and think about what I can say to him. What to ask. So many words are pressing on my lips. When I finally open my mouth, he begins to speak. "

I am the third, last ghost you'll meet today. I'm here to show you that the world isn't as bad as the previous ghosts made it out to be. And to teach you to look for the positives where you think there aren't any." "I am the Spirit of Happy Holidays," he stood up, and I followed.

We leave the room. The smell of cabbage and peas filled my parents' room. Inside, my family. My mother, sister, father, and I. Everyone is standing. My father puts down the Bible without closing it. He picks up the Christmas wafer from the table. He divides it into four and hands it to everyone. Everyone wishes each other well. Tears welled up in their eyes. My mother's voice trembled. "Don't repeat our mistakes," he tells me. "Be someone, because we are no one." I lower my head, not looking at her. The answer. "I love you, for these peas and cabbage, for something from nothing, and these tears." I wipe them from her face. And kiss her cheek. Everyone sits down. Everything smells amazing. No one is crying anymore. Time for presents. Socks, painting my father's face with more joy than many a Kossak. Lipstick and deodorant. So much happiness in two hundred and fifty grams. And that oven mitt. It's just fabric, but at least Mom won't burn her hands again. I pull my gift out of the wrapping. A pen. A fountain pen. No, not that expensive. But just as beautiful, maybe even more so, because it's mine. I'll use it to describe what happened to me. I smile. I've found my happiness.

Zupper ForceCode XX Simple Past>

The situation didn't look very pleasant for Pakko. A normal person in his position would have been shitting their pants. But he wasn't normal. Proper training could turn anyone into a perfect killing machine. He had six such training sessions under his belt. That's why he kept his cool, even at that moment.

It was a hot, extremely humid night. One of the first rules of Polish Army Special Forces soldiers was to avoid offensive operations in such conditions. Of course, Pakko didn't care, not only because he had long despised those rules, but also because he had no other choice. He blindly checked the number of bullets in his magazine. After the last firefight, he had no more. From now on, knowing how many bullets he had left could decide his life. So he repeated the operation to be one hundred percent sure. His hands trembled at irregular intervals. It was the effect of the SRh-3. He'd administered five ampoules of the drug before entering the jungle. It was supposed to help, to sharpen his senses, to improve his reaction time. He hadn't expected to spend so much time here. SRh-3 was an experimental drug that stimulated the human nervous system. Unfortunately, in the long run, it posed a threat to his life. It was at this moment that Pakko felt the effects of this "threat." He checked one last time where the bullet slipped from the magazine, thus protecting himself from a possible jam. He released the safety and switched to POP—single-shot mode. He did everything blindly, but his intimate knowledge of the weapon made it easier. Before rising, he glanced around a few more times to make sure the road was clear. It was at this moment that he silently thanked himself for the fact that his remaining visor was a heat detector. On the other hand, he'd prefer his good old biological eyes. Then at least he wouldn't lose 90% of his capabilities after a small fluro flash. [A 'fluro flash' is a type of double stun gun. It completely destroys all optical mechanical devices aimed in the direction of the flash. Where it's fired (usually as a grenade), a mist of nanobots remains, which additionally affects any camera that is subsequently pointed at it – a sort of camouflage.]

Fortunately, Pakko, in addition to several state-of-the-art cameras mounted in place of eyes, had a built-in innovative heat-detecting sensor system. Located on his face under the skin, they were unnoticeable, but they worked perfectly. Of course, they had a fundamental flaw that was supposed to be their advantage – they were heat-detecting sensors. Identifying weapon details with them was impossible.

After much preparation, Pakko finally decided to leave. Carefully leaning against a tree he had felt earlier, he lifted the aching body, only half of which was biological. Then, taking small steps, trying not to lose too much blood and the fluids necessary for maintaining the mechanics and electronics, he headed north. Reinforcements were expected there. Unfortunately, he was still in an area with which Poland had a peace treaty. Hence, help was unlikely to arrive. Still looking around, he slowly moved forward, though it wasn't easy. He kept stumbling, fell to lower ground several times, and once collided with a tree. But that didn't stop him.

