Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wit of the composer, shall it be,
To shelter lightning in the August’s sanctuary,
And you, the changes’ herald in this queendom,
Lead us on the path of freedom.  

Where the tree begins to bloom —
The newborn’s life awaits its doom.
And seeds of fate are deeply sown
In time's embrace — both new and gone.

Can Electricity be reeked?
This question in your throat is stuck.
The thunderbolts in time won’t sink
Pray, my darling, wish for luck!
 
The pace of Jazz that’s kicking in
There’s his craze that flows within,
Contagious, he is coming through
But you’re asleep. The Morpheus has taken over you… 

The Raven — one, and hangman — two,
Keep your eyes wide open, sleeper,
Sisters — three, four houses too:
Fisher, Dragon, Horse, and Weaver. 

When the centuries collide
Child, you’ll hear how bells can ring;
Blues and rhythm — all shall unite
To tear away the cover that the shadows bring. 

Oh, that Blues. Sly, artful, blue
Your bones are notes — all same for him.
His curly veil sure has a vim,
But his voice will shelter you. 

Hear his call and kneel in thrill —
To that gentle voice of will,
That can burn though still is warm,
Yet it shall not do thy harm. 

Slumber’s foreign to the knell,
You’re in your dreams — that’s where you dwell.
And in the night these velvet covers
Put upon your scars a spell. 

Then two lights blink in the darkness,
In the silver’s cold these two will blend.
The Bird that once was named a goddess
In Sun and Moon shall meet her end.  

The dream will disappear in time,
Years can fade in all that rhyme.
And yet, one thing is to be stood:
That charm of veil will be with you for good.

A fragment from a lost book

New York, 1935

Four figures at the table, not including the dealer. A dim yellowish light, and under it — dust and thick smoke from cigarettes.

The first bets have been placed.

The flop opens:

Queen – Hearts, Eight – Spades, Two – Spades likewise.

With a stroking movement, the tall woman repeatedly raised her cards. The silence was broken by a cough from somewhere across the table. A spit on the floor.

“Ugh, so gauche!”

“Hush, sister. You know me, don’t you? At least once, let's focus on the game, instead of the bad blood that's been trying to brew between us for a freaking cloud o’ years and every time leaks in a hatch along the way,” the man in a hat and sunglasses drawled, rolling his ‘r’ dramatically.

“Oh right, how come I’ve completely forgotten — that's the only reason that I haven't sliced you to ribbons yet,” snipped the female figure in a wide-brimmed hat towering above the table.

“Mother, that’s just Heisenberg. What were you expecting?”

A swarm of flies rustled around the tall woman, forming the figures of two girls.

“Bela, as if it's new to you that our uncle's manners infuriate mother,” the brunette drawled, lounging imposingly next to Bela. She had a knife in her hands, which she used to sharpen her nails or pick at the edge of her chair.

“Not exactly. I just believe mother’s right,” Bela looked at her uncle sternly, then her gaze turned towards the dealer. “It’s gauche and... Cassie! Get that knife away from me, or you'll never see it again.”

“Oh, try me!” Cassandra stretched out in a feigned smile, twisting her knife in front of the blonde’s nose.

Alcina Dimitrescu and Karl Heisenberg have known each other for a long time. Too long enough. And the woman shouldn’t have been offended by the sworn brother’s behavior in any way. But, from time to time, his antics made her want to knock the card table over Heisenberg's head.

The man took a drag on his cigarette and, as the owner of the small blind in this hand, tapped the table with two fingers.

“And why wasn't the youngest one brought in?” the man noticed, exhaling the cigarette smoke. “Or she’d be running all over the room again and shouting, ‘I saw uncle's cards!’ ” Heisenberg mocked, wringing his hands theatrically.

“The last time was an exception. I couldn't leave Daniela at home alone with the maids. She is afraid of thunderstorms. The senior and most devoted maid was also away that day to be by her side. I had to take my girl with me. But she's too young for our moronic card games,” Alcina sighed.

To the left of Heisenberg, a runty man that did not look very attractive, to put it mildly, answered to the Check with a Call.

“Deary, the cards are not to blame if some can’t play the game,” Heisenberg kept harping on the same string.

The woman pouted childishly.

“It's not that I can't. I just don't really like this poker game of yours.”

Despite the fact that in her past Alcina was an adventurous lady and did not like to lose, playing poker didn't give her much pleasure.

“Pardon me, milady, it completely slipped my mind that it's easier to rely on fortune at roulette,” Heisenberg tried to tease his sister. “And why play if it doesn't spark you up?” he added, twisting a lighter in his fingers.

Alcina gazed somewhere into the void. The expression of discontent gave way to a haze of melancholy. She turned her face away for a second.

“Mother Miranda makes me to,” the woman sighed. “All these endless talks about resting on Saturdays, gathering here and spending time with you all for the sake of family unity... She doesn't even know that I’d willingly spend this time with my daughters.”

“Yack, yack!” the man lit a cigarette. “All this speech to go to the feathered thing's temple service on Sunday and admire her greatness. I’m not glad myself that I sometimes have to obey mother, but now someone is contradicting themselves, ain’t it right, sis?"

“It’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. You know it yourself.”

“Ah-oh... Ar-aren’t you rea-ugh… really happy with moh-mother's decisions, sister?” the man with a mutilated face joined the dialogue. He stuttered, spoke as if he could hardly open his mouth, and it seemed like a little more and he would vomit.

“Moreau, my little brother, unlike Heisenberg, I'm well devoted to mother. She gave me a prestigious house, obedient daughters. But now — and for quite some time already — she’s grown cold to me. Mother knows my so-called deficiencies. My imperfections. Now, she’s more focused on new ideas.”

“Rather the new-old ones,” Heisenberg rolled his eyes. “And how far can your ‘well devoted’ go?”

“ARE WE AT ALL TO PLAY TODAY, YOU LUG NUTS?!” a nasty voice exploded across the table. “I’VE ACTUALLY RAISED THE BID A LONG TIME AGO!”

The distorted squeak came from a small human figure in a white dress who was fed up with the senseless arguments between her older siblings.

Alcina ignored Karl's question, and the game continued, to which the figure in the white dress was incredibly happy.

After massaging her temple, Dimitrescu too accepted the bet increase, and with a deft movement of the dealer's hand, another card clicked onto the table.

“Jack o’ Diamonds,” Heisenberg drawled. “Oh Turn, my wondrous Turn! The deck is being shuffled bizarrely today! Check!”

Alcina frowned but did not comment on her brother's words in any way.

“You're a little too nervous today, sis. Aren’t you happy with the cards? Or is there another reason behind this? A little birdie told me,” Heisenberg continued, turning to several men behind him, "you're running out of wine in your cellar.”

Quiet chuckles sounded behind the players.

“Hmm, and what if I have a full house?” Alcina retorted.

“She, the one with the full house... Like hell! All you have from the full house is a house full of bloodsuckers led by the Lady super-sized bi—”

The man didn’t manage to let out — what he thought — a sparkling joke since the girls sitting next to the tall woman hissed. Although in the past, her brother's remarks about Alсina's size had offended her, she did not pay any attention to them now. Got too used to them? Or did she not want to go soft? After all, it wasn't the woman's fault that Miranda's “gift” in the form of a parasite reacted so roughly to Alcina's rare blood disease.

“Girls, don't be bothered. Weren’t you, the heiresses of the House Dimitrescu, the ones to say some time ago that it was just Heisenberg?” the woman retorted again.

Either out of fright, or at the sight of the card that lay on the table, Moreau folded.

“POT!” it was the nasty voice again.

“And I’m in position, and I am willing to attack!” Alcina continued the game. “Call.”

The bets have been placed. No more bets. An Ace of Diamonds flopped onto the table, cutting through the air.

Alcina's hand lay softly on the turret with the chips, and they rattled under her fingers to the rhythm of the Radetzky March. She decided to smoke. A puff — another one — and more than one — and the woman let go a little bit.

“Yeah... still, you're really nervous today. Well, if so, then you'd better touch wood.” Heisenberg couldn’t just get away.

One touched wood in two cases: when it was a Check move in poker, and away from temptation, in this case, away from Alcina.

“Allora, sorellina,”^[1] Heisenberg continued, turning back to the men sitting behind him, “ti conviene toccare i coglioni?”^[2]

Thus, once again, Karl Heisenberg decided to shoot a sparkling inside joke by switching the speech code. The faces of the men, who burst into laughter upon hearing Karl address his sister, revealed a group of former Italian mafia bosses from New York of those years. Heisenberg, the nailer at working with all sorts of ‘iron thingies’, as Alcina put it, had managed to turn dead criminals into real steel steeds, and if need be, even killing machines. He was meticulous when it came to bolts, screws, gears, and other details, and he couldn’t quite hide the pleasure when working with all that. Only, Heisenberg missed one detail today — everyone at the table spoke at least several languages, including Italian. The bullet is a mad thing, as they say.

The grin shone on Alcina's face, foreshadowing everything but good. She took another pull at the cigarette and leaned over to Karl.

“Deary,” she exhaled the cigarette smoke into her brother's face, “se te li tocco, te li taglio.”^[3]

Now, Alcina's daughters were the ones to burst out laughing. While Karl was waving away the smoke, Bela started banging her fist on the table, and Cassandra, Dimitrescu's middle daughter, leaned back in her chair and almost fell off the chair.

“And you thought you were the only one here with jokes, didn’t you?” Cassandra said indistinctly through laughter.

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” Alcina's words amused the little figure as well. “MEANWHILE, ANGIE GOES ALL-IN!”

The little figure looking more like a living doll often liked to refer to herself by name.

After Angie's words, the remaining players decided to fold.

Alcina's fingers rested on the bridge of her nose. . It seemed that if she squeezed it a little harder, she would start to let off steam and whistle like a kettle.

“Thus,” the dealer's voice interrupted the chaos, “all the money goes to miss Angie Beneviento.”

The room was buzzing with snorts and annoyed groans from the rest of the players and their attendants, and only the small figure climbed onto the card table and rode across it, performing a tiny victory dance.

“Popsy, I bet you are a game expert. Would you be so kind as to show us what cards you had?” Karl asked with feigned courtesy.

“IT'S NOT IN POKER’S ETHICS TO DO SUCH THING! BUT, SO BE IT!” Angie groaned. “I'M GOING TO PUT MY TWO CARDS FACE DOWN ON THE TABLE, AND YOU'RE GOING TO DRAW ONE OF THEM. CAPISCE?”

The choice fixed upon the left card.

A moment. Then two.

“ARE YOU NUTS, JACKSTRAW?!” the dog in Heisenberg was unleashed. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS JOKER? DONNA, IS THIS YOUR DOING?” he blurted out, addressing the dealer.

“DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY MISTRESS! JACKSTRAW! JACKSTRAW! JACKSTRAW!” Angie squalled. “YOU SAID IT YOURSELF, ‘THE DECK IS BEING SHUFFLED BIZARRELY!’, DIDN’T YOU? Y-E-E-E-S, YOU DID! ANGIE REMEMBERS! ANGIE SMART! KARL IS NOT! KARL IS A JACK-ASS-STRAW!”

“YOU, A LITTLE BLUFFER AND YOUR LITTLE FOOL-AROUND HANDS! YOU WAIT TILL I—"

“Enough!” Lady Dimitrescu straightened to her full height, towering dangerously above the table. It was no longer clear what kind of hand was being dealt with, and this Joker, to whom she folded her Seven and Queen of Spades, was the last straw for the woman's patience. “I'm not to be engaged in this farce anymore!”

With these words, Alcina headed for the exit.

“Mother, where are you going?” the sisters exclaimed after their mother.

“I need a drink.”

A bright light shone into the room, and the woman's tall figure disappeared in the doorway.

###

New York was relentlessly chaotic, wild, and fast. In those days, gangster gangs patrolled their neighborhoods, but people bantered that in this city it was easier to meet your death under a car's wheel, or die from the strain of a heart that couldn't keep up with the frantic pace of life, rather than from a scoundrels’ bullet. New Amsterdam was occasionally quiet, and when such — it could be compared to the lull before the storm, for there was nothing good about that lull.

Alcina Dimitrescu occasionally enjoyed dropping by various bars when she didn't have to prepare for concerts or deal with business papers. The woman had developed a taste for alcohol and bar piano long before moving to New York. Dimitrescu also spent her free time with her daughters in their mansion whenever she had the chance, and she wasn't particularly fond of crowded places unless it was for one of her own or someone else's performances. But that day, she felt like spending some time in a bar. Alone. Of course, jazz and blues were her true passion — after all, a woman should know how to relax. And then, it was Saturday — Mother Miranda had ordered it herself. She fixed upon her favouriteRoseland on the corner of Broadway and 51st Street. The night bar opened late and, fortunately for Alcina, was almost empty so far. Her companion in misfortune and, coincidentally, her remedy for the headache that day was Johnny. Johnny Walker.

“Ah, Lady Dimitrescu! It’s late; soon, musicians will be here to play, but how can I turn down the lady’s whim to stay away from the bustling city. Do you like it as usual?”

Alcina nodded, making herself comfortable on the sofa. One hand rested on her chin, while the fingers of her other hand tapped out a rhythm on the table, waiting for her whiskey.

