Footsteps echoed off the temple's vaults, reverberating through the vast hall that seemed endless due to the dark colors dominating the space. Light had long since disappeared from there; cold streamed from every corner, and dampness began running in unpleasant shivers down the back of anyone who entered. However, there had been no visitors for centuries.

  The walls and ceiling were true testament to the architect's genius. Carved vaults, columns, a ceiling painted, it seemed, by no less a genius master—all this inspired awe and an inexpressible feeling of a long-departed era.

  The door opened with a creak, and a dark figure entered the temple. Froze, looked around.

  "I knew..."

  Now it began cautiously advancing deeper into the space, unable to resist turning its head, looking around, up, down. However, what the solitary visitor had even appeared in this godforsaken place for lay ahead. At least, so he hoped. At least, so the blueprints said.

  He didn't want to compensate for the absence of light. Moonbeams filled the temple with such soft, unobtrusive, even welcoming radiance, passing through numerous stained glass windows from floor to ceiling, providing enough light to see the way while hiding what lurked in the depths.

  Now one of the rays broke through especially strongly, illuminating multitudes of small particles—either dust or mist. What lay beyond it was invisible.

  The entrant's heart began beating especially rapidly. Without thinking for a second, he passed through the ray.

  What opened to his gaze then made him shudder and nearly recoil. It seemed his breath would leave him now—so rapidly it quickened. Excitement pierced his body from top to bottom like a spike, lodging in his throat.

  And there were weighty reasons for this. Before him opened a view of a rather large statue, completely white. Here and there colors showed through on it, pale, unobtrusive—this was moonlight passing through corresponding colored glass.

  The visitor didn't see the face—he wasn't looking up yet. For that he needed to gather his strength.

  Having evened out his breathing somewhat, he closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, exhaled, and threw his head back.

  Yes, this was it. What he'd expected to see—what he'd seen many times already. But still his breath was taken away. Although he hadn't doubted his visions for a moment, nor then his convictions and beliefs, still this was too unusual; too unusual to realize that you weren't alone, and before you there had been people who shared your idea, and hundreds of years hadn't prevented you from feeling and seeing the same as they did.

  "I hope I'll eventually manage to attract Your attention..."

  Gil sat for a long, long time on the floor before the statue.

  ***

  The first thing Rait heard when he opened his eyes was a very frightening voice. No, it wasn't as death-paralyzingly terrifying as in nightmares, nor as thunderously all-penetrating, but upon hearing it, one wanted to jump up and run as far away as possible.

  "Perhaps I shouldn't have opened my eyes," thought Rait and closed them back.

  However, this helped him little. He'd been spotted, and now a hand with cold fingers was stroking his head. The lamentations that had begun the moment he raised his eyelids had now changed to some sorrowful half-whisper.

  No, this was unbearable. Unable to endure the touch for another second, he opened his eyes again and jumped up, abruptly sitting on the bed, immediately feeling sharp pain in his side and severe dizziness.

  "Don't get up, lie down, lie down!!!"—his mother shrieked, trying to lay him back down.

  "Please, remove your hand, and I'll lie down,"—Rait spoke quietly.

  Not a chance.

  "You're not listening to me again!!! What kind of person are you!!! Nearly died and still resisting, stop fraying my nerves!.."

  The shouting slowly transitioned into crying. Rait felt nauseous anyway, but now he simply wanted to jump out the window located next to the bed. However, he'd already jumped out a window recently. And, as it turned out, not very successfully. Though if you thought about it, his current situation was still better than being scalded with boiling water.

  When a doctor rushed into the ward, Rait sincerely thanked all the gods. He remembered his recent intention, and this cheered him. An orientation point had appeared, and life immediately became somehow easier. He instantly pulled himself together.

  "Why are you shouting like that,"—the doctor said indignantly.—"A patient with a concussion needs peace and quiet. And if you don't calm down, I'll have to ask you to leave the ward."

  She instantly changed her facial expression, putting on an intelligent look. But then all the words fully sank in.

  "Concussion..."—she widened her eyes and stared at Rait with such tragedy, as if he lay before her in dismembered form. Her lips trembled dangerously.