Suddenly, a figure appeared several hundred meters to the west. After a first reading, it was clear it was a woman. Moreover, it didn't look armed, though Pakko couldn't be entirely sure. A dog, or perhaps a wolf, appeared beside her after a few seconds. At this point, a truly difficult decision had to be made. Hide or kill the woman, after all, she might have had a weapon and ammunition on her. Besides, any additional equipment could help him now. After a moment's hesitation, Pakko slowly moved toward her. A blinded, yet perfectly sighted soldier versus an ordinary village girl with a dog. For a moment, such a scenario flashed through his mind. Then he amended it to: "a killing machine versus a heavily armed member of the pursuit." Yes, that definitely suited him better.

His hearing was still good, so as soon as he heard the young girl's cries, he realized that the first option was closer to the truth.

"Kisu! Kisu! Where are you?" she repeated every now and then.

It wasn't hard to understand that she was looking for someone. But how could he be sure this wasn't just a cover to lure him out of hiding? Slightly schizophrenic thoughts—the effect of the SRh-3—that's how Pakko commented to himself. Now there was no turning back anyway. He was too close to her to back down.

"Kisu! Kisu! What's the matter, Bark, where are you going?"

The dog had clearly caught his scent, as it ran closer and aimed its muzzle at Pakko. The fact that it didn't lunge at him with the intent to bite might have been a convincing enough reason to try negotiating.

"If you move even a meter forward, I'll shoot you through the knees." It wasn't the best way to greet her, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Please don't shoot!" she shouted.

"I'm not going to. Listen to me carefully," he said, pulling himself together as best he could; his voice was a bit hoarse, but that was another side effect of the SRh-3. "I'm not your enemy. My being here is a coincidence, and I want to get out of here as quickly as you want to get rid of me. But there are few options," he fell silent. He was sure he heard a human scream in the distance. Not one, not two, but a dozen. It left no doubt. Pursuit!

"One is that you'll help me and I'll go far away and never see you again. The other is that you won't help me, but then I'll waste one... two bullets. And I wouldn't want that, probably neither would you.

" "Do you?... Do you want me to help you?"

Pakko didn't answer immediately. At that moment, he was fighting the pain that had erupted in his hernia. When he had overcome himself, he took a few steps forward.

Only now did the girl see who she was talking to. The body of a tall soldier, dressed in green and black, slowly emerged from behind the dark bushes. The beam of her flashlight began to timidly move toward him. When she finally saw him fully, she moaned softly. Pakko realized the sound was caused by his appearance, but he didn't let on—though it terrified him as much as it terrified her.

"Did you?

" "I had a bad accident… with a bear.

" "A bear wouldn't do that to you.

" "Well, it was a big bear."

Before he knew it, he was being led by a girl and a dog. Although it certainly wasn't easy, as he was well aware. He tried to make this ordeal easier for them, but he wasn't very successful. His mechanized body weighed 140 kilograms. Much heavier than the average human. And he couldn't forget his combat gear and weapons. Another 20 in total.

"Where are we going?

" "You need medical attention. My father knows a thing or two about this; he used to serve in the Red Crescent."

Only now did Pakko realize the girl's strange accent. It seemed Asian, so what was she doing in Uruguay, and why did she speak English so perfectly? But he didn't have time to dwell on trivial matters now. For now, he saw a glimmer of hope in her. And, more importantly, a glimmer of hope in the form of her father.

They walked for about thirty minutes. Quite fast, too. Much, much faster than he could have walked on his own. He was willing to bet he'd covered more ground in that half hour than he had in the entire night. Still, he didn't want to risk it. Finally, more people appeared in the distance, along with several campfires.

"A village?

" "Yes. Not far. How did you know?"

"Instinct," he joked. He knew the girl wouldn't understand, but it relieved the tension building inside him. His mind was starting to show strange time lapses, a sign that the SRh-3 was increasingly damaging his body. A moment of positive emotion was therefore most welcome. When he recovered, he was, to his surprise, already in the village. Surrounded. He immediately noticed that the people around him had weapons in their hands. He tried to reach for his own, but his hand refused to obey. Besides, there were more of them than bullets in the magazine.