It was heartening to know that the bartender was not at all bewildered by Dimitrescu’s height. When the woman entered the room, she certainly drew attention to herself, but this did not surprise anyone in the city anymore. Alcina had long devised a tale according to which her entire family consisted of exceptionally tall people, and the locals took her word for it. You bet! Who wouldn’t believe this woman when she towered over you?

“Your whiskey, milady!”

The ice crackled nicely in the glass.

“Thank you,” Alcina answered in a languid voice.

She took a sip of the drink, and its tingling texture dissolved on her tongue. Dimitrescu narrowed her blue eyes slightly as she looked at her glass. The color of the drink was very pleasant. Honeyed, velvet-like… As she swirled the whiskey glass in her hand, it seemed as though the ice was turning into cubes of butter, leaving a faint wisp of smoke in the liquid. And that movement was an art itself. Alcina smirked at that thought.

And yet, the headache still lingered, and with those thoughts Lady Dimitrescu sent the rest of the whiskey down her throat.

A few more of those, and the headache, along with sobriety, both like uninvited guests, were happily shown the door. Her gaze fell upon the empty piano. She approached it and ran her fingers across a few keys. Alcina looked up at the young man who was wiping glasses at the bar before the guests’ arrival. There was a plea in Alcina’s eyes.

“Why don’t you play something, Lady Dimitrescu?” the bartender smiled back.

One after another, plain notes in a jazz manner began to crawl out from under her fingers. Alcina wasn't trying to play anything in particular — just running her fingers over. Jazz, among other things, had the ability to pull people from their everyday hustle, distracting them from the worries and struggles of the time, but this music also had another trait — it intoxicated, mesmerized. The veil of the melody was enveloping, and when it faded, listeners, though reluctantly, returned back to black. They missed the life that thrived in jazz, and each time, they longed more to drown in its sounds. However, too much of such music consumed the listener, drawing them into a viscous quagmire from which it was hard to escape. But where was that line dangerous to cross? Oh, how badly Alcina longed to know it, and for that, she had a whole eternity.

Perhaps it was jazz’s duality that attracted the woman. Moreover, Alcina had several addictions, and if one could depict them in the form of a diadem, jazz — as well as blues — would be one of the biggest sapphires embedded in it, along with another equally destructive habit that others could only surmise about.

In days gone, mother Miranda gave Dimitrescu eternal life, but Alcina did not quite imagine it that way. When one lives so long that grows tired of their own shadow, thoughts of death begin to quietly sprout in one’s mind. Alcina wasn't religious in the conventional sense, and she had questioned the doctrines of the world’s religions long ago in her youth. A life after death? Another one, just as painfully long as this one? Spare us, Lord. As for mother Miranda and her cult, Dimitrescu was enchanted not so much by the promises of the feathered god but, as she thought back then, by Miranda's care. Perhaps Alcina was just frivolous then, and life reminded her of that every single time, slapping her with a cold shoulder from the feathered goddess and poker on Saturdays in the company of her so-called “family”. Playing “Durak” but it’s an empty hand for you.

In contrast to that, Alcina's daughters were a great joy to her: Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela. Perhaps, as a rare yet valuable exception, for their sake, she sometimes chased away the thoughts of loneliness, death, and oblivion in the blues melodies.

“Found her, girls!” Cassandra shouted as she entered the bar.

Speak of the devil… In this case — of three devilesses.

“What are you doing in the streets at such a late time?” Lady Dimitrescu raised an eyebrow. “And why on earth did you follow me?” the woman frowned, interrupting her date with the piano.

Alcina did love her daughters and was ready to turn a blind eye to many things, but when it came to their safety or her strictness, Alcina was almost adamant.

“Mother, calm down. We just missed you. And Daniela hasn't seen you today at all,” Bela purred, entering the bar. She was leading the third girl with reddish-brown hair, much smaller than her sisters.

“Hi, m-u-u-u-m!” Daniela responded coquettishly, wrapping her tiny hands around her mother’s leg.

Alcina sighed. The girls did love to raise hell's delight, but this time with no devils in.

“Oh, mother, not again. We're old enough to take care of ourselves,” Cassandra howled, closing the bar door.

“You both might be. But not Dani,” Alcina countered strictly. “She’s still a child.”

The two elder sisters had and exchange of glances. Bela insistently called for her sister's calmness, and Cassandra was genuinely perplexed by that. Meanwhile, Daniela puffed out her lips.

The girls surrounded Alcina.

“I’ll give you the bit about the little one, but overall… As much as I hate to admit it,” Bela glanced at her sister again, “this time I’ll side with Cassie. And then, what could’ve happened, mother?”

“Have you considered the streets of New York, perhaps?”

“The worst that could happen is if Cassie sharpened her teeth on someone,” Daniela laughed, clearly defusing the tension.

“You are some kind of kitties, aren’t you?” Alcina gradually let go of her strictness, trying to lend an ear to her children's words. The realization that Alcina was there now and would protect them if something occurred was reassuring. “Well, hello, little one!” Lady Dimitrescu playfully adjusted her younger daughter's hood.

Daniela wrinkled her nose happily, and the girls hugged their mother. Their touch soothed the woman's emotions completely.

“Play something, mama,” Daniela sang.

And the lady made the keys play by her own rules again.

Jazz shimmered with the acoustics of the bar, and the sound reflected off the walls, echoing the city's nighttime rhythm.

^[1] it.: so, sister.

^[2] it. (vulg.): you better touch wood. Lit.: you better touch on nuts.

^[3] it.: If I touch them, I’ll cut them off.

Chapter Text

“…and the YOUR truth will set you free.”
L. 8:32
 

Somewhere in Europe, the modern world 

The knuckles’ crack echoed hollowly through the room. The last phalanx stubbornly resisted, and the fingers gave up. The hands lay back on the blanket under which your body was lying. Now, only your breath existed in the space of sound. The curtains — tightly closed. Not a morning time; you weren’t sleeping — just lying there. A slight anxiety accompanied your thoughts all day long, making your body beckon to the bed.

“My bed — my castle,” you smirked at these thoughts.

You closed your eyes and frowned slightly.

“And what’s with this stupid habit of cracking fingers? Oblivion. I wish for the oblivion…”

###

Your wrist rested on the ceramic surface of the sink. The water gushed out from under the tap, and the next moment your hands were filled with its cool foam. You washed your face, and some water got on your hair. Your back straightened, and you gazed at the mirror, wiping it with a sharp movement of your hand. Teasingly, drops were falling from the tips of your short dark strands, as if counting down the clock’s ticking. A fairly tall girl was looking at you through the mirror. The shoulder bones and collarbones were revealing their breadth. While the remnants of the liquid were disappearing in the sink, you wished the water to take with it the anxiety that could not leave this already fool head of yours alone.

“Quick! We need to get to the lower tier!” the junior conduit blurted out, catching his breath while flying into your room.

You heard a rumble through the walls, and both of you hurried out of the room.

As you were going down, the plaster, along with the dust, began to crumble. With every gust, the light was becoming dimmer and dimmer, and the musty air enveloped the space.

In moments like this, one was losing the sense of time. Although you were walking fast, almost running, it seemed that this stair would never end. Your breath was shaky, the dim lantern light was getting absorbed by the darkness and almost disappearing, and yet, one thing did not let you get lost: the conduit's hand holding yours.

“Hmm, a wingman,” you thought.

The boots clatter — a flight of stairs – a strike from outside. Another flight — another strike…

A few more quick and disturbing flights, and the next moment you found yourself in a wide corridor.

“I sure anticipated that something was to happen soon, but not this soon,” you said, continuing to move forward.

“At least it didn't happen completely out of nowhere. This way!”

You and the conduit both turned left down the corridor to the iron door. It opened with a creak, and after such darkness, even small glimpses of light irritated your eyes. But better this way than staying in the rumbling unknown. You entered the room.

“Ah, Eighth, we've been waiting for you. Come here,” the Senior pointed, turning to you, and the iron door shut behind your back.

There were several people in the room bustling around, picking some things. It was as if you could feel their hearts beating.

“So,” the Senior stopped, “what’s up with the hair?”

Even in such a bustle, the Senior was distinguishably attentive.

“I was caught off guard in front of the sink,” you nodded towards the junior conduit. “I don’t—”

The next instant, a towel flew at you.

“Wipe yourself dry, we need to play safe,” the Senior snapped. There was a slight discontent in his voice, but he seemed to be the only one in the room to keep his cool. “And then, one has to look decent when going somewhere.”

Fortunately, the stairwells’ dust and dryness took away most of the moisture as you were rushing across them. With quick, choppy movements, you started wiping the ends of your hair.

While everyone was fussing around, your gaze slid around the room. You rarely ventured into the lab, but nothing ever changed here. The same faces, the same glass space, except for the steel arch that had appeared some years ago, according to the junior conduit. You hurriedly continued drying your hair while studying the arch. It beckoned with its mystery and intimidated with its size.

“All our previous plans have failed miserably,” the Senior spoke again, interrupting your thoughts. “For some time, we tried to fight her directly, and in the end — nothing. Attempt after attempt — and all that remains is just a few from the headquarters. She has gained too much power and influence. It's pointless to fight her like this. But let this scum not think we don’t have an ace up our sleeve,” the Senior smirked.

You listened carefully, trying to piece the facts together in your head.

“I’m mixed about this. I’m glad the crew insisted on a backup plan, and we started this project years ago based on ancient blueprints,” he exhaled, placing his hand on the arch. “We’ve tested it numerous times. The blueprints were wild at first, and developing each part took many hours, especially since one detail had to be made in double quantity. But in the end — it worked out.”

Noticing your puzzled face, the Senior interrupted his vague musings.

“Young lady, I can see a question and concern in your eyes,” his voice softened.

A few more years, and you’d be in your thirties. But the Senior spoke to you this way when he wanted to connect with your feelings.

“Why would you make it in double quantity?” you tossed the towel on a chair.

“You don’t think it’ll be like some silly movie, do you? We thought through the details, and many others have already tested them...” the Senior smirked. “Even if you temporarily place the details in something else or damage their surface, they won’t lose their properties. And there’s one more important thing — you’ll see it later.”

Your gaze froze on a spot on the floor.

The “she”. The details. The arch. What the fuck is going on? You knew the Senior was not famous only for successful missions but also for his mad scientist’s head, but this... went beyond everything.

You heard from the rumbles outside again. The same ones that accompanied you on the way to the lab. They grew louder, and the same wave that rolled outside now reverberated in your head, and everything became clear at once. You HAD been warned. Years ago, they had planted this idea in your mind. People kept disappearing from the headquarters — they were sent on a special mission. You were supposed to become a part of the plan, and that emphasis had been made time and time again. But a lot of time has passed since that, and the importance of things ticked away with it. Perhaps you wanted it all to be just a joke, but given how critical the situation was, and what the whole headquarters was battling with, the only joke to be was you.

You had to hand it to the Senior — truly did he deserve the title of a madman because the scale of this project was mind-blowing. And now, the answers were revealed to you in bizarre cards:

The arch — a time machine, the details — parts for its creation, she — damn her, Miranda. You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head.

“Commander, are you really sure she’s the one to handle this?” asked one of the crew members, hastily packing things into a suitcase.

The Senior turned, eyeing you from head to toe.

“Absolutely. I tend to believe ancient tales and my intuition.”

“Absolutely… not,” crossed your mind.

The Senior, as if heard your thoughts, lowered his head and smiled. He stepped away from the arch and nodded somewhere to the side.

The next blink you know, a gleaming blue light spread through the arch’s contours, outlining the details. The space inside the arch flickered with bright colors along the edges while in the center — a black hole gaped.

You squinted, examining the curves of the construction. The blue light gently pulsated, its beams of rays passing through the steel of the arch. While the arch whispered and beckoned, inviting you to swim in its trail, the hole in the middle simmered, wanting to engulf you, drag you into its vortex, press you, and never let you go.

The rumbles outside didn't cease. Everyone around felt it coming, and it made it all even more alarming. The feeling of shrinking space seized you again.

“The same blue… I see. Alright then. Eighth, come closer,” the Senior called you. “Let me take another look at you.”

Now his words were soft and confident, making you focus. You approached the Senior.

“My determined Eighth, listen carefully and remember because I’ll only say this once,” his hands rested on your shoulders. “You’ll face a difficult journey. You won’t be the first to experience the arch’s effects, but you’ll be the last one for now. We need to turn time back to deal with Miranda. We need to hurry now before the oncoming mold takes us over. When you get there — where the arch sends you to — don’t rush. You’ll need time to understand and accept everything.”

You absorbed everything the Senior said, but you didn’t fully realize the scale of what now rested on your strong, yet human shoulders.

“And where will it take me to?”

“The ancient blueprints are silent on that. The arch can definitely send a person no more than a century back. But what decade you’ll land in — boh! But I guess the blue light is trying to tell us something. Though… from beyond the grave,” the Senior pointed toward the arch, “no one has returned to tell us. Well, at least, not yet.”

Considering how turbulent the twentieth century was, you tensed slightly and raised an eyebrow. You didn’t want too broad a turn of fate. Though the fact of time travel itself was already a “blessing”.