  "Calm down, it's a mild concussion. If you're truly worried about your son, then leave him alone,"—the doctor was already looking at Rait with alarm.—"How are you feeling?"—he then addressed the victim.

  Rait was about to assure him that everything was fine, only a little nauseous and dizzy. But then he realized.

  "Like I'm about to faint..."—he tilted his head, putting his hand to his forehead.

  After these words he lay down, turning to the wall and pulling up the blanket.

  "Alright, not bad," thought the doctor, then said in a serious tone:

  "Please leave. I need to provide assistance to the patient."

  "He won't die, right..."—Rait's mother grabbed the doctor's arm; her lips trembled completely, and a pitiful expression distorted her face.

  "Almighty Lord, what a family of bad actors..."

  "No, he won't die, he'll just lie in the hospital for a week, and then he'll be good as new. You're delaying me."

  "Alright, alright, I'm leaving,"—she swiftly left, blowing her nose into a handkerchief on the way.

  "So, how are you feeling?"—the doctor asked again.

  Rait emerged from under the blanket.

  "I'm dizzy and nauseous. I think walking would be difficult for me."

  "Don't worry, no one's forcing you."

  "Will I really stay here for a week?"

  "Actually, it depends exclusively on your wishes—whether to convalesce at home or in the hospital. I just thought,"—the doctor looked at him sympathetically and meaningfully,—"that you'd be more comfortable here. Well, at least you won't have to move anywhere, and here they can provide you proper assistance if needed,"—he quickly added.—"Otherwise—nothing special; as I already said, the concussion is mild, well, plus a bruised rib—not even a fracture. So you were lucky."

  The soothing tone and comfortable atmosphere affected Rait favorably. He looked into the doctor's kind eyes and thought that someone like him would probably be a great pity to kill.

  At this thought he shuddered. "Kill?.. But why would I kill him?.." This was so unexpected and strange... However, his interlocutor interrupted his musings.

  "I wanted to ask you something,"—the doctor's tone became serious, though a slight half-smile didn't leave his face.—"What were you doing on that road at night?"

  Rait didn't understand the question. He was being looked at with such significance...

  "You see, hardly anyone would believe that it was just coincidence—such a time of day, almost no cars, and the one that was there hit you specifically... But I'm ready to believe."

  At this point Rait began to understand. Here he nearly exploded—why does everyone always try to accuse him of something?!

  "Listen,"—he said in a sharp tone, though he tried to be calm,—"I just ran away from home, then sat at a bus stop thinking about how bad everything was, then an interesting thought came to my head, and I decided to return home; then I don't remember much, but apparently I simply didn't hear that car... Oh yes, and I forgot I'd left the motorcycle at the stop..."—Rait put his hand to his forehead, remembering.—"Anyway, what I wanted to say. If I'd wanted to kill myself, I would have done it differently. By the way, do you have a sheet of paper and a pencil with an eraser?"

  "Well, well, you're getting carried away,"—the doctor raised his hands theatrically.—"Very well, Mr. Gilrait, I'll believe you. And not even so much your words—you just don't look like someone who could throw himself under a car."

  "Can you just say 'Rait'?.."—the patient ground out through his teeth.

  "Just 'right hand'? Modesty worthy of praise,"—the doctor smirked.

  "So what about my request?"—Rait asked quietly, letting the comment pass by his ears.

  "Regarding your question—my dear, what are you planning to draw with no normal spatial orientation? Right now not only that—you're contraindicated from focusing your gaze on anything for long. And moreover..."—he looked at Rait strangely.—"Where am I going to find you a sheet, pencil, and eraser right now?.."

  "Well then what am I supposed to do?"—the question was asked with poorly controlled irritation.

  "You know, if I were you I'd enjoy the silence while I can,"—his interlocutor cut him off.

  Rait understood there was sense in his words.

  "I can ask the nurse to bring you a sleeping pill, you'll sleep. Then, when you feel better—very well, I'll give you paper and a pencil,"—the doctor softened.

  "And an eraser..."—Rait added quietly.

  "And an eraser."

  ***

  "Kael, I found it."

