MY LEAST FAVORITE things in the world were chicken liver, heartburn, and helping people. No, my parents hadn't spawned a heartless scumbag. It's just that I'd rather help someone of my own free will, and not because I'm being manipulated into doing it.
"Sergei, it won't take you long. He's probably gone to the foundation pit," my neighbor's words added boiling oil to the cup of my already-heated patience.
Lydia was only three years older than me, but somehow she made me feel like I was a kid and she was an adult graciously talking down to me. At twenty-eight, she had two kids, a docile husband and her own apartment albeit not in the best of neighborhoods. In contrast, besides nine pairs of oddly colored socks, I owned nothing in particular.
But that mischief maker known as fate had brought us together on the same floor of an apartment building after my father's grandmother died. I'd inherited her apartment, breaking free of the parental nest but falling directly into Lydia's well-organized web. Apparently, the universe was doing its best to maintain equilibrium.
You'd be hard pressed to call me a pushover. At no time would I have a girl order me around. I always made that much perfectly clear. Yet I'd somehow missed that opportunity with Lydia. I once helped her carry her stroller downstairs — you know, as a neighborly thing to do. Then one time when I went to the store, I picked up some yogurt while I was there. After that, there was no stopping her.
I should probably mention that Lydia was smart. She never crossed the line with her many errands, but she could occasionally knock you off balance, like today. Her quests came with the label "legendary" and forced you to work up a major sweat.
"The foundation pit? OK, I'll check if he's there," I said with a nod, reaching for my cigarettes.
Her window immediately banged shut. I couldn't blame her: she didn't want her newborn baby to catch a cold. I heaved a heavy sigh and threw on my hood.
"I see that our young man is helping out the needier families?" an old man in a ski cap inscribed "Sport" observed snidely from his perch on the bench by the entrance.
I smiled. I liked Mr. Petrov. The old fellow was a local institution. He was a professor who'd once taught the history of the Communist Party[1], but who'd failed to change his ideas in time. When the country had gone through perestroika, Mr. Petrov was left behind. Eventually he developed a taste for the demon drink and lost the battle for good. He was supported by his wife, a hardy, permanently angry woman for whom her hubby had become something like a suitcase that had lost its handle: it was hard to drag around, but it would still be a shame to discard it.
"Something like that," I replied. "Her husband is away overnight and her little Boris went for a walk. He was supposed to be home a half hour ago. Apparently, he's gone to the foundation pit. I'm on my way to the store anyway, so I volunteered to go see where he's hiding."
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Mr. Petrov said sagely.
"Oh, I know that. What are you doing hanging around here? You're gonna catch your death of cold."
"Waiting for a buddy. We've decided to hold a symposium[2], the two of us. Give me a cigarette, will you? It's not for me — my friend is the one who smokes. I always tell him it's bad for him, but he'll hear nothing of it."
I smirked and gave him a cigarette, then walked away from the entrance and lit up myself. I took a couple of drags and fell to thinking, listening to the crackling of cigarette paper and dry tobacco.
The foundation pit, huh?
It was right across the street from the local supermarket where I was heading. At one point, an ambitious development company had decided to build a modern, attractive multistory building in our backwater. It had bought out a bunch of private homes, surveyed the land and began to excavate a foundation pit. But something hadn't panned out on their end. More precisely, something literally flamed out: one night, their office downtown caught fire. Perhaps competitors were to blame, or a short-circuit, or maybe a combination of the two. So the company had vanished into oblivion, leaving behind nothing but a foundation pit.
You can guess who immediately took a liking to this local monument. It's true that every man is a former kid — but the kids from our neighborhood did everything they could in order to stay at that tender age forever. And any half-destroyed or half-built property in the vicinity seemed to help their cause.
Very well, I'd have to stop by the foundation pit on the way home from the store. Boris was a good kid, if somewhat mischievous. God forbid something happen to him.
The supermarket was on the first floor of a five-story building, well off the beaten path. Next to it was the ring road, followed by lane after lane of dilapidated log huts echoing with guard dogs' indistinct, sad barking and filling the air with the woody scent of heated bathhouses.
I had time to smoke two cigarettes before I reached the shop entrance. Inside, some kids were jostling each other by the vending machine.
"Hey, guys, have you seen Boris from number 8?"
One of the kids raised his head in obvious resentment. "Boris? Boris Korshunov?"
"Yes, Korshunov. His mom's looking for him."
"No, haven't seen him."