“Afraid not, you won’t see any dinosaurs there!” the Senior tried to joke. “The blueprints also show that if made from the same special forged steel, the arch sends everyone to the same place. So, there you go…”

With these words, he took his hands off. The remaining crew members gathered around: one inspected you from all sides, another hurriedly worked with your belt, wrapping a strong, short rope around it, the third secured the suitcase you had seen them packing while you and the Senior talked. The last one kept watch over the whole process.

“Why not just put it in my hands?”

“Because in your hands you’ll be carrying the detail without which the arch cannot be completed,” the Senior responded. “It’s the most intricate one, according to the blueprints, and it took the longest to create. Remember: while flying through the arch, you shall not separate from the detail. We studied the space inside — it’s sensitive to large electrical objects, and heaven forbid it starts to separate you from each other. That said, you must be a single whole. Of course, there’s electricity in the human body too, but it’s different. And the suitcase contains certain things that you’ll find curious.”

Once the crew secured the suitcase to your belt, the Senior continued:

“We’re also informed from our sources that there are some lords around Miranda — that’s what they call themselves, at least. I’m sure that the time you’ll land in, they’ll also be present. We know almost nothing about these individuals, except that they are not quite ordinary and, I reckon, no less dangerous than Miranda herself. You should have no trouble recognizing them, but that’s not the main task. Win their trust, find your way with them, since it’ll be easier to deal with just Miranda herself of that time frame if she’s, let’s say, almost unarmed. So, keep that in mind.”

You sighed helplessly and nodded in response. The Senior loved weaving riddles, and after such details your heart began pounding in your ears. That’s called responsibility — sure thing. But the task was set, and even though you didn’t fully grasp the risks, you still wanted… to give it a try. And you were ready to go. Or were you?

“Wait, you said you were mixed about this mission. The mold’s approaching, and it will… You’re holding something back, don’t you?” you stared the Senior straight in the eyes.

He pressed his fingers to his lips and smiled sadly.

“Sometimes your train of thought is not untraceable... I feared this question. You don’t think I’m going to leave the arch as a gift for the feathered one, do you? I’m not willing to succumb to her. Enough of the past mistakes. So, I'll have to deal with this matter in the harshest way.”

You looked around at the people in the lab. Your eyes were filled with confusion and... regret. So much work done for just one flash. And all these people were united in their decision. They nodded in silence.

“Why can’t you all come with me?”

“These are the rules of the arch: one person — one detail,” the Senior stated firmly, checking his watch.

The detail was put into your hands. It was a light, bulky hexagon. A button appeared from the central table, and you realized what was about to happen. The rumble began to hit the iron door.

“Attention, everyone!” the Senior commanded. He turned, and his hands rested on your shoulders again. “Leave your worries behind. If everything goes as planned, we’ll meet here again. Oh, and I almost forgot!”

With these words, he shoved a piece of paper into your jeans’ pocket.

“Find Miranda and destroy her along with the remnants of the mold inside.”

“Wait! I—”

“Take care.”

You didn’t manage to say anything or process it, as your body was pushed into the black gape. The last thing you saw was the explosion of the laboratory.

###

The space resembled a shapeless, shifting abyss. At first, the journey felt like a nighttime car ride: drowsy, lying in the backseat, eyes closed, body gently swaying as the car glides down the road. With every passage, streetlights flash in the windows, stroking softly against your sleepy face. The sounds of the streets intertwine with the flow of air, bouncing off the lights and echoing the rhythm of the engine. One light after another, one breeze after the next. As your four-wheeled companion gained speed, so did you — flying through this tunnel of time. Accelerating, the intermittent lights merged into a single line that glided alongside you, sometimes faltering or lagging. It was no longer the light of streetlamps but a long metro wagon hurtling through the arch and chasing the traveler. Staring at it for too long gave you the impression that this line could be heard, but a blink reduced it to a silent flow of light. That was the first period of your adventures in the arch.

Gradually, the line dimmed, dissolving into the space. The further you flew, the darker it became, until black waves began to overtake each other, swirling into spirals in the void. At some point, their speed slowed significantly. The sight was mesmerizing, but all these wonders were nothing more than illusions. Behind the enigmatic beauty of the waves and lights lay an empty void.

The sense of time dissolved in the tunnel, and the suitcase strapped to your belt felt nearly weightless, and so did your body. To distract yourself, your gaze shifted to the small object in your hands. You clutched it tightly to your chest, studying its facets. It was small, and yet so much depended on this little thing. You better not let it slip from your hands…

“Damn lunatic!” you were angry at the Senior.

As your body soared through the tunnel, you wondered what time you’d land in once the arch spat you out. The last thing you wanted was to end up in the midst of a war or something worse. Thinking about it seemed absurd since there was no turning back now anyway.

“I guess I still can’t fully grasp that I’m flying through a tunnel in — god help me — a time machine. Here I am, and somewhere out there another life awaits me, full of events yet to unfold. There’s so much left to see and realize…”

You began imagining the various situations you might find yourself in, cycling through decade after decade.

“The interesting thing is… how does the Senior even know all travelers make it to their destination? He said no one’s ever returned from the other side, didn’t he? You’re a funny one, you know. There’s no chance of changing it now nor influencing it, so just stop worrying and fly yourself to wherever the hell this tunnel’s going to,” you tried to calm yourself.

The tension grew heavier. A lot had happened in such a short span of time. Meanwhile, the space in the arch thickened, swallowing everything in darkness. The waves had merged into one, and, drowsy, you closed your eyes, deciding to take a brief rest.

###

The sound of a trumpet whipped through the space.

You cracked one eye open. Everything looked the same. It must have been a dream. The space remained dark, and the detail was still pressed against your chest.

Seeing nothing suspicious, you decided to return to your visit with Morpheus.

Another sound — this time, a saxophone — jumped from downstairs. You snapped your eyes open. A cold, unpleasant wave swept over you.

“What the...?” the thought flashed through your mind.

The space was changing. Circular motions introduced a deep blue color, then a red one. Next, the space exploded into yellow-orange hues. Sounds from musical instruments burst forth one after another. The trumpet pushed against the saxophone, which clashed with a bass and keys. To class up the night, cymbals clanged deafeningly, ringing in your ears, as if someone had struck you over the head. The detail nearly slipped from your grasp. At that moment, it felt as though you could sense the instruments vibrating. Everything seemed to mock your sanity.

Then, voices wove into the musical chaos. They sounded familiar, and you were certain you’d heard them before. Some argued endlessly in different languages, others sang, and with every moment the voices multiplied within the arch. Each seemed to be vying for control over the space’s matter — and along with it — over you. The colors thickened, transforming the tunnel into a whirlwind of rainbows. It felt as though you’d been dragged to a rowdy carnival you had no desire to attend.

“That’s a farce. No, a buffoonery. Nah, that’s Jazz!” you tried to explain the scene to yourself despite the sharp pain building in your temples. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, nausea rising in your throat. All you wanted was for it to be over.

The tunnel, as if hearing your plea, spun your body within the flow and, with a sound like tearing paper, opened its jaw wide, spitting you out into a blinding white light. The carnival’s colors faded behind you.

“Finally. That nightmare’s over.”

You suddenly felt your presence in a new space. The suitcase began to grow heavy, pulling you downward, and you realized — you were falling. You curled up, tightly pressing the object closer to your chest.

The whistling rush of air grew louder with each passing second, scorching your back, and forcing your teeth to clench, as you squeezed your eyes shut. If the tunnel was unnerving, the awareness of your new surroundings filled you with genuine fear.

The flow pulled you faster and faster, and though your body was strong, it trembled. You clutched the object with all your strength, but your instincts overpowered reason. Arching your back, you screamed, and your voice echoed up and down the white void before abruptly cutting off.

Everything blurred before your eyes...

The traveler’s lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

“And this old world is a new world and a bold world
For me.”

The ground.

The furrowed brow. The breathing was labored, the body ached, the pulse pounded like a drum in the ears, and the head felt as though it had been placed beneath an enormous bell that had been struck with full force. Was this a dream? If so, someone, please wake this sleeper.

Time travel hadn’t exactly been the most pleasant event in your life. Odd, jarring, terrifying. But at least you didn’t have to piece yourself back together. Well, perhaps… Gritting your teeth, you began to feel along your body, though every movement came with great effort. The sensation of fabric beneath your palm brought some small comfort, grounding you with the realization: everything was in its place. Your hands dropped back to the ground as you exhaled slowly.

Your body needed time to recover from the metamorphosis in the arch. The space within it —especially the white canvas — lingered in your memory like a painting of a screaming figure. The same waves of terror, the same consuming atmosphere: a distorted face and pure despair. The process of further journey remained a mystery, as the final moment of your fall had slipped away from memory.

You frowned again, trying to push away the memories of that bizarre voyage. Something hard with sharp edges was pressed against your back.

“The suitcase,”   you thought.

“Not the broken coccyx, thank you very much,”   a mocking voice echoed in your head.

This suitcase, the companion of yours, had flown through the time tunnel with you, along with that tiny contraption. Speaking of which…

You didn’t find the detail in your hands, and you had to make sure it hadn’t rolled too far away. You carefully turned your head and slowly opened your eyes, though it was the last thing you wanted to do.

The spherical object lay nearby. Its steel curves faintly flickered with a dim light.

“Ridicule me all you want,”   your eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’d love to get up and toss you as far as I can. But don’t worry — you’ll be going straight into the suitcase. And we’ll see if you’re still smirking after that.”

It seemed that along with despair, you’d picked up a touch of madness in the tunnel — otherwise, how else could you explain the fleeting urge to scold the detail?

“I wonder if all my predecessors experienced as I after traveling through the arch?”

You shook your head and looked away.

The weather allowed for lingering, with no need to hide from rain or other forces of nature. A gentle breeze brushed over your body, leaving behind a faint shiver, while the exposed areas of your skin occasionally prickled with goosebumps. It was cool.

“Clear is the night!”   the thought flashed through your mind.

The black sky above you was scattered with stars, and as your eyes flickered, so did they — winking back one by one. Their playful dance didn’t irritate you, unlike the detail lying nearby. You blinked softly. The light from those tiny flames was soothing, and it felt as if just a little longer, and the night’s veil would tenderly embrace your face, and the stars would descend, brushing the tips of your lashes with gentle kisses.

“And what if I've been lying here for ages?”

Your talk with the starry sky was hard to abandon, but distant sounds caught your attention. The headache had subsided, and you felt a surge of strength, enough to rise.

After a brief struggle with the belt, you unhooked the suitcase from your waist, pulled it out from beneath you, and sat beside it. Stretching your back, you sought to feel your body again. Your gaze settled on the detail once more, and you grabbed the hexagonal object, opened the suitcase, and tossed it inside without looking. The square companion, as if understood your mood, snapped shut. At this moment, you had no desire to dwell on the importance of the detail.

“Later, I’ll take a look at what the Senior stuffed in there,”   you muttered, patting the suitcase before stretching and cracking your knuckles. “Looks like my habits traveled through the tunnel right along with me.”

You sat facing the forested landscape, while behind you a rhythmic noise swayed like the pendulum of a massive clock. It ebbed and flowed, sending waves of cool night breeze over your body. You rubbed your forearms lightly.

“Gotta get up and at least brush myself off for decency’s sake,”   you rolled your eyes and pursed your lips. “Oh well, Eighth… Decency for whom? I’m alone here…”

Gradually fading irritation gave way to curiosity, and the distant sounds compelled you to your feet. After all, you had to figure out where the time-traveling machine had brought you. Grabbing your suitcase, you turned around and…

“Lord, that’s bright!”

Despite the fact that the light came from a distance, it made you squint and shield yourself with your hand for a moment. It seemed your eyes had grown far too fond of the darkness. Over time, you managed to adjust to the brightness, enough to meet it face-to-face.

Bold of you to assume you were entirely alone here. Beyond the ocean, from where the distant noise arose, a city loomed. Its lights shimmered, warding off a faint mist that coiled around it. For a brief moment, the place resembled a phantom hovering above the water, its lace-like haze softly beckoning wanderers toward it. But then, the light pierced through the mist, dispersing it, asserting the city’s dominance. This winner now gazed back at you — proud, peerless in its radiance. And yet, beneath its dazzling facade, it felt as though the city was desperately trying to hide something.

“Charming and fatal, huh?”   your gaze was locked on the scene before you. “So, you’ll let me in, make me trust you, bare the shoulders hidden beneath all that garment’s luxury and heft, spin me right round with your rhythm, and then spit me out when you’re bored? New York, I doubt if I’m ready for what’s awaiting, but there’s no escaping your allure. I’m in the game! After all, those who don’t venture… well, they’re just mold,” you smirked to yourself.

The city’s silhouette was unmistakable. For a moment, you completely forgot the purpose of your journey through time. The anger seemed to vanish entirely, replaced by an awe for the unknown. The thought made your gaze blur for a second, and the city lights reflected in your eyes, flickering like tiny flames. You squinted, raising your hand to your face, as if holding the city in your palm. A sly smirk tugged at the corners of your lips.

“Well then? Am I heading your way? I guess not. I’m heading… to you!”

With that attitude, you tightened your grip on the suitcase and took your first steps toward the fate.

###

Half of the bridge already left behind. On the other side, the city seemed silent in its calm, but the closer you got, the louder and more impulsive it became. The Brooklyn Bridge was almost deserted; during your crossing, only a handful of cars passed, leaving your silhouette in their wake. Majestic, noisy, and massive, their roar resonated through the bridge’s beams, echoing in your head. Yet, this evening, cars were rare guests.