  Gil's eyes were shining—and not only the cold light of the bunker's lamps was reflected in them.

  "Really?"

  Kael, truth be told, was generally skeptical about his interlocutor's recent pursuits. The former understood poorly why the latter needed to dig through historical texts whose authenticity was moreover in doubt.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  And Gil was seeking an idea, more precisely—its confirmation.

  "Exactly so. The setting was exactly as in the descriptions; down to the statue, understand? Kael, it was Them, the very one, exactly. If you remember, I told you..."

  "I recall..."

  If Gil had been a cat, at this moment his fur would have bristled. As it was, he simply flashed his eyes, but restrained his emotions. He was too accustomed to having his every word caught like a precious stone. Preparing to destroy his deputy's skepticism, he began speaking quickly and clearly, and it sounded like automatic gunfire.

  "Well, now you'll definitely remember. Here's a small treatise by that architect (he threw the document on the table). If you strain your brain and still remember what I told you, you'll see clear correspondence. I leave it to you to decide whether I saw this treatise before. This (he threw another document)—is the temple blueprint, made by the same architect; this (he threw a tiny flash drive, but the sound was such that it hurt the ears)—are my own photographs. And finally, this (Kael was already beginning to sincerely wonder when he would stop throwing papers)—are my personal reflections on this topic. I very much hope you'll find time to study all this."

  The rattling stopped. Such silence immediately hung in the air.

  "Gil, I understood everything and offer my apologies. You can tell me what's written there."

  Gil looked at him for a long time, evaluatively.

  "Tell me, do you believe in anyone?"

  Kael chuckled.

  "In you, in myself, in victory."

  "Good boy,"—Gil clapped his hands.—"And also?"

  "In the fact that you don't care what I answer now. Honestly—I'm in the process of searching, formally an atheist."

  "Well, perhaps I'll help you with that. Kael, I have every reason to believe that the statue in the temple depicts our creator."

  He paused, then began speaking sharply and quickly:

  "I used to think that all world religions were nothing more than ancient people's invention that couldn't outlive itself. In some sense, however, this is so anyway—I mean customs and traditions. But my own visions contradicted me—I was 100% certain I'd seen an entity of divine origin. In my free time I racked my brain over this, but couldn't come to one conclusion. But then—Kael, you're aware of spiritual practices aimed at liberation from the circle of rebirths?"

  "Well, how should I put it... Let's say I'm indirectly aware of their existence, but about effectiveness—nothing."

  "Of course, otherwise what would you be doing here,"—Gil smiled.—"Anyway, although their goal is all the same, the results differ somewhat. One of the practices, if you happened to delve deeper, presupposes constant development of creative abilities. Logically, in the end, after many, many lives of persistent efforts, a person—well, more precisely what they become—receives the highest status. In other words, they acquire the ability to create entire worlds. This seemed very logical to me—at least, it gave the realization that ancient people aren't such fabricators. Do you see logic in this?"—he looked at Kael questioningly.

  "Perhaps, yes."

  "But what if we suppose—purely theoretically—that beings from one world could end up in another?"

  "Well, and how..."

  "What if they're sent there?"

  "Just say it all at once."

  "What if they're sent there so that they rid the planet of creatures left without supervision, whose creator for some reason abandoned them long ago?"

  "Is this you about 'god is dead'?"—Kael smirked.

  "Why not? It's the only explanation for what's happening in the world. If you think about it..."

  "I have thought about it."

  "...you're probably confused by the fact that in everything that exists here, meaning is absent—as in lives in general—and existence is directed simply toward survival, and why to survive—it's unclear. I suppose it's simply inertia; perhaps initially they had some goal. So far does what I'm saying seem logical to you?"

  "I need to think this over."

  "Good. Let's move to something more specific..."

  "I understand where you're leading."

  "Yes, Kael. This isn't simply destruction for the sake of species preservation. There's something behind this."

  "If we proceed from your words, then yes."

  "I'm not imposing this on anyone,"—said Gil.—"I just want you to think about it."

  "Naturally, I'll think about it."

  "Well, and I think that if throughout history several people have captured the same image, then that gives reason to reflect."