"What have you done, Nika! You were only supposed to find Kisu, and you brought back a dead body!

" "He's still alive! We have to help him!

" "You must be crazy," someone spoke in Mexican. Pakko had a dozen languages ​​and dialects in his database, so he could continue listening to the conversation. "The troops will be looking for him. They'll come here and kill us!"

"He's right! Let's throw him into the forest before they find him here."

"But listen. He's not—

" "Silence!" a very loud voice suddenly spoke. Although Pakko had trouble identifying the man, he realized the man's rank. Everyone froze. For a moment, the soldier heard only the panting of a dog.

"Nika, put him down and go to your room?

" "But Dad!

" "Do as I say!" It was undoubtedly the voice of someone born to be a leader. Pakko had always respected such people, having learned this from the military hierarchy. His captain, colonel, and general—everyone spoke similarly. Perhaps that was why he felt a little safer.

"Okay, now someone help me carry him to my laboratory.

" "But Mr. Fesienhar—

" "Don't talk, just help."

At that moment, he lost track of time again. He began to wonder if he would ever get his favorite rifle back, and before he knew it, he was on a comfortable bed. Instead of pain, his biological part felt like a soft mattress. He didn't know if he'd gone mad or died. He tried to lift one of his hands, but it didn't work. He calmed down as soon as the first panicky thoughts of being permanently grounded subsided. A moment later, he began checking all the electronic circuits. Little had changed since the last time. Most functions seemed to be working just to get him going. The only messages that appeared in his head were that the connection attempt to a given module had failed, or, even worse, that the module was destroyed. After presenting the entire list, he resignedly tried to activate the cameras in emergency mode. But the fluorescent effect was still active.

"I think I can fix your eyes," someone spoke. Pakko immediately activated his heat-sensing sensor system and saw a human head leaning over him.

"However, I don't think I'll be able to do it today. So that's out of the question. I'll hook up a mini camera from my microscope instead. The image will be... uninteresting, but it's better than nothing, don't you think.

" "Who are you?

" "I'm Dr. Fesienhar. It's my daughter you met.

" "Oh yes...

" "If it weren't for her, you'd have been dead for three or four hours. There was so much toxin in your body that I thought I wouldn't have enough antidote.

" "Antidote for SRh-3?"

"What? SR species... hmm, and a new one at that. It's good I kept the samples. But I thought it was some kind of stimulant. They might prove interesting. Maybe not so much the antidote, dear soldier, but something that expelled it from your system.

" "I understand.

" "If I hook up this camera, will you leave?

" "Yes.

" "Can you handle that big bear by yourself?

" "Yes.

" "Good. I don't want to have a Polish soldier on my conscience.

" "I understand."

"Don't worry about the locals. I'll sort it out with them.

" "What time is it?

" "It's been eight hours since you arrived in the village. Yours are still waiting?

" "They should be. How long will it take to install this equipment?

" "About half an hour. But I had to wait until you woke up. In that case, I'll start."

He knew he couldn't have chosen a better place. The man he was talking to not only knew a little about electronics, but also turned out to be a real expert. No unnecessary beating around the bush. A quick joke, and goodbye. Pakko felt most comfortable with people like that. Interaction wasn't a problem for him back then. Someone who had spent most of his life in special schools for future soldiers. Someone who had lived in a semi-mechanical body since his ninth birthday. And someone who knew no other feeling than the urge to kill. Simplicity—that's what he loved.

A scream tore him from his subsequent—so rare in his daily life—considerations. The shots that followed left him with no illusions. They'd found him!

"How many?"

"You won't have depth perception.

" "That's enough." With that, he activated all the body control systems he'd regained control of some time ago. He stood up, jerking to his feet. Several cables still attached to his body broke free from the control console, but that didn't stop him. He crouched down, simultaneously activating the heat sensors. Meanwhile, he thrust his hand forward, checking the extent of his vision. Just as the doctor had said, he struggled to see and recognize anything more than a meter away. But that was enough. He was, after all, a perfect killing machine. He stood and turned to face the doctor. It was the first time he'd seen his face, but it seemed incredibly familiar.