Apart from them — no one else. Lost in thought, it seemed to you that you had been walking with your eyes closed for a while.

“What age is this? Which era? My trust in the Senior… Did I even have a choice?”

From the rare cars speeding by, with their smooth curves, large headlights, and rounded panels, a retro style exuded effortlessly.

The ocean murmured calmly around the bridge, while the wind carried moisture up to its iron structures, causing goosebumps to prickle incessantly on your skin. At times, you clenched your fists to focus on your goal rather than the sensations, or rubbed your nose and hands — it was noticeably colder on the bridge than by the forest.

And again — no one around but you. The city seemed to be preparing for the arrival of the traveler, laying out the bridge in advance and setting the perfect stage for a grand performance. Or perhaps, someone was simply delirious after their strange journey through the time tunnel.

As you walked, questions and doubts jostled for space in your mind. On one hand, there was a small sense of relief — if it was even possible to calm down after such a journey — that you hadn’t landed in the epicenter of chaos and had made it through the arch without breaking anything along the way. On the other hand, while you had a vague idea of where you as the traveler had ended up, you couldn’t be certain. The closer the city loomed, the louder the hum grew, and the weight of the unknown pressed heavier. New York pulled at you with increasing intensity, and you quickened your pace, eager to step onto its territory at last.

Brick by brick, beam by beam, the skyscrapers stretched ever higher and more imposing, while the space separating the city from the bridge grew narrower and narrower. As you neared the point where the two met, you paused and glanced back at the path you had traversed, then forward toward the city. The buildings no longer appeared silent and enigmatic — there was life stirring behind them, movement veiled in their shadows.

The mist began to rise again, as if sealing off the path back to the bridge. You shook your head, brushing off the remnants of doubt, and your legs, almost of their own accord, carried you forward, straight into the depths ahead.

###

Life in New York was in full swing. No other place in the world could match its relentless rhythm. Here, you either lived at full or not at all. Couldn’t keep up with its pace? Your problem, son. Many dreams had been scattered, trampled, and buried beneath the smoke and clamor of its industrial anvil. The city seemed to demand that anyone stepping into its domain play by its rules while staying true to themselves. Only then could they rise to its level, and such resolve was generously rewarded. A haven for everyone and no one. In New York’s dynamism, one could find both a reason to live and a place to die under its watchful gaze. In a word—contrasts. The city was the master of its streets, yet the locals always knew where to hide from its grip.

At the heart of this chaos, thriving and siphoning energy from all things living, Harlem and the 52nd Street, more known back then as Swing Street, nestled at the crossroads of Broadway and 5th Avenue. The bars here catered to every taste, filth, and wallet. There was no better place to find, if one ever wished to disappear into the crowd, lose themselves in a whirlwind of card tricks, smoke, notes, and glasses. And, perhaps, no worse either.

Eventually, New Yorkers had mastered a peculiar way of blending seamlessly with the city — otherwise, how could one explain the sheer number of hats and trench coats inspired by the latest trends, either rushing chaotically somewhere or leisurely emerging from the local bars, yet always harmonizing perfectly with the metropolis’s unique style.

The chaotic energy around you was almost stifling. You wandered the streets, sometimes examining the signs that crossed your path, sometimes looking upward at the skyscrapers looming above like silent judges. The rhythm of the city pulled you in, and you instinctively followed, trying to blend into its flow. In the crowd, you caught glimpses of various episodes: slightly curious glances cast in your direction, the occasional elbows and shoulders bumping into each other, the hems of coats and the edges of bags brushing against the suitcase in your hand.

Your eyes swam in the sea of neon letters. Their glow reflected in small puddles, sliding across the glossy surfaces of cars that warmed the city from within with their heat and exhaust fumes, battling the chill of the weather. And the people — crowds of them. At the end of their journey, the light from streetlamps and signs transformed into something resembling a ping-pong ball, bouncing off shop windows and getting lost in the coats that fluttered open now and then, carrying those stray beams of light away with them. And so it went, endlessly, in a ceaseless cycle.

Somehow, you were swept out of the bustling flow and onto the edge of the road. While your thoughts scrambled to piece themselves into something coherent, an approaching sound hit you in a sudden rush…

A strike. And fortunately, from your body jerking sharply to the side just in time. You were sprawled on the sidewalk.

The car that had almost flashed you by with it rolled forward a few more feet before coming to a halt. A head, adorned with a sharp hat, leaned out of the window.

“Watch where you’re going, kid!” the man threatened, nodding in your direction.

“Чего? Да пошёл ты!" ^[4] you hissed back.

Under different circumstances, you might have snapped back at your words, but the man ducked back into the car for some reason, and the vehicle, swaying and fishtailing slightly, sped off into the night.

Your shoulder ached slightly from the fall, but thankfully, it had only sustained a minor bruise. Instinctively, you pulled the suitcase closer. With a sharp click, it popped open, revealing the mess caused by the strike.

“Ah, sorry about that, old fellow. We really got roughed up,” you said, catching your breath as you tried to restore some semblance of order inside the suitcase. You couldn’t sort everything out, but you managed to pull out a few banknotes that the Senior had thoughtfully tucked inside. Stuffing them into your pants pocket, you closed the suitcase.

“Just in case,”   flashed through your mind.

And suddenly, it dawned on you why that man might have so quickly and decisively chosen to avoid escalating the conflict.

“In English. We speak English here. Put on your best accent and try not to stand out,” you said to the air, patting your lips lightly.

You sat on the curb for a while longer, watching as a few streetlights began to flicker and dim. The neon sign of the 3 Deuces bar flashed in your field of view, where people poured in through the “Enter” door and spewed out through the “Exit” one.

“Oh, to swing on Swing Street with three deuces in the middle of nowhere…   That’s something you’d probably only see here — in this city,”   you smirked.

It was the dead of night, and there were fewer and fewer cars on the streets. Your skin prickled with goosebumps as the cold made its presence known. You decided to enter the bar through the “Exit”.

###

Four dim, lonely light bulbs, greenish paint, almost sliding down the walls. The tables corners, like dried up, expired chocolate. You clenched your jaw, as if that chocolate was about to crunch unpleasantly on your teeth. And the dense, infinitely acrid smoke. Yet, despite the bar’s unpresentable interior, the place was far from empty. A few tables were vacant, but you, deciding not to draw attention to yourself, chose a seat at the edge of the bar counter, where shadows provided some cover. Your suitcase rested open on your lap.

“Let’s see, the detail, a small first aid kit, lockpicks, bandages… everything’s all mixed up,” you thought.

“What can I get for you?”

“Huh?” you looked up, startled.

“This is a bar, isn’t it? People drink here. Maybe you should take it easy? Coming to a bar with work stuff, and on a day off, no less…” the bartender said, nodding toward the suitcase. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Uh, water, if you don’t mind,” you replied, lowering your head back into the suitcase.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, continuing to wipe down the glasses.

“Money… there’s a fortune in here…” you thought, noticing that the Senior had prepared for this as well. “Though it looks… strange.”

There was a small note stuck to one of the banknotes:

“Spend it carefully. Or carelessly.”

“Truly, the Senior and his usual enigmatic nonsense. Where did he even dig up so much money?” you thought, examining the old dollar banknotes from various eras.

Your gaze landed on a handful of transparent wrappers.

“Ah, orange and pomegranate flavored. It appears, this is his way of softening the blow,” you smirked, eyeing the lollipops. “And a pack of cigarettes. Looks like that’s it. My personal agent’s fun kit, with a bonus of cash.”

The fun was over when you found a revolver at the bottom of the suitcase.

A glass of water was placed on the bar counter, interrupting your thoughts. Startled, you snapped the suitcase shut.

“If you end up wanting anything else, just let me know,” the bartender said skeptically, stepping away from the counter.

“The memory is within the water,” you thought and nodded in response.

Your phone had already been taken away in that other world since electricity was a strict no-go. And honestly, what use would it have been? Except maybe to snap a photo or two. There weren’t any clothes in the suitcase either, as no one could ever be sure what era the arch’s travelers might land in.

“I guess that’s what the money’s for — to outlive it all. And judging by recent events, the ones to outlive me are my wits.”

You sat there for a while, spinning the glass in your hand and taking a sip from time to time. More guests trickled into the bar, and thoughts about the era resurfaced in your mind. Occasionally, you felt someone’s gaze on you, but every time you turned to look, there was nothing suspicious to be found. This happened several times until, at one point, you caught the condescending stare of one of the guests. He looked at you, then at your half-empty glass, and finally shifted his gaze into the void.

The bartender returned to the counter, and you decided to try your luck.

“What year is it?” you asked quietly.

The bartender raised an eyebrow again, ready to say something when another voice interrupted him.

“What year, huh? Yeah, well…” a drunken man, already openly staring at you, decided to answer for the bartender. “You young folks, you’re all out of it,” he twirled his thumb near his temple.

“There you go again, you old stump! Leave the lady alone!” his rant was cut short by a woman who had approached the table.

“Marcy, just look at her! Now they even come dressed like that to bars!”

You tensed, examining your clothes.

“Can you imagine,” the man scoffed, “she’s asking the bartender what year it is…”

“You can’t even remember your own name when drunk. Tom, enough!” the woman tried to shut him up, but he kept going.

“All that jazz they listen to — probably brewing some god-knows-what in basements, getting all stoned, forgetting everything. If it were up to me, I’d—"

“THOMAS!” the woman grabbed his arm. “That’s too far! Apologize. Now!”

“Pff…” the man grimaced, “won’t even bother myself with that! Seeing dragons, are we?”

“Fine. That’s it then! Seems we’ve overstayed our welcome…”

The woman stepped up to the bar to pay for Thomas’s drinks. Her hand rested gently on yours.

“Darling, it’s 1935. Please forgive us — my husband is speaking through his emotions and alcohol today. I wouldn’t recommend taking it after him,” she nodded toward your empty glass, “if you’re already forgetting dates at such a young age.”

As if to confirm her words, she adjusted her hat and headed for the exit. Thomas shuffled after her.

“I think you’ve earned yourself a drink after such an attack,” the bartender chimed in again.

You nodded in response. Scanning the bottles behind the bar, your gaze settled on a burgundy one, distinguished by a convex silvery pattern on its label.

“Now that’s more like it! This is how you should’ve started,” the bartender replied playfully.

Was it a wise choice to drink on an empty stomach? Time would tell…

Moments later, a small glass filled with crimson liquid appeared on the counter. You took your first sip — it was tart, slightly thick, and… with an unusual metallic tang. It coated your palate and warmed you from within. You could almost feel it going down your throat, as if its movement was more tangible than any other drink you’d had before.

“Apparently, you know a good thing when you see it! You’re lucky — that bottle is the last one. For some reason, wines like this don’t get delivered to places like our bar anymore. Maybe the supplier changed, or something else happened…”

The bartender’s musings faded into the background as the alcohol began to settle into your system, putting things in its own order.

The more guests arrived, the more cigarette smoke thickened. Snippets of conversations, bursts of laughter, and the clinking of glasses echoed from all directions. This went on for some time. Hidden in the shadows, it was warm and calm — you were sipping your wine, observing the room and occasionally glancing at the window, until you noticed a silhouette approaching the door. At first, you thought your eyes were deceiving you, that it was just your imagination playing tricks, perhaps fueled by the alcohol. But in the next instant, the door swung open. Long arms grasped the doorframe, making way for a stooped figure. As the stranger entered the bar entirely, she straightened to her full height. Her gaze froze for a moment.

The room grew noticeably quieter. The woman narrowed her eyes slightly, scanning the depths of the bar as if searching for something, and lifted her head.

A wide-brimmed hat.

A heavy, dark cloak.

A black floor-length dress.

Leather gloves.

And completing the look — a massive necklace.

The darkness of her frame threw her pallid skin into even sharper relief.

A few men removed their hats as a gesture of respect, but she paid them no attention. Her tall, commanding posture radiated tranquility, yet faint, fleeting emotions flickered in her eyes, one after another. It was difficult to discern what this stranger was thinking about.

“Perfect timing, Lady Dimitrescu!” a man’s voice called from deep within the bar.

The corners of the woman’s lips twitched into a disapproving smile. She froze for a few seconds, then wrinkled her nose slightly and turned away in a deliberate show of dismissal, striding toward the man.

Behind her spread shoulders — a vastness, her cloak — imbued with magic, and each step — a commanding blend of strength and grace, capable of effortlessly sweeping anyone aside of her way. And the curves — oh, everything about this woman was curves.

She reached the table and sat across from the man, who had clearly been waiting for her. She held a cigarette holder between her teeth. A match struck, and the next moment she exhaled a stream of smoke, subtly signaling to the bar’s guests not to eavesdrop and to mind their own business.

The room slowly came back to life.

“What a load of delirium,” you muttered.

With those words, you tipped the glass back hastily, only to choke from the abruptness of your own movement. The remaining alcohol, unable to make it down your throat, trickled down your neck.

“The restroom is over there,” the bartender said, pointing with a faint smirk. Clearly, your reaction amused him.

“And who do I thank for the fact that it’s not in the direction of that tower?”

