Worldview
The Prophet stepped into the Dealer's worldview.
The room was old, coated in mold, pus, fungal spores, and necrosis—yet the smell... it was pleasant. Morning flowers and fresh pastries. That's what the Prophet inhaled.
"Knew you'd peek into my world," the Dealer greeted him, leaning against a crumbling wall.
"That obvious?" The Prophet eyed the seated figure.
"Yeah. All Genomes wanna talk to you before they croak. The only one our world doesn't twist..." A grin. "Feels good, huh? Being special?"
"I'm not special," the Prophet said flatly. "And I'm not human. Stop excluding me from the Genomes."
"Hm." The Dealer tilted his head. "Then how're you different? You got no abilities..."
The Prophet lunged, grabbing the Dealer's half-unbuttoned shirt.
"Listen here, you shitstain—"
"What?" The Dealer cut him off, grinning. "Gonna kill me?"
"Unfortunately... I can't do shit to you here," the Prophet hissed through clenched teeth.
"Then let go."
The Prophet released him.
As the Dealer straightened his shirt, he added:
"Relax. Genomes manifest abilities up to age 26. You've got five years left."
Silence.
"What is this place? And why the fuck does it smell like that?" the Prophet finally asked.
"Grandma's house. She loved baking. The flowers... made the world feel less dark." The Dealer's gaze dropped.
"Pleasant scents—the only thing keeping us from total darkness," the Prophet said tonelessly. No anger, no joy. Just void.
"What about drugs? They help Genomes too!"
"Don't start," the Prophet snapped.
"Heh. You'll get it when you're older," the Dealer sighed.
"Enough stalling." The Prophet crossed his arms. "I'm here for intel."
"What intel?"
"Your base. Where is it?"
The Dealer burst out laughing. "Give me one reason I should tell you."
"You know I'm the only one you can talk to. And you decide how long that lasts," the Prophet said, ice-cold.
"Hm... Fair." The Dealer smirked. "Thirty minutes. Chat with me for thirty minutes, and I'll answer anything."
The Prophet nodded, checked his watch, and sat opposite him.
"Fine. Talk about your childhood. I'll listen." He propped his head on his fist.
"You're such an asshole..."
"Yep." The Prophet's smile was vile.
The Dealer sighed and began.
FLASHBACK:
The Dealer wiped sweat from his brow, three crystals clinking in his pocket. He'd scored two goals today—his team won, which meant his bets paid off. "Sokol!" His buddies clapped his shoulders. "We play again tomorrow!"
He grinned. "Tomorrow."
The apartment door was ajar. The stench of vodka and something sour seeped out.
"Mom?"
At the kitchen table sat his mother—red hair matted, mascara smeared. Beside her, a new "boyfriend."
"Well, well! Look who crawled home!" The man laughed, yellow teeth bared. "Your quiet kid, huh?"
Mom didn't even look up.
"Ignore him. He's mute."
"I... bought candy." The Dealer pulled a crumpled pack from his pocket.
"Oho! Candy!" The man slapped Mom's thigh. "Kid loves you!"
She finally glanced at him. Her eyes were glassy.
"The fuck I need that for?"
He stood there, gripping the candy. Remembering how Dad always brought her chocolates. Even when there was no MOKA left.
"Whatever. Gimme." She waved a hand.
He handed it over. She unwrapped one, chewed.
"Tastes like sugar-coated shit." She swallowed. "Should've brought crystals instead."
The man howled with laughter.
"That's my girl! Kid, you hear? Mama needs her fix!"
The Dealer turned and walked to his room—Dad's old study. A photo hung on the wall: Dad in uniform, smiling. Died two years ago. Gangrene. Just... rotted alive.
From the kitchen:
"You don't discipline him at all!"
"Since when's it your business?"
"I'm just sayin'—boy needs a firm hand!"
A door slammed. Then silence.
The Dealer lay on his bed, pillow over his ears. The crystals clinked in his pocket. He could've run to his friends. Scored a hit. Numb himself.
Instead, he pulled out an old soccer ball—Dad's last gift.
Morning. Grandma arrived.
"Pack your things." She eyed Mom, passed out in her clothes. "We're leaving."
"What about her?"
"She made her choice."
On the bus, Grandma stayed silent. Only when the city vanished behind them did she unclench her fist.
"Here..."
"STOP!" The Prophet cut him off.
"What? Something wrong?"
"Everything's wrong." The Prophet's jaw tightened. "None of this makes sense. The candy, the crystals, Grandma showing up—your 'story' is incoherent bullshit."
"I can explain—"
"No. No more." The Prophet turned away. "I've heard enough."
"O-okay..." The Dealer's voice wavered.
The Prophet clenched his fists, thoughts raging:
"Fucking Dealer... spouting nonsense. How am I supposed to work with this?" Then, quieter: "...Wait. He's trying. And I shut him down hard." A colder whisper followed: "But if he clams up now, I lose the intel. And I need it."
"...Must've been hard. Growing up with an alcoholic mom and no dad," the Prophet said quietly.
"Nah... I was a kid. Didn't really get it." Pain laced the Dealer's words.
"Mmm." The Prophet grunted.
"What the hell do I say now?"
"Hey... how far can your girlfriend manipulate time?" the Dealer asked suddenly.
"Thank fuck for that question."
"Five meters," the Prophet said curtly. "Why?"
"Just curious..." The Dealer looked away.
"Please tell me thirty minutes are up."
The Prophet checked his watch.
"Fuck! It doesn't work here!" He cursed. "Always forgetting that..."
"Hahaha!" The Dealer wheezed. "Bad news for me—thirty minutes are long gone."
"Then talk. Where's the base?"
"Lenin Street." The Dealer barely held back laughter.
"Specifics." The Prophet's tone could've frozen hell.
"So serious. Can't even joke..." The Dealer sighed. "Forty-Seventh B."
The Prophet stood and headed for the exit. He knew the rule: leave the memory's anchor point, and you return to reality.
"Hey!" the Dealer called.
"What?"
"What happens to me when you leave?"
"Dunno. Don't care."
"The crystal'll break. No one can reach me after..."
"Correct."
"Do I die? Or just... stay here alone forever?" A tremor in his voice.
The Prophet didn't answer. Kept walking.
"Andrei... that's my name. Will you tell me yours?" Four seconds passed. The Dealer turned to the exit. "...Gone."
Those were his last words.
Back in reality, the Prophet crushed the crystal's remains in his palm.
"Took you long enough—two seconds and sixty milliseconds," Niya said. "What'd you talk about?"
"Nice to meet you... Andrei. Rest in peace." Grief tinged his voice. "Interrogated him about the base. Tough bastard." A lie.
"Heh. Master interrogator, huh?" Niya smirked, stepping closer. "I'd've cracked way faster," she whispered in his ear.
"Let's pretend I didn't hear that..."
"Whatever, dumbass." Her grin widened.
"Let's report in," he said, deadpan.
"Ugh! Let's hit a bar first, then deal with the suits tomorrow!"
"No."
"WHY NOT?!"
"We report. Then I'll take you to a bar." He gripped her shoulders. "We'll grab Nelly and Adelina—they need to debrief too."
"You're paying." She poked his nose.
"I always pay..."
"Huh. True." She paused. "Fine! Let's go!"
"What's a bar?" Lera asked.
"I'll explain on the way."
Niya's fingers clamped around the Prophet's wrist like steel vise, and she hoisted Lera with terrifying ease. Without another word, she marched toward "ATPC", dragging them both in her wake.