  "If, of course, you didn't glean this story about the deity from that architect's treatise, having familiarized yourself with it long ago,"—Kael chuckled.

  Lately for some reason he very much enjoyed walking on the razor's edge. More and more often he sensed he was being carried somewhere downhill; and this awareness seemed only to spur him more strongly to action.

  "Eh, Kael... You overestimate the significance of your opinion. I simply consider it my duty to report what I've learned. It's your business—whether to believe or not. And I personally believe in the existence of paradise—and can even describe it—but apparently you and I aren't on the same path. What a pity."

  "Indeed,"—said Kael, whom Gil's manner of communication had been irritating lately more than ever.

  "If I'm rolling, then I'm rolling."

  "Esther listened with bated breath,"—Gil smiled and theatrically shrugged his shoulders, letting his interlocutor's answer pass by his ears.

  "Of course she'll listen with bated breath,"—Kael ground out.—"Someday that beast from the First Zone will stick a knife in your throat, and you won't even notice."

  "I don't exclude such a possibility."

  "In what sense..."

  "I'm not stupid enough not to understand that any of you could stick a knife in my throat. If you think I trust her—you're mistaken: I don't trust anyone. It's just, you know, life is short, and mine especially; so I'm letting loose while I can."

  Kael hadn't heard of it before. For a second he felt himself in some sense the late vice president of the First Zone... He didn't even manage to ask Gil to clarify his statement.

  "If you want to distinguish yourself so much, show yourself in the best light in the coming war. However,"—Gil smiled,—"I have no doubts about you, as always."

  He meant the war with the First Zone. Yes, these desperate people still couldn't calmly accept their fate and were still twitching.

  It was always difficult to conduct dialogue with Gil. Kael had nothing left but to accept that the conversation was over.

  ***

  In just a few days of being in the hospital, Rait developed a severe existential crisis. Yes, he was very calm: for once no one was yelling at him. But, on the other hand—he couldn't draw. The absence of creative activity always plunged him into inexpressible melancholy: it began with awareness of his own worthlessness and ended with grief for the entire suffering world.

  That's precisely why at the first opportunity he begged that same doctor for drawing supplies. The latter, apparently, had been tired of the nurses' complaints about a patient with a concussion wandering the corridor, so he decided to show mercy after all.

  And so finally before Rait lay a sheet. Looking at it and taking the pencil in his hands, he fell into a stupor. The head of the Organization never showed his face; and he'd never even seen his eye up close. All that remained was to strain his imagination. Reyt had no problems with that; however, he feared that stereotypical depictions of villains might influence the image.

  Then he decided to let everything take its course. Taking a deep breath in and out, he drew an oval face.

  "An oval?.. It needs to be a bit sharper, but not too square..."

  "And the nose... The nose should be sharp, like a bird's, and thin; perhaps with a small hump on top."

  "Rather large eyes... Maybe slightly elongated. And the color... blue? No... light blue... No. Gray. Metallic gray. Eyebrows... eyebrows rather low; probably slightly curved at the edge, where the eye ends..."

  "Thin lips, probably also slightly stretched... A noticeable chin, but not too much... And cheekbones. Not very low, but not high either."

  Rait looked at the sketch. It came out rather poetic—as if stepped from the pages of a book. And it looks too much like either a musician or an artist, well at most a maniac—but not at all like the head of such an Organization. And to look like a dictator, he'd need to create a special gaze and definitely add a fold between the eyebrows.

  The longer Rait drew, the more he liked it. Of course, he'd need to check the symmetry ten times, flipping the sheet and holding it up to the light... but overall it was turning out quite well. Rait regretted that the drawing was black and white—he very much wanted to emphasize the paleness of the skin with blue-black hair.

  He worked on the drawing over several days, carefully rechecking details, now removing, now adding something. Despite the imperfection, by the end he was in complete rapture. Now that the head of the Organization had acquired embodiment, he'd become much easier to adore.

  Rait felt calmer than ever. No one yelled at him and no one touched him; he had an orientation point he was ready to almost worship; the world would soon be destroyed, and suffering would finally end. You couldn't wish for better; Rait surrendered to the power of euphoria that spread through his body with such divine warmth.