###

Cool water splashed onto your face, and your fingers, wiping away the remnants of red liquid from your skin, paused at your lips. Whether it was from a surge of nerves or mild intoxication, your vision blurred. You shut your eyes tightly.

“Great. The trouble found me in record time…”

The water kept streaming from the faucet. You’d faced plenty of turmoil in your life, but this one made all previous experiences seem insignificant. Pressing your lips together, you shook your head.

“Just like that, right away, huh? Very good. Actually, not good at all. No, this can’t be…” you sighed. “I don’t know, but something feels off here.”

Your damp hands swept through your hair, mussing and pushing it back. You stared into the grimy mirror while keeping your palms under the running water, not realizing how it was gradually heating up until it nearly scalded your skin. Hissing, you turned off the faucet and, with no towel in sight, wiped your hands on your jeans.

“Nowhere to run. Time to head back to the hall. So much for staying under the radar, huh?” you thought, shaking your head as you made your way out of the restroom.

The bar’s atmosphere seemed unchanged in your absence. If anything, more guests had arrived, and the cigarette smoke hung even thicker in the air.

“Not from around here, are you?” the bartender asked as you sat back down at the counter.

“Well, you could say that…”

“I could. Only out-of-towners react like that to Madame Dimitresque,” he said with a slight French accent, nodding toward the two figures shrouded in cigarette smoke. “The locals know that her whole family is… special, if you catch my drift,” he added, hinting at the woman’s height.

“Oh, really? How fascinating…” you muttered aloud, squinting into the depths of the bar while ironically rolling your eyes inwardly.

“At least, that’s what the lady herself claims. She’s known not just for that, though,” he gestured toward the wall behind him. A poster. The tall woman surrounded by musicians. “Performing occasionally at Onyx, Roseland, or larger concert halls. Her voice is… enchanting. Though it’s not only the voice itself,” the bartender leaned slightly closer to you. “If you ask me, there’s something mysterious about her, but the lady seems to play her cards well…”

As the bartender stretched out his tales, the man Lady Dimitrescu had been talking to rose, bowed slightly, and headed for the exit.

“… As they say, ‘If you want to hide something, put it in plain sight,’ ” the bartender concluded.

“What are you getting at?”

“You seemed a little flustered. I’m just saying, it pays to stay sharp,” he pulled your suitcase from behind the bar and placed it in front of you.

“One second of carelessness, and everything could’ve been gone…”

“I hope you realize that carrying a case like this around here is risky. And that amount of cash… it reeks.”

“I really did lose track of time for a moment,” you replied with a forced smile, yanking the suitcase toward you irritably.

The bartender asked for payment for the drinks, and you pulled a couple of bills from your pocket.

“Vintage banknotes? Still legal tender, of course,” he said, examining one of them before handing it back. “But I prefer ones that belong to this age.”

As you spoke, the cigarette smoke in the bar began to thin, and the atmosphere grew quieter. Out of the corner of your eye, you kept watching the same woman. Her marble-like face now showed a remarkable wrinkle on her nose. Occasionally, she frowned, adjusting her hat and gloves.

You tightened the grip on the suitcase handle.

When the lady stubbed out her cigarette, you noticed she closed her eyes and sniffed the air deeply, as though searching for a specific scent. Then, she stood and loomed over the table for a few moments. Her head slowly lifted, and the yellow glow in her eyes caught the dim light beneath her hat. A quick glance in your direction — and suddenly, she moved. She strode toward you with long, purposeful steps.

“The fuck she has in there, some built-in radar?!”

You grabbed the suitcase and bolted for the exit, knocking into a few guests along the way. Bursting out of the bar, you darted around the nearest corner. The traveler sprinted faster than ever before. A stitch stabbed your side, and the wild pounding of your heart echoed in your ears. And yet you kept running, clinging to the last morsel of consciousness.

“Years of training didn’t go to waste,” you exhaled and slowed down, unable to maintain the frantic pace of your escape.

You bent over, pressing a hand to the wall, gulping for air. Each breath stabbed painfully in your chest as you tried to steady your breathing.

“This isn’t fair!..” raced through your mind.

The events and emotions of the day had been overwhelming. It hardly felt real, as though it had all been a dream. Your feelings swirled, tangled in a whirlwind, like a ball of yarn ready to unravel. You felt nauseous, your body trembling. And then, you vomited.

“Fool!”

The metallic taste of blood lingered in your mouth. Spitting it out, you focused on calming your breathing. Once the trembling subsided, you kicked a nearby box.

“I’ve been here for just one day, and you’re already attacking me like this! What do you want from me?” your voice cut through the air, attempting to shout your frustration at the city. You slowly slid down the wall, wrapping your arms around yourself.

It was getting colder. The velvety aura of the city dimmed, replaced by deep blue hues. Streetlights flickered in the darkness.

You sat there for a while, reflecting on everything that had happened. The bartender’s murky tales, the distorted sense of space, and… her. You could swear you’d caught a yellow glint in the woman’s gaze.

Your eyes felt heavy, but you shook your head, warding off sleep. Slipping your hands into the pockets, you felt the money in one and a scrap of paper in the other. Pulling out the note, you unfolded it — the letters and lines swam before your eyes. Rubbing them, you struggled to focus:

“The arch. The manifestation: blue.

New York.

Everything by the grid: from Zanzibar — down, over the bridge from Harlem — left. Go there — after it — until you hit a lone pillar with a wreath. Opposite — a door for a good kick. The detail rests there.”

“No, we can’t ever put it simply, can we? It always has to be in our style,” the image of the Senior floated into your mind. You wanted to be done and good with it already, and frankly, you needed to start with the detail.

You mustered the strength to stand. Ensuring the suitcase was still in your hands, you trudged back toward the bar. Even now, thoughts of the tall woman refused to leave your head. Curiosity almost killed the cat.

Reaching the spot where your escape had started, you cautiously peered into the window. No one. Or, to be precise, none of those who occupied your thoughts.

“I want to collapse right here. But I can’t let it all spiral out of control so quickly. I can’t just give myself away and lose it all like this.”

The game was stupid. And so was your life.

###

You wandered the city for what felt like an eternity, trying to locate the place described in the note, frequently losing your way on unfamiliar streets and taking wrong turns. Reading the signs had become almost physically painful, and the desperate need for sleep gnawed at you. Your legs occasionally gave out beneath you, stumbling along the uneven pavement. The boots you had once loved now felt like instruments of torture, and the suitcase in your hand was an unbearable burden. More than once, you considered abandoning it right then and there or tossing it into the nearest gutter and diving in after it yourself.

The sun caught up to your lonely figure on the bridge, scorching your back. Truly, sleep deprivation sharpened your senses only to hammer them into submission.

“Found it. The pillar with the wreath. Lone. You stinky! Tucked away behind Harlem’s noisy streets.”

Across from it stood a building, and a door — or something resembling one. Your eyes drifted back to the note. On the reverse side, some scribbles had appeared, invisible during the initial reading.

“I can’t with these riddles anymore, Senior,” you exhaled wearily.

You approached the door and knocked. Silence. The note had mentioned something about ‘a good kick’. Your legs felt like lead, but summoning the last drops of your strength, you drew back and kicked the door.

A small window slid open, and a voice came from within:

“It’s true?”

“Wha—?” you blurted out instinctively. The small window slammed shut again.

You blinked in confusion; the phrase matched the scribble on the note. Slowly, it dawned on you that the markings on the back of the paper must have been a sort of password. You repeated the actions: another kick to the door. The window slid open once more, and the same voice asked:

“It’s true?”

“The faggot is you,” you read aloud from the note.

The door creaked open, revealing one of the crew members. You couldn’t quite place their name.

“Looks like New York’s already taken its turn to wear you out.”

“To wear me out…” you squinted, forcing an ironic grin. “That’s putting it lightly.”

“I see. Come on, we’re heading down.”

Whatever that meant, the thought of moving any more made you wince internally.

“Stairs? Seriously? No other way?” you silently pleaded, but aloud you quipped: “Got a slide instead? I’m dead tired…”

“Oh, come on! You’ll have your sleep later.”

“Yeah, sure… in the afterlife…”

After trudging down a short hallway, you were relieved to see an elevator waiting at the end. Once inside, the iron doors closed, cutting off the last sliver of light. The universe seemed to have taken pity on the traveler, and at that moment, it didn’t matter where the creaking mechanism would take you to. Hugging the suitcase tightly, you slid down to the floor and drifted into sleep.

“There’s hardly anyone down there today, but we have to put the detail in—” the crew member paused, hearing soft snores. He turned to you, and a hint of amusement flashed across his face. “Well, I guess this works for now.”

He turned a key in the lock, and the elevator creaked as it began descending.

###

A faint thud woke you.

“Sorry, Eighth, but we’ve arrived.”

Your sleepy eyes resisted opening. Something had been playing in your dreams, but the memories of that other dimension were fleeting, their traces slowly slipping away and dissolving.

“Wakey-wakey! If you want, I’ll carry the suitcase for you, but come on, wake up.”

A soft nod. You rubbed your eyes and stretched, straightening your spine. Weakness still lingered in your body, and it reluctantly began to rise. Almost like a ritual, your fingers cracked as you flexed them before stepping out of the elevator, leaving it behind.

Behind a curtain of flexible material lay a spacious hall with beams and spotlights. The space was divided into tiers: at the forefront, a high platform reminiscent of a stage; at the center, the largest open area; and at the back, beams and overturned chairs with tables scattered about. Two side staircases led up to a wide balcony that overlooked the room.

“Here, take the suitcase. See that door?” the crew member pointed straight ahead. “When you go in, you’ll see a basket. Just put what you brought there. Free yourself.”

You followed the instructions precisely and efficiently. Behind the door, you opened the suitcase, retrieved the detail, and after one last look at it, left it where indicated.

“Bye-bye!” it felt like a small victory. You hurried to leave the room.

The crew member was talking to someone in the center of the hall. You decided not to disturb them and looked for a place to finally get some proper sleep when suddenly you heard your name being called. Your real name.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t!” the crew member scolded the speaker.

“Oi, fine, fine. Eighth!”

The voice sounded faintly familiar. The next moment, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you and lifted you off the ground.

“Finally, you’re here!” the man exclaimed, unable to hide his joy. “This is just so fine! I’m so happy! Were you trying to slip away from me? You thought I wouldn’t notice, didn’t you?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the turbulence zone!” you were being shaken mid-air.

“Put her down right now! She’s too sleep-deprived to remember her own name,” the crew member interjected.

Your feet touched the ground again, and you were finally able to make out the man’s face. It was your good friend Alex, someone with whom you used to sneak away from headquarters to visit what he called ‘Place of Power’. Something home-like. Finally. You hugged him tightly in return.

“Who dared to indulge in the luxury of depriving my star of sleep?” he pressed on, throwing a pointed glance at the crew member.

“Don’t look at me like that! It wasn’t my idea to send us off to god-knows-where. The Senior—”

“Oh, cut that bullshit, Vlad!” Alex cut him off. “You told me yourself how you and your beloved Senior spent hours poring over those blueprints.”

“Right. The crew member’s name was Vlad.”

Alex’s energy had a way of filling every corner of the room — give it an inch, and it would take over everything. He kept his hands on your shoulders as if afraid to lose you from sight.

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you,” you said, gratitude clear in your voice. “Wait, hold on—” you paused, rubbing your eyes. “What are you even doing here? How come you’re connected to all this?”

“Oi, me… just a sec!” he darted behind some curtains and returned holding a paper bag. “Here, take this! Let’s sit on the stage, eat, talk… I bet you won’t turn down a good sandwich, especially since I made it myself. Blondie, you in?”

“I told you not to call me that…” Vlad sighed irritably, turning toward Alex. Your friend, in turn, teasingly crinkled the bag at him. “But I won’t say no to your cooking. Eighth, need a drink? There’s only water, though.”

“Better than—” you trailed off. A flicker of the bar from the previous night flashing in your mind, along with that red liquid.

Vlad and Alex exchanged a glance before both turned their questioning gazes on you.

“No,” you shook your head, forcing the memory away, “it’s nothing. So how did you end up here?”

The next few hours passed in a swirl of conversation and homemade sandwiches. Your eyes were red-rimmed from exhaustion, but curiosity about everything that had transpired kept you going. You sat between the two men, listening as they recounted the trials they had endured.

“… And just like that, the Senior caught you back then when we were dancing at that club,” Alex concluded.

“So, the Senior didn’t have enough people in the headquarters to send the details with and turned to trusted friends of his students? Sounds very much like him: will go to almost any lengths for his goals,” you remarked with irony, staring at the floor.

“He’s not always like that,” Vlad protested. “If it weren’t for the Senior, we’d have been strung up on mold ages ago.”

“Maybe, but sometimes his ideas make him seem like a lunatic. A weird sort of genius,” Alex quipped, waving his hand mockingly.

The men launched into another loud argument, one gesticulating theatrically while the other retorted with sharp words.

If the Senior was your mentor at the headquarters, Alex — by sheer coincidence — became your guide in dance. And something told you that soon enough, you’d find yourselves swept up in the rhythm of music again, but this time in New York City.

As the two argued, your gaze fixed upon Alex’s shoulder. Beneath his T-shirt, a scar stretched along his skin — one you had never noticed before.

“If it weren’t for—” Alex said, slipping and using your real name again, “—I’d never—”

“We agreed to call her Eighth!” Vlad cut in sharply.