"The weapon's here." Fesienhar tossed the rifle toward Pakko. "You're lucky. I happened to have NATO-grade ammunition."

"Great."

Without hesitation or waiting a moment longer for any further explanation, he ran out of the room into the corridor. Before he woke up, the doctor had managed to dress his wounds, which had healed somewhat. He had reassembled some of the mechanical components so they held together. The earlier lack of signals during the checkup was caused by the main circuits being disabled – something Fesienhar had done for safety.

In this state, he could fight. And the lack of depth of vision wasn't a problem. What's more, he almost immediately adjusted to the different viewing angle caused by the camera being mounted on the top of his head. Running through the corridor, he noticed the figure of a girl emerging from the fog. Only now could he see her face. Accompanied by screams and more rifle fire, he ran past her, not even stopping for a moment. He didn't have time; he had to get rid of the soldiers as quickly as possible. Not to save the village, but to make his escape easier. A direct pursuit, which would have followed him immediately, would have caught up with him. If he killed them, he would easily reduce the number of enemies on his tail and significantly delay the entire operation.

He stopped in front of the door, then raised his weapon and placed it to his shoulder. He waited a moment and opened fire. Now it was clear he was in the village. But that didn't matter. One way or another, he intended to deal with the enemy. With a powerful kick, he forced the door open and, running over the corpses, found himself in a larger square. He immediately headed left. There were relatively few enemies there. So he decided to start with them. He reached the end of the doctor's house and suddenly leaned out, completely surprising the soldier rushing towards him. Two bursts in PULL mode [three rounds in a burst] were enough to dispatch him. He immediately leaped towards the falling body, still crouching slightly. He checked with his new mechanical sense of sight to make sure he had killed the right person, then reached for spare ammunition. Unfortunately, the bullets were AME2 class. Completely useless to him. Nevertheless, he pocketed a magazine, just in case. At that moment, amidst the gunfire, he heard a door open to his left. He immediately turned in that direction. The figure's appearance left no doubt – a soldier! He switched to PUSH mode and pulled the trigger, completely emptying the magazine. He killed not only the man who was leaving, but also, just in case, the person two meters to his left, most likely inside. Hence the irrational use of so many rounds. The huts, while wooden, were solidly constructed.

While Pakko was changing magazines, one of the soldiers approached him from behind. Fortunately for the Pole, he was an ordinary soldier, incompetent in his duties and drafted into the army under duress. Shooting had never been his forte, especially when they held old PEPs, or AK-63s. It was an incredibly reliable and sturdy weapon that, if used and cared for properly, could prove a better asset in the jungle than anything else. Unfortunately, the kid, for this soldier didn't look much older than 22, had no clue. To him, a rifle was a rifle. Something with which he could spread chaos. Something with which he could be perceived as a figure of authority. But now, according to him, something was about to change; he was going to kill one of those European assholes invading their country. He was going to be a hero. He was sorely mistaken. When he pulled the trigger, the bullets went everywhere but at Pakko.

The sound of pulling the trigger of the Pepesha was so deeply etched in his memory that he could recognize it even in his sleep. He also knew precisely that in most cases, this weapon, uncleaned, has about a second of lag [the difference in time between pulling the trigger and the moment the hammer nose strikes the first bullet in the barrel chamber]. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make him lean to the side. The rest went like the training sessions Pakko had undergone so much. Fall, roll, rotate his upper body, push off with his feet, and stabilize the weapon on his forearm. Then a short, three-shot burst in PULL mode. Changing modes is a basic trick, taught during the first shooting range session. It not only confuses those who are listening, but it's incredibly helpful in ammunition rationing. Although, in the heat of battle, it's easy to make mistakes.