Shit. Now I'd need to cross that street and get myself over to the foundation pit. There was only one streetlight there, and it only illuminated part of the pit. At least I had a flashlight on my phone.
I wandered through the aisles tossing simple food into my basket: some sausages, three bottles of beer, a packet of macaroni and a bottle of mayo. As I approached the register, I stopped by the stand holding the deodorant. I did need some; I was almost out. That took care of it.
It had gotten cold outside. I raised my hood and shifted the flimsy plastic grocery bag so it was more comfortable to hold, then set off for the edge of our world.
Before crossing the street heaving with heavy-duty traffic, I looked both ways a few times. This was a place where you needed to teach kids the rules of the road, under conditions that were, shall we say, reminiscent of war. I managed to get across without any mishaps and heaved a sigh.
The streetlight flickered hostilely in unison with my thoughts and blew out. Great.
I turned on the flashlight on my phone but predictably, I couldn't see more than five yards in front of me. I tried to peer through the dark for a while, but nothing useful came of that.
I swore and put away my useless phone. "Boris! Boris!"
The last thing I wanted to do was climb down into the pit on the slippery frozen ground. I was tempted to give the whole mission a miss and head off home. I mean, really, was I ultimately responsible for other people's brats? Just do a better job raising your kids and don't hassle your helpful neighbors.
It was warm and cozy at home right now. I could go home, cook some macaroni and sausage, turn on a TV show, and enjoy it all with a beer.
"I'm over here!"
Damn it. I'd planned it all out so nicely in my head. "Boris, where are you?"
As if! Now the kid was silent. I had a feeling that today I'd need to personally take care of his upbringing and give him a good taste of paternal tough love.
With a technique that would have put Cirque du Soleil to shame, I started to lower myself into the pit, scattering hard pieces of frozen clay with my feet. In one outstretched hand I held my lighter, and in the other, the bag with the clinking bottles. All I needed was a tightrope and an audience.
Which I apparently had. Someone was watching my clumsy descent — that became clear when I was halfway down. That's when I finally made out two figures on the bottom of the foundation pit: Boris and a guy I didn't know standing next to him.
Oh great. A Pedobear was the last thing I needed. Considering that at no time was I a fighter, and my adversary had more girth on his side, things could turn unpleasant.
"Hey, what's going on, man?" I shouted, trying not to betray my anxiety.
No answer. The kiddo was silent, too. They just stood there looking at each other without moving a muscle.
I kind of wanted someone to jump out and yell, "Surprise!" No such luck.
So I took a few steps forward. "Dude, don't make me do something I'll regret."
I stumbled but managed to stay on my feet. The bottles jangled plaintively, but even that didn't provoke a reaction.
I guess I was going to have to sort him out, after all. I squeezed the lighter, placed the grocery bag on the ground, and strode toward the stranger who apparently enjoyed chatting up kids at night.
Only then did I notice the guy's odd clothing. He was wearing a long cloak devoid of any labels or designs. The hood was over his head.
Well, terrific. Good job, Sergei, now you're going to meet a cult follower. And the night had started off so well...
"Man, get away from the kid," I uttered an idle threat, my arm already drawn back to punch him.
My father had never taught me to fight — his thinking was that a smart man could always reach an agreement. But his best friend, Uncle Denis, disagreed. He'd made sure I threw a decent punch, and his opinions on the matter were far more straightforward. As in: if there's a fight in the air, go for it, and then afterward you can sort out who was right and wrong. That's not to say that I often made use of this maxim, but it was much more in line with my own philosophy.
Somehow, it looked like the man in the cloak must have had his own Uncle Denis because he turned sharply and thrust out his hand.
He didn't hit me but I could feel some sort of force coursing through his fingers. My body flew several yards like a defenseless rag doll. I landed on my back on my ill-fated grocery bag. Judging by the sound, the packet of macaroni had split. The bottles clanked but at least they didn't break. The stick of deodorant bumped up against my side.
I grunted. What was that? All I knew was that I was in pain. My spine wasn't the strongest part of my body: because of my line of work, I constantly needed to massage the small of my back so it wouldn't ache.
It took my angst-ridden brain a couple of seconds to realize that I'd gone flying even though no one had touched me.
It was unlikely that the approaching stranger was a Jedi. I didn't see a light saber. Well, maybe not yet. In any case, he was obviously a master of telekinesis.
I would have liked to know what the hell was going on, but I now acted on the most ancient instinct, putting everything else on the back burner.
I tried to use my free right arm to lean on the ground so I could get up. That didn't work: first I slipped over a bottle, then over the scattered macaroni, and then bumped up against the stick of deodorant.