“Enough of this…” Alex closed his eyes for a brief moment, then suddenly barked, “Like FUCK I’d have agreed to any of this if not for her! There! Happy now?” he pointed directly at you.

“Alex, what’s that?” you pointed at the scar, seemingly ignoring the minor spat between your friends.

“Yeah, Alex, what’s that?” Vlad chimed in mockingly. “Go on, tell her how you almost got yourself killed in the arch because of your own carelessness, and nearly wrecked the whole mission,” he added with a sarcastic smirk.

“As if that very idea of mine didn’t end up saving all of us!” Alex frowned, then exhaled heavily and turned to you. “I just… I can’t live without my groove, without my music. You know this — I need the drive, to feel the rhythm beneath my feet, to merge with the earth’s tremor, letting the impulses surge right through me… And besides, someone should’ve checked my suitcase more thoroughly.”

Alex then launched into a tale about how, against all the warnings and strict instructions from the Senior, he managed to smuggle a small station with a storage device into this era, one that held his massive music collection.

“Eighth, the arch nearly sliced him in half. Wouldn’t be sitting here bragging if it had gone any worse.”

“I. Have. Saved. Us. All. Imagine what it would’ve been like — leaving a hundred-something souls stranded in jazz embrace. And in the end, I even set this place up — served both masters: yours and ours. Just listening to my music while waiting around wouldn’t have been enough. And you know what? Almost everyone was thrilled about it. You, apparently, are an exception,” Alex finished, tapping Vlad lightly on the nose with his finger.

“Jazz embrace…” the words of the two men blurred into the background, seeming absurd in your sleep-deprived state. Yet, once again, your mind wandered back to that bar from the night before.

“Now, I’ve already heard this story before. What about you, Eighth? What have you seen around here so far?” Vlad shifted the focus to you.

You stared thoughtfully at your half-eaten sandwich.

“Oi, buddy?” Alex gently tapped your shoulder.

“Huh? Oh, just the city. I, uh… sort of crash-landed into this era last night,” you muttered, rubbing your eye, choosing to withhold the details of your misadventures for now. “Sorry, guys, I’m just still so sleepy and can’t really shake off the aftermath of all that chaos.”

Your friends finally stopped bickering and gave you understanding nods.

“No rush. You can set up a couple of chairs and tables; we’ll bring a blanket and maybe some other stuff. No beds here, unfortunately.”

“Vlad, you go ahead. I’ll help her get settled.”

“Deal. I’ll be back later with the elevator’s keys.”

Your friend watched him go, then leaned closer to you and whispered:

“By the way, the password to this place,” Alex waved his hand toward the space, “I was the one to come up with it!” he winked playfully.

“Figures,” you said with a faint smile, rubbing your eye again.

The two of you headed toward the area under the balcony. While Alex busied himself with arranging the tables, you, still wobbling slightly from exhaustion, perched yourself on one and let out a yawn.

“Alex, you’ll fill me in on what’s going on here later, right? I feel like I missed a lot.”

“No worries, you’re gonna love it! Wait till Saturday — and see it for yourself.”

^[4] ru.: Huh? Screw you!

Chapter Text

“Mama,
Scaramouch is doing the fandango!”

“And… One, two, three, four!”

Muffled stomping.

“Keep your posture!”

Rhythmic snapping.

“What the hell?”

“Up to the pace, girls! Up to the pace!”

“Another unbridled imagination of mine, is it?”

Everything seemed to spin. The sound was bursting through the veil of dream. You frowned and opened your eyes half-heartedly.

A figure loomed in a warm light, counting off the rhythm and directing the silhouettes on a small stage.

All in a blur. You turned away, wrinkling your nose, but still forced yourself up. The tapping — even though on stage — felt like to your head. Your body — a stuffed cotton... You stretched, and sighed.

“Why would you move THAT up to THERE?” the man's voice was clearly displeased. —Arms, higher! Faster! No, that just… Stop! Everyone, stop!”

The man threw up his hands theatrically, signaling that he'd had enough for the day. His lips curled in displeasure, and he turned to face you.

“Lord, give me strength! Something’s clearly up with them… Up with no good!” Alex sighed. “As if I’m the one to perform at Onyx this Friday …”

“Onyx? That for sure rings a bell …”

Alex rubbed the bridge of his nose. A look on your sleepy face, and his voice softened.

“Please, excuse me. We must have woken you up. The dancers are just spectacularly absurd today,” he pulled a chair over and sat in front of you. Alex patted your knee gently. “Slept well?”

“Well? Slept. I don’t really think that with such regiment I could—”

You interrupted the thought, staring absent-mindedly into the void, then buried your face sharply in your palms. Alex could see your eyes darting around in confusion through your spread fingers. He gently placed his hands on your wrists.

“Oi? What are these bars for?” he asked worriedly, looking deep into your face. “With such regiment, you couldn’t… what?

“Function. It’s 1935. The thirty fucking five, Alex… I thought I could escape from this at least to Morpheus. But here I am. I… Oh, Lord…” the train of thought cut off. Breathe in. Breath out. You forced yourself to talk distinctly. “Yesterday I was probably just too tired to realize the absurdity of it all. And you’re here too... How is that even possible?”

“You tell me, dear. But I've been here longer than you, and I guess even we — perhaps — can get used to this era.”

“And all these people…” you turned in horror to the dancers on that very stage, “they're not even from the headquarters, are they? Must be nuts… How did they even consent to this?”

Alex rolled his eyes at the mention of dancers. He was still grumbling about the failed rehearsal.

“You chose the wrong person to ask about it. Your — what was his name — Senior… knows how to convince. But still, I play by my own rules: wouldn’t set my foot here if it wasn’t for you. But actually, knowing what your organization is up to, it shouldn't discombobulate you this much. Well… Oi, forget I said that! A mere vanity, all of it. Nothing more. A noise,” he stuck out his tongue and blew the very raspberry of his. “You're a human being, after all. But the deal’s done, and we'll have to face it. And I'll say it again: this era has its jinks, but you can adapt to it. More or less…”

When Alex was looking at you like that — insightfully — and trying to cheer you up… In these particular moments, a little wish to live, and not to function, was born.

“I’m sorry,” you yawned, “My reactions might repulse. It’s just at the mention of Onyx, my mind starter realizing things.”

“Well, well, well! Already had a chance to visit it?” Alex raised his eyebrow stunned. “Just look at you! What have you contrived to do in just one day? You didn't tell me a word yet, you sneaky little one. Only, ‘Just the city’,” he grinned. “So, what about the city?”

“I have not been in that Onyx of yours!” you retorted the man's sarcastic tone. “Heard from the local bartender.”

The man you a sly grin.

“Well, first things first, it ain’t mine, and then… Was the bartender pretty?” he bit his thumb.

“You’re a hopeless faggot, Alexander…”

The dancers whistled playfully. You both laughed, and it was just so in the right place to put you at ease.

“Go ahead, Columbus of mine! Reveal America to me! And by the way, am I the only fag here? If I were you, I’d take a look in the mirror.”

“Indeed — America… Couldn’t be more precise,” you lowered your gaze to your hands. A nervous crack of knuckles. You exhaled. “Alex, I—”

In the next instant, the man hugged you tightly.

“I’ll say it in my own manner, as always: we're all in different boats now, sailing on the same flow called New York, and yet I want you to walk this path proudly, even if you have to do it alone at some point,” he smiled softly. “But, if anything, I'm willing to share a piece of myself with you. Even here.”

“In different boats, you say?” you squeezed his elbows. “I love you too, Alexander. Just please, don’t speak like the Senior.”

He laughed and let go of you.

“You know,” he stared at you, thinking of something only he could understand, “we should rethink your image. Not that I don’t fancy it, it's just… this the era calls for changes. I work in a boutique nearby, helping to create images, so to speak.”

“So, you’ve adjusted already. Wonderous how accurately the very idea of a makeover describes what happened to me yesterday.”

“Charming! You haven't slept it all away, so we can make it. And while so, tell me all about it on the way. For such occasion, I'll even carry your suitcase.”

“Deal! Oh,” you looked at the door, “just in case, call me Eighth, until we don’t figure it all out.”

“Well, if you ask to…” Alex winked.

While you were talking, the dancers managed to pack up and disappear somewhere. And with the two of you gone, the place went completely quiet.

###

Rain.

The traffic noise echoed the mood of the city. Such a phenomenon as rain came very naturally to New York: large drops rhythmically striking the cars’ windows; people, the half-ghosts: the lucky ones with umbrellas and the equally lucky ones under their raincoats. The roofs of houses and establishments, on which the rain was quietly drumming. Some were hiding, others — watching. The weather designed, changed the image of the city. Mesmerizing. Water ran down the walls, washing away the memory of the previous day, leaving behind a trail of cold. It smelled of leather. It smelled of wet asphalt.

“He actually said that?” Alex interjected. A wave of the hand towards the driver, and you crossed the road.

“Aham. And reckon I, if it weren’t for his wife, the mustachioed one would have offered me a few more ‘tender’ words of his,” you said, thinking back to last night at the bar.

As if playing hopscotch, you jumped over puddles and bricks on the sidewalk, trying to keep the same dynamic. The rain intensified, losing its tranquil rhythm. Good for you, that Alex had a spacious raincoat to shelter both of you.

“Lucky for you that bartender’s shift was that day.”

“Tell me about it! Would be left with holey pockets in this rumbling unknown.”

The rain kept getting heavier.

“Look, when we left the sanctuary, you said that last night you ran into something strange.”

“Yeah. Well, when…”

And in the meantime, the rain has already reached to the edges of your pants.

“What, what?” Alex asked in a louder voice.

“...She, a tall one!” you were gesticulating all the way to the boutique. “And I thought to myself, 'Oh, fuck me…’ ”

Blaring horns and traffic drowned out your speech. By now, the rain was thrashing like an angry drummer.

“The hat bolted?”

“I bolted!” you switched to screaming. Your foot suddenly fell into a puddle. “Oh, crap…” you shook your shoes. Futile.

Alex shook his head, pointing to his ears. The city itself seemed to be fighting your attempts to say anything distinctly.

“This way!”

A shabby wall, and a small sign on it: House Beneviento.

A step inside, and the door slammed shut, cutting you off from the raging city.

###

You rubbed your palms, trying to warm up a little. Alex, in turn, with quick movements was passing along your shoulders, rubbing rain drops into the skin, covered with goosebumps from the cold.

“Madame Beneviento?” Alex called out. “Probably locked in the office again. Neither sight nor sound of her. You stay here for a while, I'll be right back,” the man disappeared into the space of the boutique, and you, a little crumpled on the spot, ran your palms over your face and wet hair, then began to gaze around.

Outwardly, the boutique seemed small, but inwardly you were greeted by light, high ceilings, equally high open cabinets with stepladders... and fabrics of fantastic beauty and various colors. Impressed by all that, you could not resist and began to walk through the rows. Like a curious child. Slightly wet fingers slid on the lacquered wood, and your gaze drowned in the swirl of colors that swept down on you. Some of the fabrics had the smell of pleasant freshness, and an inexplicable, warm — yes, that was the exact word — odor beckoned to you. For a moment, you felt a fierce desire to touch everything at once: to run your fingers over the deep-toned velvet, to bury your face in the silk, to feel the fabric flowing over your skin, wrapping around your body. You clenched your hands on your chest, closed your eyes, and turned away.

“Must be coasting dear. I'll abstain,” you sniffed.

On one of the massive tables, you noticed a figure in a little white dress. The doll was sitting on the edge of the table. Its wooden legs — overhanging, tiny hands — on the white fabric of the dress. Old, burnt in places, yellowed with age.

“We have a little bogeygirl here,” you thought as you gazed into the doll's eyes.

The scratch-covered hands, the old dress, the cracked face… None of that matched the boutique's luxury.

“Just you and I in a huge room,” you squinted and grinned.

At first, you reached out to move the figure away from the edge of the table — what if it fell. A gaze into its tiny eyes, and suddenly changed your mind.

The floor next to you creaked.

“Be not afraid of your desires,” came an almost weightless voice.

You shuddered with surprise.

A woman in black appeared beside you. Her face — half-hidden by a thick veil, her uncovered eye, as dark — almost black — as her dress, pierced through you. She nodded faintly toward the doll.

You stepped closer and pulled the figure to the center of the table, holding it gently by the shoulders.

The woman shook her head silently.

The doll ended up in your hands again. You were about to put it just somewhere, when the thin woman's hand laid on your wrist and pulled you away with her.

“Popsy, we're being taken somewhere..."

When you walked into the other room, you saw Alex concentrating on poring over a centimeter tape of fabric.

“Oi, you found Donna first. Fabulous! Darling, I picked you up some pants, a few shirts, and this,” he spoke a little slurred with a needle in his teeth. The man nodded at the heavy-looking coat. “As for the dresses and suits — all to be tailored. It’s either they won’t fit you, or you'll drown in them. The rest should be enough, I think. For now. And then we'll see.”

“So, that’s your idea of ‘being right back’… But in fact, you're actually plotting a way to send me to a concert?”

“I was enchanted by the fabrics! And then — who knows? We live in such a city... What if tomorrow...” the man thought for a moment, then grinned, “you have a ball? Or what if you'll be invited somewhere?”