The situation looked good enough. He'd already eliminated four soldiers. No more than six remained. The groups were always a maximum of ten men. Eight young, untrained rookies, someone responsible for radio and communications, and a commander. The latter was the problem; commanders were usually recruited from among former mercenaries. They hadn't raised Pakko in terms of tactical training, but they had been raised around war and weapons. They knew killing just as well as he did. Those were the ones to watch out for the most. The Pole raised his body slightly so he could run comfortably, then, placing his rifle to his shoulder, began moving along the wall. From what he observed with his heat detector, the rest of the soldiers were in one place. The gunfire had stopped, so they were gathering to assess the situation. He might not have a better opportunity. He checked his magazine again. A second full one was attached to the currently loaded one. A third was also attached to the stock. For six soldiers, that was more than enough. He moved as quietly as he could, wanting to remain undetected for as long as possible. Ideally, until the shot itself. While he wasn't worried about being detected, he preferred not to take any chances. The camera on his head was starting to bother him, as he had become increasingly reliant on it. Weaving between buildings, he somehow managed to avoid unnecessary noise and get close enough to hear voices. So far, they hadn't noticed anyone missing. They only spoke of finding no one but the villagers. There were six of them, as he'd predicted. They stood in the middle of a cluster of bodies—probably locals. He switched to PUSH and leaned out from behind the wall, pulling the trigger. Wanting to waste as little time as possible, even at the cost of wasted ammunition, he decided to take them all out in one fell swoop. Aiming for their heads and the surrounding areas, he was sure they would die quickly enough to avoid a reaction. Initially, the bullets flew past them, but when the first one hit someone, Pakko had a point of reference. He dispatched the others without any problems. When the bullets ran out, the last of the soldiers fell to the ground. Hiding back behind the wall, he changed the magazine. He waited a second, then leaned out again, still with his weapon ready. He didn't want to take any chances. True, he saw that each of them had been shot in the skull, but this wasn't what he'd seen. Finding himself among the bodies, he used the camera to make sure there was no longer any danger.

He'd miscalculated, however. As soon as he straightened up, he felt the cold barrel of a pistol against his temple. He couldn't tell what model it was, but from the sound of the safety being cocked, he guessed it was a Berreta.

"Hand over the rifle and put your hands up."

A moment later, when the shot rang out, he wanted to close his eyes. Naturally, he couldn't do that, as he hadn't been able to control them for several days. However, the urge remained.

"Don't just stand there like a stick. Three more patrols are coming," the doctor shouted, appearing right in front of Pakko. The brand new Glock he held in his hands proved not only that Fesienhar was familiar with weapons, but also that he was picky about them. The Pole turned and grabbed spare ammunition from the bodies, just in case. Before rising, he glanced at the man who had aimed at him a few seconds ago. A clean shot, just above the temple. Excellent work, completely unbecoming of a doctor working for the Red Crescent. But this was no time for speculation. In the distance, Pakko could hear the sound of roaring engines.

"Here," Fesienhar called, "we'll use their jeep. It's 10 miles to the border from this village.

" "That'll be about 17 kilometers," Nika added.

"Exactly. So, a short walk.

" "Not so easy with them chasing us."

"Don't worry," the doctor handed the pistol to his daughter and picked up one of the rifles left in the vehicle. "If they catch up with us, we'll defend ourselves."

"So let's go," Pakko said, jumping into the back of the jeep. He fastened his seat belt and turned his body so he could more easily shoot at the enemies approaching from behind.

"Should I drive?" the girl asked suddenly.

"You can drive. So what's the problem?

" "Well, Dad… Okay." After a moment of silence and staring at her father's face, she gave up further objections. She turned the key, fastened her seat belt, and floored the gas pedal, shifting into second gear.

A good five minutes of absolute silence passed, during which Nike tried to drive quickly and smoothly to the border. There was a road, but the last time anyone had driven it had been several years ago. Hence the fallen tree fragments and deep puddles that were everywhere.

"Can't you speed up a bit?" – Pakko finally spoke, glancing at the girl with his head-mounted camera.

– It's difficult.

– Because they're catching up to us.

– How do you know? Apparently you don't have eyes! – Nike was very irritated that the Pole was rushing her.

– I have different senses.

– After the bear, huh?