  When discharge time came, the doctor came into Rait's ward and asked, eyes flashing slyly:

  "Will you show me the drawing?"

  He flinched and hesitated. Yes, no one knows what the head of the Organization looks like—and he himself doesn't know; but the habitual, quite justified desire not to share his creative work took over.

  "In principle yes, why not,"—he heard his voice from somewhere far away.

  After this his hands took out the drawing and turned it toward the doctor. His heart began pounding like mad; suddenly Rait felt very vulnerable, as if some extraordinary X-rays were examining all his contents—both physical and spiritual. He stoically endured this feeling while the doctor examined the sheet.

  "You know, quite good. There are, of course, some inconsistencies, but overall—quite a recognizable self-portrait."

  Here Rait flinched.

  "In what sense... self-portrait?.."

  "Oh come on, don't play dumb that you didn't try,"—the doctor smiled.—"I can see—diligent work."

  Without giving Rait a chance to recover from amazement, he continued:

  "You should go to art academy, not throw yourself under cars."

  His interlocutor clenched his fists with annoyance. No, there was no way to dissuade this person from believing it was a suicide attempt.

  "I don't want to go to art academy,"—Rait said quietly and firmly.

  "Why?"

  "There they'll make me draw what I don't want to."

  "And what do you want?"

  "To die..."

  The phrase escaped unexpectedly; after this Rait stared at the wall—his head became empty.

  "Now, now,"—the doctor raised his hands theatrically, simultaneously placing the drawing on the bedside table.—"I didn't hear that from you. Otherwise you'll end up somewhere for a long time—and not with us, but somewhere much worse. Still trying to dissuade me of something..."

  Rait desperately didn't want to return home.

  "What nightmare is hanging on your wall?"

  Well, of course. As expected. Rait had never hung drawings on the wall before at all, but with this one he simply couldn't resist and decided: whatever will be, will be. Moreover, over time the work had undergone significant changes—the pencil sketch had now acquired colors. However, it was executed predominantly in black and white tones—except it had become brighter and clearer. Furthermore, Rait had taken care of an ornate frame with many small details, drawn around the edges of the sheet.

  "Is this some kind of demon? What kind of look is that? Why are you drawing such wretchedness, are you copying someone? Oh, these teenagers..."

  Rait waited patiently. She thought and thought—"Well, he did just return from the hospital recently, and hit his head too"—and decided to ignore the drawing for now.

  At night Rait turned on the nightlight and sat for a long, long time on the floor before the image.

  ***

  "Gil, urgent information."

  Esther's face was slightly troubled, but overall, as usual, impenetrable. Generally, what always amazed about it was what a wide spectrum of emotions it reflected while remaining stone-like.

  "The First Zone intends to use nuclear weapons."

  "About time,"—Gil snorted.—"Simply amazing that they dragged their feet so long until only a handful remained..."

  "You know human psychology poorly, especially from the First Zone..."—Esther spoke quickly.—"What do you intend to do?"

  "We already have a ready plan for this case. I take it you've already got the data..."

  "Not yet; I rushed to you."

  "Such urgency?"

  "Yes. The Organization had better remain within the Second Zone."

  "I understand. Do we have anyone from the Armed Forces to launch a response in a more global case?"

  "But as far as I know, it will happen automatically..."

  "Oh yes, right,"—Gil put his hand to his face.—"This paranoia of mine..."

  "...and that's precisely what frightens me. Fighting for a scorched radioactive wasteland, it's somehow, you know..."

  "And here you were talking to me about psychology. They're not idiots either; after all, choosing between final destruction of civilization and preservation of civilization under the supervision of another species of humans, they'll prefer the second. And you know, they won't play rocket dodgeball until not a speck remains of the First Zone..."

  "One would like to hope so."

  Looking after the departing Esther, Gil thought that this particular person definitely had a future. At least, she strove toward it so; it was as if she already lived in it. This sort of proprietary attitude toward life reminded him somewhat of ordinary people in her, but only partially. Esther, though she didn't show it, was fanatically devoted to ideals and didn't allow for any reality except the one in which these ideals would be brought to life.