You only shrugged your shoulders in response.

Donna pointed to the doll in your hands and then to the table next to the mirror.

"So, you’re going to observe, bogeygirl? Well, let's go then..." you followed the woman’s silent instructions and carefully placed the figure in the same position as before.

In the next instant — god knows how — you were pushed onto the mini-podium. Alex and the strange, silent woman encircled your body.

“Donna, you gotta help me out: one has to be precise here,” he smoothly pulled your jeans down to your knees,” and you — quit giggling, and turn around!”

The doll's head suddenly tilted slightly sideways.

"Huh? Did I set her up poorly?" you thought, taking Alex's instructions.

Measuring tape, fabric and needles. The first curled around your waist, the second draped across your hips, and the third — one by one — gently clung to the curved folds of fabric. Donna worked skillfully, with precision, while Alex moved chaotically, twisting and guided the material’s edges. When the scissors slipped in the woman's slender hands, you froze for a moment. With deft movements, she cut and discarded the excess fabric.

"Nothing special, right? Just the third scrawny hand… reaching out to me."

Cut by cut, stitch by stitch… You didn't know why, but it felt as if magic was being born under the circular motions of Donna’s hands — so skillfully did she command the scissors, the thread, the fabric itself. Sometimes your gaze caught on shimmering pebbles, scraps of dark leather, and other times you couldn't make out what they were working with or what they intended to sew at all.

“Rais your hands.”

“Alex, you sure I can afford all this?”

“Now, you better shake it off of your head. Keep quiet, we’re almost done. You'll thank me later.”

The last thread tightened, slid through Donna's teeth, and snapped with a click.

“You can change into what I picked out, and I’ll pack the rest into the suitcase. And this,” he nodded at the pieces they’d just been working on, “we’ll leave it for Donna to finalize.”

The mysterious woman didn't utter a single word through the entire process. As she began to remove the dress sketch, your hand rested gently on her wrist.

“Thank you,” almost in a whisper. “Donna, right? You're a master of your craft…”

The woman paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on your hand. Then she blinked and slipped away from your touch with ease.

Alex was already packing up while you were fastening the belt at your waist, when suddenly a bright corner filled with fabrics of various shades of blue caught your eye. At the center — a tall, layered dress with a deep cut at the neckline and wrists. Its shade echoed those of the fabrics around it.

“Eighth, I’m almost done!”

You approached the dress.

Up close, the fabric shimmered faintly and flowed with sharp feathers. It gave the dress a kind of peculiar charm. This time, the fabric’s odor was strange: spruce, tart, so fresh, and unbearably… alive? If odors could even be called that. You were overcome again by the desire — not just to touch the fabric, but to bury your face in the dress and breathe it in. So deeply, so greedily, so tightly, so that each gust filled your lungs to the point of cracking.

“I want…” you squeezed your eyes shut. “Please! Stay…”

The odor teased, slipping away impetuously, leaving behind a trail of cool, blue shades. In desperation, you reached out towards the fabric.

“You hear me?” Alex's voice plugged the traveler out of the trance.

You ran your tongue firmly across your palate. Your hand never got the chance to touch the dress.

When you opened your eyes, Donna was already standing beside you, studying, tilting her head slightly. Half of her face was still hidden, and for a moment you thought the fabric in that spot was trembling, pulsing. You instinctively turned away, and your gaze landed involuntarily on the figure in the white dress. The doll was sitting where it had been before, but its hands... were now folded together.

“Alex?! Where’s that new outfit you mentioned?” you hurried into the fitting room, leaving Donna standing by the dress.

“What was that now? Her tiny hands… were in positioned differently…”

Hurriedly pulling on your new clothes, you jumped out of the fitting room.

“Not so fast!” Alex intercepted you, adjusting confidently the collar of your loose shirt. “It’s not just what you wear — it’s how you wear it, my dear,” he added with a smirk, tucking the shirt carefully into your pants. “I have a day off. The coat is at the cashier, we'll pay as we go. What’s the matter with you?”

“Let’s get out of here!” you gritted your teeth, clinging at his arm like a child afraid of getting lost at a store.

“Oi, silly little one, you better go outside. I'll handle it myself at the cashier,” he chuckled.

You nodded quickly and hurried out the exit. At the very door, you turned to at the dress for a moment. A slight smile flickered across your lips.

“The blue… The lavish.”

You lowered your gaze.

Door handle — click — exit.

###

The New York lights trembled in the city's puddles. When the rain ceased, Harlem lurked, awaiting another raucous evening, while two figures foreign to the place glided through the wet streets.

“She's always so quiet. When I was searching for a job, Donna was the only one to hire me,” Alex said, holding the cigarette in his mouth. “In a way, I'm actually glad she's this quiet.”

“And how long’s this silent movie been running?

“As long as I remember. Almost. You could say we have a working harmony. I handle the images while she virtuously deals with the instruments. And sometimes we switch.”

You stopped. A strike of matches, the fire flicker on your skin. Your hands covered each other — now, there were just two faces in the dark alley. And your little ritual was complete. Alex exhaled the smoke.

“Noticed the quantity of fabric she possesses?”

You nodded quickly, your eyes lighting up with interest.

“At first, when I got this job — couldn't resist and lay my hand on everything,” he chuckled. “I’m telling you: the silence is a gift from Donna. By now, any other one would have thrown a verbal tantrum with me. That's why I greatly appreciate her treatment.”

“Oh, I feel you about the fabrics! I wanted to touch and feel everything. I’m no expert or anything, but… I absolutely loved it!”

“Oi, sometimes, that’s even more vital than sorting things out!” Alex let out a puff of smoke, gesturing vividly. “A confectionary of couture! And still… Couldn't talk Donna into a brilliant little scheme of mine.”

“Hmm?” you stretched out, rolling the lollipop from one cheek to the other.

“Well, here’s the deal: I want to throw a fashion show: my style mixed with her cut. But every time she keeps backing out. Must be shy, or just simply hesitates to,” Alex shrugged. “The second ago, I’ve praised her being silent, but damn, sometimes it's so... annoying. Ot it's me just me — being too eccentric… And this old-new world is more impressive to me than to her.”

“I don't know how, but I think we'll figure something out. Since my mate shouldn't have to let go of who he is. Even here. Oh, and by the way, Donna shared a few words with me in the hall full of fabrics. So it goes!” you winked at him encouragingly.

Alex cast you an incredulous look.

“And where are we heading to?”

“I was just thinking… I’m renting an apartment nearby, alone. Don't ask me how I’ve managed to in this epoque — still doesn’t feel real to me. Special thanks to Donna, of course: she jotted down a couple of reference lines for me. The world’s got its good souls — now I’m sure of it. Oi, why don't we grab something tasty and hang out at my place?”

“I don’t even know… Warm food, shelter from the streets of New York, cozy company... Do you think I'd say no to that?”

“I don’t think you have a say in that!” Alex poked you gently in the shoulder.

###

Ragged wooden floor, wallpaper, sticking out their tongues here and there. A small, clumsy apartment. The top floor of an old high-rise — not so bad. Away from the streets of a foreign city — that’s already a blessing. After unpacking things, you were sitting on the bed, chatting and sipping noodles.

“It throws me back to the times when you sneaked away from the Senior to our favorite place of power. We'd stay up until the wee hours, talking about dances, dresses, boys, girls, and everything in between. I remember when you ran off to the club after a blow-up with the Senior and tore up the dance floor.”

“Don’t remember that happening…”

“I mean you were losing yourself on the dance floor so hard, that I thought the idea of pissing you off more often could be of a great help.”

“You mean if I'm not in that pitch of irritation, I'm no good for dance, am I?” a hint of resentment slipped into your voice.

“You heard me saying that?” Alex gently poked you on the nose with the chopsticks. “You weren’t just dancing to fill the space, my dear. And then it turned out, you were actually also easy to talk to. Well, sometimes…” he chuckled.

“Oh, you don’t say!” you picked up on his manner of speaking.

“It’s just you come to be diverse, you know. In life, you can be watchful, and even reserved. But then, music happens, and...” Alex snapped his fingers, “you lose yourself completely to the dance. In no extremes, of course, it's just... The energy is everything, you feel me? And I have a radar for such things.”

“You know what the funny thing is?” you said as you chewed your noodles. “I still don't know how to control those swings. When dancing, I surrender to the moment. And sometimes it gets nasty. As for the outdoors world… Let's just skip that for now, alright? I’m able to digest these noodles, but some fractions of my past still bring the gag reflex back.”

“Sure thing! You're too made out of flesh, after all!”

The noodles box was getting emptier. You were childishly twirling the chopsticks in your hand.

“Want some more?”

You shook your head.

“These remind me of Donna's fingers,” you said, flicking the chopsticks against each other.” But that doll... Lord, nightmares definitely will follow me all over the places from now on. Why is that even there?”

“As far as I understand — from the rare moments when Donna and words get along with — the doll holds her sister’s memory. Don’t ask me for the details. Sometimes, it even crosses my mind — that thingy sure has her own life.”

You froze sharply, ceased the twirling, and threw the chopsticks in the box, recalling the sensations similar to the ones Alex mentioned. Your hand automatically reached for the nightstand with cigarettes. Getting down from the bed, you approached the window and stared at the night city.

“Alex, you know why we're here, don't you?” there was a faint plea in your voice. You knew the answer. And yet, you waited — holding your breath — hoping to hear it from someone dear to you. As if words could make a difference…

“Oi. But before anything else — you answer my question.”

“Deal.” you exhaled — still with your back to Alex — letting the smoke lazily dissolve into the air.

“What was so special about that dress for you to stare at?”

A puff, and you immediately choked on the smoke.

“Mhm!” he laughed, “I picked up on that. A few more glances, and you'd have just jumped on it.”

“Oh Lord…” you coughed, “I better get a grip on myself. Though, back to the headquarters’ missing it wasn’t a big deal. But here… What a blow.”

“Are you saying that it wasn't you to attack the dress, but rather it to attack you?” Alex squinted.

“Perhaps,” you smiled faintly, not taking your eyes off the window. "That glint in those eyes... Mold? In such shape and so intense?"

“Or perhaps… You were looking at something that really spoke to you this time. I doubt your missions brought you anything close to that experience,” he noticed confidently. “And certainly, because that dress was made by Donna and I. That's what really mattered!” Alex couldn't hold back his laughter, filling the whole space with it.

“This might sound strange…” you gripped the windowsill tighter, continuing to peer into the dark silhouette of the city. A few lights winked briefly at you, as if giving you a sign. You finally turned to Alex. “But I think I know who might end up wearing your and Donna's creation. Remember I was about to tell you what happened yesterday? So, here’s the thing...”

Alex listened intently to your story — about the tall woman, the bartender's tales — about the tall woman, and about your flee — from the same tall woman.

“…and I met her there. And then, that dress. So elegant, so majestic… just like her.”

“Now, go on and tell me — where am I wrong? You like something equals it just hits you. Like a bus.”

“Oh, get out of here!” you slightly frowned. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I might have run into one of the lords. On my very first day in New York.”

“Vlad have spilled some words on that matter, but actually, I myself have seen that woman in the flesh a couple times. Enriched myself, culturally speaking. But you're right: that dress — it's for Lady Dimitrescu. She's tried it on a few times. It needs a few more touches — and by the way, it was the first time Donna had ever given me free rein. Vlad also mentioned about some bizarre mold. If I'd heard it from anyone else, I wouldn't have believed it. But here I am, in 1930’s America. Lord, have mercy.”

“So, you’ve seen Lady Dimitrescu up close?”

“Only her dress with no excess. Half-stripped,” the man chuckles and winked at you.

“You, fool! I'm still not quite back to normal after today's incident with the doll…” you could barely hold back your laughter. “Anything bizarre about Donna, so far?”

“When in work, I'm too captivated to barely pay attention to anything else,” Alex shrugged his shoulders and came up to you. “Why? Is Donna one of them? And was that the reason you flew out of the dressing room so sharply?”

You both stood silently at the window, staring into the dark distance.

“Flew out. Again..." your mind flashed back to last night at the bar. Your knuckles cracked.

“If that the case, pfft... To hell with them and their headquarters! Missions, schmissions… Are you telling me, that all this time I've been working undercover, and found it out only now!” he waved his hands. “And so what?”

“And so, that you simply have almost nothing to hide — even consciously,” you stubbed out your cigarette.

Alex rolled his eyes and pulled you towards the bed.

“Before you ended up in this era, the people from headquarters were digging in all sorts of things about —what—was—her—name — Miranda. To be honest, I kept it all surface-level, but Vlad's small team is being cautious: they'd report back if anything occurred. But you better ask him yourself. It's not really my type of dance. Rather, let’s get some sleep, shall we?” Alex stretched. “I have to take the sketches to Donna early tomorrow morning, and you can stay here if you wish. Together in our hideaway over New York?

An exchange of smiles, and you lie side by side on the wide bed.

“It's surely safe down there, in the sanctuary, but thank you for not sending me to sleep there. I just want to get some actual sleep. Like an actual human being.”

Alex fixed a loose lock of your hair.

“And as for why we’re here… I think the answer to that question lies somewhere in your own head. And it’s not just about the mission, you know,” he winked.

The man put his hand near you on the bed. Your fingers bounced childishly on his palm.