Their conversation was interrupted by gunfire. As Pakko had predicted, enemy vehicles appeared about 30 meters away. He quickly turned and opened fire, switching his weapon to PULL. Short bursts whizzed through the leaves with varying degrees of success. A few hit a car, a few trees. Single shots barely reached the soldiers. The bumpy road and the contortion of his body made aiming difficult. Meanwhile, the doctor was blindly firing his automatic pistol, though it was incredibly effective. Realizing this, Pakko unbuckled the belt that was supposed to prevent him from falling from the jeep in the event of a sudden turn or jump and positioned himself in a better position. The very first burst, with pinpoint accuracy, shattered the radiator of the nearest vehicle. The explosion of smoke saved the fleeing men for a few minutes. This also gave him time to reload. The Pole reached for the last magazine attached to the stock and detached it. At that moment, he felt a slight panic as he felt the telltale scratch he'd carved the previous night on his last magazine. It indicated the ammunition level. Not much had changed since then. The remaining rounds were likely the same. Just to be on the safe side, he tapped the magazine twice against the metal part of the feed tube. The sound was exactly the same as last time. Not empty, but not full either. So he had to rely on those last few shots. He switched the rifle to the POP mode and placed it against his shoulder, trying to stabilize it as much as possible. It wasn't an easy task, as the Nike had accelerated significantly, even though the road hadn't improved. At that moment, the jeep was traveling at about 50 kilometers per hour, leaping like a rodeo bull. The doctor also changed the magazine in the Pepesha and reopened a "dummy" fire. His goal was merely to scare the more timid. It was enough to make a few of the weaker ones afraid to look out of the window. The rest, however, refused to give up. Although it wasn't easy for them either. Their vehicles were traveling equally fast and in equally difficult conditions. Most of these rookies lacked basic knowledge and didn't even bother with stability. They were shooting just to shoot… another example of "dummy fire."

However, even such actions, conducted at the appropriate distance, yielded results. The turning point came when the jeep's windshield shattered, struck by a bullet. Nike screamed, accelerating and ducking her head. Fesienhar looked at his daughter in horror, but when he realized she was okay, he returned to his previous activity. Meanwhile, Pakko had just found his rhythm.

Shooting from a moving car isn't easy. Shooting from a bouncing jeep in the Uruguayan jungle at another bouncing jeep in the Uruguayan jungle was absurd. Still, Pakko was one of those people who didn't care whether anyone thought something was absurd or not. There was a need, and he simply did it. Like a machine.

Once he had positioned himself correctly and settled into a rhythm, he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the right mirror of the third car. This didn't impress the soldiers, who dismissed it as a coincidence. However, it wasn't. He had been aiming for the driver of the first, but at least now he knew what adjustments he needed to make. So he pulled the trigger a second time, this time shattering one of the second car's headlights. Without a second thought, he switched to PULL and, with complete confidence in his calculations, fired a third time. That was more than enough. The bullets hit the fuel tank of the vehicle in the middle.

The chase subsided for a while, and then seemed like last night's fantasy. As soon as the jeep carrying Pakko, Dr. Fesienhar, and his daughter crossed the border, the atmosphere changed abruptly. Everyone settled back calmly, though they occasionally glanced back to make sure they weren't being followed. They still had a long way to go.

"There's a mercenary camp not far from here. They're incredibly tolerant people. They should help you, so there's no need to fear them. And even if they do, you'll be able to handle them.

" "And what will you do?

" "We," the doctor looked at his daughter, "will emigrate to another country.

" "There are few countries where there isn't a substantial reward for your head and body."

Nika slammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a halt in the middle of the road. She turned and gave the Pole a strange look. (She studied his face for a moment, then glanced at the camera on his head.

"Since when did I know? From the moment I saw your so-called father's face. Then, running past you in the corridor, I just made sure I knew who you were.

) "For an ordinary soldier, that's pretty good. Is everything okay?" Fesienhar asked, seeing Pakko's hand, clenched around the metal pipe, shaking from side to side.

"Yes, Agent Mallock.

" "Hehe, the adrenaline activated the remnants of the SR. You might not be able to handle it, though.

" "How does a CIA agent know so much about chemicals? Especially when he hasn't worked in the profession for a dozen years.

" "Well, I've had my share. Besides, I've learned most of it now, taking care of Nike.

