WinterKing was examining the client carefully through his mask of usual carelessness. It had been a long, long time since he got any requests from the real. Maybe just never? More and more lately, King was doubting about its existence.

  ‘So what exactly did he say?’ Spin asked him again.

  ‘Literally, he said: find him and make him stay.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It's my job to pass it on, it's not my job to conclude.’

  ‘You're not capable of that.’

  ‘Well, that too.’

  King shook his head in agreement and reached for Spin's receiver.

  Credits...

  Real power or some weird tradition? Sometimes he thought it was worth listening to Dog and tracing where that string was coming from and, more importantly, where to? Dog believed in abundance. Endless absolutely available abundance, possessing the consciousness of higher beings. Like richy rich Buddha, giving away his ancestors' trinkets to the needy. And the funny thing is that somehow he didn't get any poorer.

  But King didn't believe in Buddha. Having accrued a decent number of credits, he pressed Accepted and smiled at Spin affectionately.

  ‘I don't like economizing.’

  ‘I could have guessed that.’

  Spin eyed the Fake playing with him with interest.

  A new race, a new nation? Is this seriously the future? Who is he truly?

  He’s beautiful. They're all beautiful. Who is he in the reals? Who cares about the reals?

  WinterKing waited patiently, keeping a sharp look on him. The blue makeup on his eyelids glistened enchantingly and wordlessly. Spin caught himself thinking that the glitter should have some sound of its own, like the gentle rustling of a snake's body on the sand, or? Spin felt himself bewitched.

  It was eight o'clock. The time that Apocalypse opened its doors. The club was packed that night. Way over the limit, which after the sudden lull was like an overly boisterous and noisy tide. Youth... Did anyone ever see some old people in Cube?

  King grinned contemptuously, not answering the greetings. He was looking at Spin, and Spin was looking at him. And from the side of the filthy street passageways that separated this club from the pile of others, a single avatar was approaching Apocalypse.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  ‘Fuck,’ WinterKing suddenly cursed and put a hand on Spin's knee, ‘think fast. I need to go private right now. I don't care what for.’

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’

  King didn't answer.

  The Fake, wearing a gray T-shirt and worn jeans with pistol grips sticking out of his pockets, strode leisurely through the doors of the club, which were lit by almost real fire.

  ‘Welcome, Dog,’ the DJ greeted him warily.

  ‘Welcome, Dog,’ Winter turned to him with sarcastic courtesy.

  ‘You've quickly forgotten me, my love,’ answered the newcomer and gave him a smile as cold as Saturn's dust.

  Saturn's dust. Spin felt its particles crystallize out of the pixels of the surroundings, and settle on his lips. Spin gazed fascinatedly at the newcomer, just as he had been admiring King a moment ago. Both Fakes were special, both were charming.....

  Perhaps GreyDog's face was a little too harsh, and the high shaven temples were a little too revealing of cheekbones. And his grey eyes lacked any lust, but he was ... hmmm ... charming. The gold of the pistols in his pockets glimmered dimly.

  ‘Dog, remove the guns,’ DJ warned him.

  'He's a shooter,' WinterKing mockingly answered, ' gunless he's like naked. He even fucks with a holster on his hips.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Spin asked in interest.

  GreyDog smirked.

  'I don't actually fuck. King forgot.’

  ‘It turns me on too,' King chuckled.

  'Funny,' Dog remarked and looked at Spin for the first time, 'that's not why I'm here this time, though.’

  The space of the club froze and a scandal began to swirl around.

  ‘Dog, remove the guns,’ Winter King hissed.

  Dog remained silent in derision.

  ‘Dog, remove the guns or I'll kick you out,’ came Caruso’s cold warning.

  The crowd in the club began to make interested remarks. Everyone loved drama and foretaste hung in the air like a horny jellyfish.

  Dog squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and inhaled the cigarette smoke from King's cigarette.

  ‘Smells of roses,’ he remarked and winked at the tensely stilled Fake.

  The ash drifted silently downward and settled in radioactive flakes on the graffiti-stained floor. Anarchy... Anarchy had once reigned in this club, but that was many seasons ago....

  Suddenly squatting down, Dog abruptly pushed off and lunged forward in a swift leap. Grabbing Spin by the stiff black collar of his jacket without giving him a moment's hesitation, he yanked him off the high bar chair and dragged him along. Upward. Jumping over the shelves of the bar, scrambling with feline agility over the walls, over the slabs, beams, and acid-coloured fixtures adorning the club. Upward - to the dark recess of the ventilation shaft.

  ‘Come on!’ he growled, looking around fiercely. ‘Faster!’

  Shouts rang out and Dog, almost without a glance, fired. Then again and again. Remaining in a strange somnambulistic shock, Spin turned back and saw WinterKing fall beautifully to the floor, clasping his hands to his bloody chest. With his back against the floor, King gave him one last look with dreamy eyes....

  ‘Why?!’ screamed Spin, still feeling himself in an all too real waking dream.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Dog snapped at him, giving him a poke.

  He threw his gun into the darkening vent. Colourless glass rained down. Crumbling, slicing and shredding the pretty faces and dancing bodies. King's body twitched slightly as a large shard pierced his belly and the red foamy sea rushed to embrace his legs.

  ‘Why?!’

  From below, the wounded screamed and their shouting resembled laughter.

  ‘Hurry up! If you want freedom,’ Dog spat angrily and, without loosening his iron grip, dived into the vent, dragging his captive behind him.

  ‘Hurry up! If you still want your fucking freedom!’