Then I had an idea. I wouldn't say it was a bright one, but it wasn't bad. The stick of deodorant was in my right hand with its cap flown off; the lighter was in my left hand, and the approaching adversary was only a couple yards away.
I held the deodorant in front of me, catching a whiff of its rank scent (I'd missed the mark this time — I made a mental note to buy something else next time), and struck the lighter in front of it. I may not be a master of telekinesis, but we all have our fireballs.
For a moment, the place was flooded with light. I managed to discern the garbage-strewn foundation pit, Boris' frightened face, and the stranger's cloak which was being licked by the flames. Biting my lip and trying to ignore the pain, I hurled my improvised lifesavers aside and leaned my arms on the ground.
I stood up with the speed of a pregnant Seychelles tortoise and threw myself at the assailant. He was still swatting his smoking hood, so he couldn't respond adequately. He swung his arms wildly and punched, attempting what's called a one-shot.
Never in my life had I been known for my heroic strength, but I managed to land a hook that was a work of art. I heard an unpleasant cracking sound as the stranger fell to the ground. Or maybe the opposite: first he fell, and then I heard a loud crack.
I stood for a few seconds with my fists raised, ready to punch some more if needed, but the Satanist guy lay there motionless showing no intention of standing up.
"Is he OK?" Boris spoke up.
I shrugged. "Probably."
I took my time going over to him, and carefully checked his pulse. I felt pretty arrogant as I did this because I'd breezed through all the health and safety training classes in school. I touched his wrist and then his neck. I thought I felt something, but it could have also been my own heartbeat.
I touched his head, and my fingers came away bloody.
Fantastic. I'd just smashed his head.
"Is he alive?" Boris asked.
"Yeah, yeah," I answered, starting to believe my own words less and less.
I straightened up, trying to get hold of myself. All right then, another one bites the dust. Now you've become a murderer, Sergei. Damn, how did that happen? Now what? Who was I supposed to call first? The police or an ambulance?
First of all, I still had to take Boris home.
"Let's go," I said. "Your mom's beside herself."
In a stupor I picked up the remains of the food I'd bought. To my surprise, not a single bottle of beer had broken. I tied up the bag — its handle had been torn off — and started to plod along. Boris trudged behind me, wheezing and scattering clumps of earth underneath him.
"Uncle Sergei!"
"What now?"
"Um, he's gone."
I turned around. Boris was right — there was no sign of the body. Either this mysterious telekinetic had passed himself off as a zombie and buried himself in the ground, or he'd turned on escape velocity and sped off.
Well, no body, no problem. Except that what happened next really frightened me.
You've killed a Player who was neutral to you.
-100 karma points. You gravitate to the Dark Side.
The main development branch has been determined: Time Master
You've gained a Divine Avatar: Savior.
You've gained the Insight ability.
You've gained the Light spell.
I looked at the message scrolling in front of my eyes. It's all right, I said to myself. You're just in shock. You're not going crazy. Just go home and have a beer. If it doesn't pass, you can go to the hospital tomorrow.
Boris tugged at my arm. "Uncle Sergei, you all right?"
"I'm OK. I just got a little dizzy. I hit my head when I fell. Let's go... Hey, watch out! You shouldn't be running across the road like that! Look both ways — left, then right."
I suddenly realized that I was acting exactly like my father. When they're young, all children probably think, "I'll be different when I grow up." But then it turns out that either deliberately or not, we all subconsciously copy our parents.
"Boris, how on earth did you end up in the foundation pit with that, er, stranger?"
"He said he was a wizard. A real one. He said he knew everything about me: where I lived, Mom and Dad's names, everything."
"What do you mean, everything?"
"Don't tell anyone."
"Mum's the word," I promised.
"Last spring we went rafting. We made the rafts ourselves: you know, foam plastic ones. And I crashed into the water. I got soaked. We lit a bonfire and stayed until all my clothes dried. Mom didn't even find out. That's it."
"What do you mean, 'that's it'?"
"No one besides the kids knew about it. Get it?"
"Ah, Boris. Has it occurred to you that maybe he just saw you guys? Or the other kids spread the word? Think about it. Figuring out where you live and your parents' names doesn't take a whole lot of intelligence, either. And that's why you went to the foundation pit with a strange man at night? Isn't that a stupid thing to do?"
"It was stupid," Boris admitted. "I got scared after. It's just that his... face was familiar. And he's a wizard. He did all sorts of tricks. Like spells, you know?"
"Did he... do anything to you?"