The conversation ended there. The doctor wasn't going to explain anything, and Pakko didn't want to ask any more. He knew he probably wouldn't get an answer anyway. Although now it made a little sense. Nike – the first of the eighth-generation clones. Stolen seven years ago by a CIA agent from a laboratory in Tokyo. They could get fourteen billion dollars for bringing her home safe and sound… Now it was too late anyway. The jeep stopped, and Fesienhar helped the Pole out. He pointed in the direction he should go and, leaving him the Glock, drove off without a word of farewell. The girl turned a few more times, glancing at the soldier standing on the beaten path, but quickly disappeared behind the thicket of leaves.

"Why did you help him?

" "Back then. In Tokyo. It was a certain Polish soldier who helped me get you out. I thought, I'll repay him in this way, at least."

After two hours of slow walking, during which Pakko kept glancing back to check what was happening behind him, he reached a small clearing where several tents had been pitched. His sensors indicated a large crowd, but they didn't look threatening. They were resting, having fun. Mercenaries. He approached them slowly, drawing no attention. Only when he tripped over a wooden crate, which he hadn't noticed in time, was he discovered. It struck him as a bit ironic. During the fight in that village, despite the difficult situation, he hadn't even staggered, and now, walking normally, he tripped over the crate. Several people immediately appeared beside him. They stared at him in surprise. After all, his appearance was anything but normal. Wounded, splattered, and wearing a camera. He must have looked downright comical at that moment. As he rose from the ground, his temporary eye caught the glint of a blade aimed at him. He reacted instinctively. He grabbed the hand holding the knife and twisted it. He lifted the rest of his body, wrenching his weapon free, then jumped back and took a fighting stance.

"Oh, you damned thing! You want to fight?! I'll show you!" shouted one of the larger thugs in the group, lunging at Pakko.

In the shadow of one of the tents stood three men, who had been watching their fighting subordinates for several minutes, being massacred by someone completely unknown. With a single knife, he had already taken the lives of seven good mercenaries. Several others lay with broken limbs, whimpering pitifully. So they weren't just any man, but a veritable killing machine. At that moment, three soldiers lunged at him at once. But he managed to hold them off. Finally, not wanting to lose any more men and to stop the inevitable execution of the seemingly blind warrior, one of the men shouted at the top of his voice.

"Enough!"

The rifles aimed at Pakko were lowered, and everyone retreated to a safe distance. Only the one the Pole was currently dealing with remained staggering. His face was as badly mangled as his tormentor. Blood dripped from him. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and fell unconscious. Pakko twirled the knife in his hand and regained his fighting stance. Although his entire body was trembling like crazy, he didn't show it. He was slowly losing the camera's vision. The heat sensors, too, seemed to be ceasing to transmit the entire image. The longer he stood still, the worse it felt. He needed movement, needed to fight.

"Easy, boy," someone suddenly spoke. "What's your name?

" "Pakko," he said, as he always did. He no longer had a proper name. Just this nickname, a pseudonym that stood in for his entire life.

"Okay, Pakko. Put down that knife and sit down. We won't hurt you. We have no intention of doing so. We want to help you." You'll see... Trust us. I'm Gou, and this is DoL and Xdeg...

>11/09/2073<

The radio snapped him out of his reverie. Gou, out of the blue, turned it up.

"SSR station, 203 koma 14. Your favorite rush hour hits. Basement Jaxx and their new song, Good Luck. Just for you, my dear."

Pakko smiled, looking at the captain, who was busy driving. Then he discreetly glanced in the mirror at the backseat, where Rear and Nah were sitting. As the vehicle began to overtake a large, red and blue truck, he glanced out the windshield at the oncoming traffic.

"What are you thinking about, Pakko? The captain says you should be happy. Fifteen minutes ago, we sent Xdeg to Antarctica for three months," Gou grinned, a smile meant to be genuine.

"I'm supposed to be happy." However, with him... the original idea seemed to vanish... We lost ourselves in what we had achieved. Lost in our own game of appearances.

After these words, so rarely delivered by the 'greenie', an awkward silence fell in the car. Everyone present realized the extraordinary relevance of what had been said.

"Soon, Pakko. One more thing... one more thing and that's it.