"No. He said we had to wait for something. So we stood there and waited. Then you came."
"What if I hadn't come? Don't ever go anywhere near strangers, especially when you're alone. And if you see him again, run home and call the poli- no, on second thoughts, call me. Is that clear?"
Boris nodded.
I patted him on the shoulder. There was a lot in this story that I didn't understand. What did this Satanist weirdo want to achieve? From what I understood, he hadn't laid a finger on Boris. And yet... Boris let slip that they were waiting for something. Maybe a full moon on Saturn? You couldn't be too sure with lunatics. Plenty of them around.
But what about "he did all sorts of tricks, like spells"? Did telekinesis count? On the other hand, what made me think that that's what it was? There are all sorts of schools of non-contact fighting. Maybe this misfit had practiced one of them. He must have distracted me somehow and I'd just flown a few steps without realizing what had hit me.
Of course this sounded crazy. But my brain was desperately trying to find a logical explanation for what had happened. It wasn't really succeeding.
"Boris, let's not say anything to your mom right now about this guy. OK?"
"Of course we won't," Boris agreed easily. "I might get into huge trouble. I'm already in trouble as it is."
He suddenly looked sad. We made the rest of the trip across the courtyard in silence. The dimly lit streetlights illuminated the ice-covered asphalt. Harried people loaded with shopping bags were heading home from work. A prickly snow was dropping from the sky. Neither Mr. Petrov nor his symposium buddy were sitting on the bench. They had probably already drunk their fill and drifted away to their separate lairs. All the better — that meant there'd be fewer witnesses. Ugh, I was thinking like a criminal.
I tapped my key fob on the entry system and let Boris walk in before me. The door on the third floor was already open for us. Apparently, someone had been waiting and heard steps in the entrance.
"Boris? Where were you?"
Lydia was ready to give Zeus the Thunderbearer God a run for his money. From personal experience I knew that when your parents use this kind of voice, it's unlikely that it's out of respect for you. Instead, you can expect fury to be unleashed. Seeing Boris hunch his head in his shoulders, I felt that my theory was confirmed.
"Thank you so much, Sergei. Where did you find him, in the foundation pit?"
"Yes, he was messing around with the kids," I replied, fixing Boris with a stare. He blinked slowly — he understood.
"How many times have I told you not to go there? Your father will set you straight!"
The threat didn't work on either of us. Everyone knew that Lydia's husband was totally henpecked and that he adored his wife. Boris obviously resembled his mother in nature. His dad might admonish his son, but he wouldn't force him to kneel on dried peas as they'd done to kids in Victorian times, let alone larrup him with a steel-buckled Red Army belt.
"What's with your bag?" Lydia looked suspiciously at the plastic bundle in my hands.
"I slipped and fell. All right then, goodnight."
"Good night. Thanks again."
I opened the door, crept into my own lair and turned on the light. Was this night really ending after all? It felt like enough had happened to fill the next week.
I finally realized that I was sitting on the doormat, still fully clothed. No, I needed to get up, cook something to appease my growling stomach, and gather my thoughts.
I tossed the beer into the fridge and threw the dirty shopping bag into the sink with the sausages still in it. I just needed to rinse them off, and then they'd be fine to cook.
As for the macaroni, it was much worse for wear. Most of it had remained strewn on the bottom of the foundation pit. I looked in the cupboards and found half a pack of rice. That would do.
I hastily put a pot of water on the burner. Now I had to see what I looked like. Despite my fall, my pants were practically clean. My hands, however...
That was the strangest thing. My right palm was covered in dirt even though I remembered clearly the wetness of blood as I'd touched the man's open wound. You don't forget crap like that in a hurry. Talking about which, the bag also should still have had drops of blood on it. But I didn't see anything of the sort.
The evidence of my fall was there — but there was no blood from the dead man left anywhere on me.
What was it that those bizarre messages had said? Apparently, I'd killed some Player. Bullshit. Had I killed him, he wouldn't have disappeared. Rather, he would have lain there nice and quiet like Lenin in his tomb, waiting for the police to arrive. No, if anything, I must have hit my head a little as I fell, resulting in minor hallucinations. I should actually take a closer look at my own stupid head to see if it was injured.
I went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet and started to wash my numb frozen hands. The water stabbed my fingers. But it was no big deal; the most frightening events were behind me now. I just needed to calm down a little and gather my wits.
I smoothed my hair with my wet hands, straightened up and walked over to the tiny mirror above the washing machine.
I nearly screamed. A completely different person was looking back at me.