“Not so sure about that. This road is stretched like the equalizer… Ugh, the hell of it. A new day can scare me away, but I'm more soothed now.”

Alex rolled over on the side, leaning on his elbow.

“You know what?” his fingers slid gently over the beginning of the scar on your wrist, “I'd love to dress that Lady Dimitrescu of yours. And that dress in boutique was only the beginning.”

You looked at him — your laughter and fluster could barely hold back.

“She’s not mine!” you tried to put on a serious face.

“So is that bartender — not mine. Yet,” Alex winked slyly.

“Faggot!” you jokingly threw his hand away.

“Takes one to know one!”

The cars were humming outside, and splashes of water hit the pavement. The city was only just beginning to wake up, while the two of you, having talked about everything under the moon, finally drifted off to sleep.

###

When you woke up, a note met you on the nightstand:

"Had to lock you in the apartment this morning. If you happen to greet the sun, which I highly doubt, don’t freak out. The leftovers from last night are in the fridge. I'll be back by lunchtime with a spare key. Don't miss me too much!"

“Apparently, from now on everybody’s just going to scratch a few words to me instead of speaking through their mouths… Me and my crumpled morning face. And,” you lowered your gaze, “The shirt. We’re all crumpled.”

With these thoughts, you stretched, and soon your feet met the floor.

The clock reads noon sharp.

“And why is it almost always on the dot for me? It makes no sense…  Alex should be back any time soon.”

You pulled off your shirt and fell back onto the bed. Scraps of yesterday's words flashed through your mind, and your fingers slid from your collarbone to your shoulder, gently following the line of the scar.

“Mother, mother, mother…” echoed in your mind. “I better brush myself off.”

A few lazy stretches and small train of thoughts, and you’ve finally detached from the bad and approached the window — the warm, exposed skin against the glass. By nightfall, the city of blue pulsed in dazzling neon, glaring puddles, and phantom headlights. It rushed, slashed, and slipped away, grabbing roughly by the waist and pulling along.

Your eyelashes fluttered.

Morning, however, was about the light that softly caressed the rusty balconies with staircases, the scraps of newspapers, swirling in the wind, brick dust, here and there, and even children's laughter, coming from the distance. You lowered your gaze: flashing visors, funny little shorts, dirty knees in sharp and restless motions — the kids were kicking a battered ball, trying to score into makeshift goals set between two trash bins.

“Such mischief! uch… freedom…”

A crack of knuckles.

A dusty kick of a tiny foot — and the trash bin rattled, spilling its contents onto the pavement. A few visors slammed to the ground.

A gentle smile touched the corners of your lips.

After changing your shirt and completing the morning rituals — though at a time far from morning — you sat in the kitchen — a lollipop in your mouth — absentmindedly scribbling something on a piece of paper. At some point, the pen picked up speed, drawing out crooked shapes, growing bolder, larger, sharper.

“The sincerity… What’s mine, shall give me away. Though… who knows? Better learn to keep the track of it…”

Keys turned in the lock. The door creaked. And there he was — your friend, standing at the kitchen doorway.

“Oi, brought you something here! I thought getting our mouths on it together,” he put the bag on the table. “What do we have in here?” Alex easily yanked the paper out of your hand. “Uh-huh… Certainly, I wouldn’t call you the best painter.”

You only shrugged, rolling the lollipop over in your mouth.

“Alex, when we finish it here, I’d like to have myself a little walk down the city. To memorize the streets, look around, you know... To get a sense of what's where.”

“Hmm, what a nice idea of yours!” he glanced at your scribbles again and pressed his lips together. “But I'll pass today: need to sit there and focus on my sketches.”

“And what exactly are you squinting at?”

“Oh, that is to be revealed to me only!”

“Then, it would be so kind of you to show me the way to Onyx, wouldn’t it?” you said carefully.

“And what exactly are you trying to catch sight of?” Alex grinned slyly.

“Oh, that is to be revealed to me only!” you drawled, copying Alex's manner.

“A sneaky little one that we have here, huh? Sure, will do. But please, be careful!”

While you were having lunch, Alex was talking about the peculiarities of local streets and gave you detailed directions to the bar.

“…There,” he was tracing his finger along the paper, “follow the Swing Street.”

“Got it!” you nodded, an apple clenched between your teeth, and went to get ready.

“Oh, just you wait! I’ll be home all day long. If you need a hideout, you know where to find me. And… Oi, Eighth!”

“Yeah?”

He tossed the keys, and they, jingling in the air, landed right in your hands.

“Have fun for both of us there!”

###

Afternoon, New York was nothing of an interest. One could say a dead nothing. Life was running its course. Cars moved unusually quietly, and noisy bars were out of the question. People were scarce on the streets — it wasn’t the easiest of times, and it was working hours, after all. Not the best time for aimless wanderers. Like a certain someone. Well… almost aimless. Yet the few passersby no longer showed the same surprise they had on the traveler’s first night in the city.

You wandered around, tossing the apple every now and then, and silently thanked Alex for the makeover.

“So, we meet again! You, New York, and I, already vigorous! An uncharted, whirlwind blend. As long as the Senior’s not around, of course."

The instant the traveler had already set their foot to the road, ready to cross the empty street, sharp car horns blared from afar. You raised your hands and slowly stepped back onto the sidewalk. The noisemakers never came into view, however. You glanced around and took a deep breath.

“Already found me, huh? Trying your best to haul me back in the headquarters again, don’t you? That’s a lame attempt of yours, dear Senior!” you jerked your head and crossed the street confidently.

Your hands nervously adjusted the collar of the coat, as if hiding the traveler behind its folds.

“And still… As much as I’d love think of freedom, the 1935 is no joke of yours. Oh well…”

A glance up in the air — there’s space, skyscrapers, the sun sprawled lazily across the sky.

And then, down to the earth… Your favorite boots kept slipping on the slush, bumping into scattered trash and boxes so soaked and soggy one could hardly tell whether it was dirt or melted cardboard. A faint breeze of spring… mixed with the city’s stale soul.

“Oh, isn’t that just lovely…”

You hid your nose in your turtleneck.

As you wandered through the alleys, studying the unlit signs and reading the scratched street markers, you slowly made your way around Central Park, until you found yourself face to face with 7th Avenue.

“Let’s see… Alex told me that the Swing Street should be around here, at the intersection…Ah, there it is!”

Left. 72 West 52nd Street.

Black letters. The font — a whip’s crack. Onyx.

Posters after posters — one upon another one… Nothing but posters. And among them:

«Next Friday! Miss D and The Pallboys».

A tall woman’s dark silhouette surrounded by musicians.

You glanced over, idly playing with the apple in your hands. Toss — catch. Toss… A dull slap against your palm. The next moment, you sank your teeth hungrily into the apple, twisting your mouth into a silly grin.

Inside, the bar greeted you with upturned chairs, an empty stage, and a couple of local workers.

You were about to wander further in, hoping to soak in the atmosphere of a place that had been mentioned far too often over the past few days — but a voice stopped you.

“Sorry, we’re still closed.”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. You turned around.

“Oh! I didn’t recognize you right away — the new look threw me off,” the man gave you a quick once-over. It was the very same bartender from the other place.

“I didn’t expect to see you here either. Weren’t you working at another bar?”

“It’s here, it’s there…” the man drawled, brushing dust off the floor. The specks swirled and dissolved in the light beams. “It’s everywhere. It’s my job,” he leaned in slightly and added quietly, “Was never embraced by lucky — as some of us — to possess that kind of fortune. I see my advice has been taken — no guest carrying the suitcase today.”

“Oh, dear… If only you knew the kind of luck that embraces me…”

You were about to make a snarky remark, but when you saw the guy, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, diligently wringing out a wet rag, you pressed your lips together and looked away.

“Working himself up by running from bar to bar just to earn a crust of bread… Keep your tongue to yourself, Eighth.”

“The chief’s away today, so I’ll give you a pass,” he said, gesturing for you to follow.

“And where did you pull out the sudden kindness from?”

“You’re just quick on your feet. About the luck’s embrace: never seen anyone react like that to Madame Dimitresque,” he smirked. “An impressive one, isn’t she?”

“Wouldn’t you be quick on yours if you were in my shoes?” there was a hint of irritation in your voice.

“I wouldn’t know that. Since I’m not in your shoes. I wear mines. And walk them down my town. Maybe she saw someone familiar in you?”

You frowned. The bartender was jumping from topic to topic, as if inviting you into some kind of game you had no interest in playing. A key pressed here, a key pressed there… By now, you wouldn’t mind sending him along those keys — right down with a glissando, with a bang. With the piano lid slamming right on his fingers.

Instead, you sent those notes of irritation off for a walk and simply shrugged.

“By the way, why don’t you ask her yourself? Would be just right on time, since the fun in this bar is to happen soon… And something tells me she’ll be the leader of that very fun.”

“What makes you want to think that?”

“Sometimes it feels like I’ve been working in these places for an eternity. Long enough to know the local beau monde more than well. We get all sorts of that here. Waiters in masks — how about that? Or performers who’ll hit the stage this Friday. The dancing, the luring, and sometimes even the descending into the crowd… But,” he smiled faintly, “it’s all just a show. An illusion, so to put. They don’t actually bestow anyone with their touch. The teasing? Sure! But never the shattering of the fantasy itself.”

“Friday, you say?” you pressed your tongue against your cheek, letting his words sink in. Your head — filled with complete recklessness.

“And does Madame enjoy the show?”

“Oh, Madame’s always in front row.”

“Then,” you said, biting into the apple, “perhaps, I should tease luck a little myself.”

“Glad to hear it. And who knows, maybe one day you’ll spill me something really worth hearing. Something intriguing.”

“Peut-être…”^[5] you winked and glanced around with curiosity.

You talked for a while longer, casually steering the conversation toward other guests and local places. Not a single intention of dragging a half-stranger into your affairs.

“Can I get you anything?” the bartender checked his watch. “We’re about to open soon, after all.”

“Thank you very much, but last time your drink nearly turned me inside out.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that!” he clinked some glasses together. “It’s just… It brings bad luck to leave a bar without a sip.”

“Not a big fan of superstitions of yours. Besides, not a single dime in my pocket, whatsoever,” you forced a smile, “and I’d better be going by now.”

“Well, at least have some water, would you? Otherwise, you’ll leave me without a single tip. It already smells like a rough one today… Not a Friday, after all.”

Before you could say a word, a faceted glass was already sitting on the counter.

“Hope for your visit again sometime!”

Your gaze lingered on the stage for a moment.

Even this mildly irritating bartender didn’t deserve to be left without a tip — especially after sharing such valuable insights.

The clear liquid, a second away swirling gently in the glass, was now sloshing around in your stomach on your way home.

###

The late evening’s veil — and just like that — New York greeted you. And with your coat on, you could easily pass for one of its own.

“This city is crawling with weirdos. Hmm… Friday, oh Friday…”

Stinking, utterly stinking thoughts spun in your head.

“Looks like I’ll have to be a bit of a weirdo myself…” you whistled softly, twirling a finger at your temple. “Off you roll, little apple, into the big one.”

An alley, then another… Turn after turn — and your thoughts swirled in shifts along with you. The apple stem dangled between your teeth.

Camel flickered to life, right along with Coca-Cola, then — lower down — Chevrolet, and a bit farther up, the highest of them all — Wrigley’s — lit up. Tier by tier, like spotlights in a theatre, New York’s lights came alive.

“Slept well, darlings? Well then — good evening!”

The signs, as if catching the mood of your restless braincells, blinked back at you.

Some posters trembled; others puffed out under a light gust of wind. Gloss and scratches — all over the places on the signposts. The same wet cobblestones. Cars lined up there, as if at the behest of dice in some giant board game. The same old Central Park — and you, flicking the apple stem into the nearest trash can.

The further you got from the center, the deeper and bluer the alleys turned. The noise slowly faded behind you, and the walls froze in their silent breath.

“Harlem must be on the way. I better ask Alex to be more detailed about the Friday… Hope I dodged that alley with Donna’s boutique,” you shook your head, brushing away the nagging thoughts.

It was dark outside — not a soul around. Uncharacteristic for a city this big. Or was it just a strange alley? But the drizzle, the gathering clouds — those felt familiar. As you approached Alex’s place and fished for the keys in your pocket, your ear caught voices nearby.

“I… I-I know w-w-who you are… I…” a man’s voice, trembling.

Then came a young woman’s laugh. And several voices followed, merging in unison — impossible to tell how many there were. And then…

“A buzzing?”

You pressed yourself to the wall and strained your ears.

“It’s been a while since we had one like this. A pathetic, little man! Look at you — shaking all over!” the woman’s voice rang out again.

“You and your f-f-family… Your o-o-organization… A-all of y-you… I-I…”

“Come now, don’t be shy. Show us your terror. It stinks the death of you!” another female voice snarled.

“Sounds like… three of them?”

“When can we get to play with him already? He smells delicious!” a third, sing-song voice chimed in.

“The actual hell is going on? How much more are there?”

“I’ll expose you all!” the man shrieked in panic.

A low, chest-deep laugh joined the buzzing.

“You threaten my house? My daughters? How dare you!” the woman’s voice sounded deeper, mature, far firmer than the others.

“I-if not me, s-someone else will! Stay back! Or I-I’ll shoot!”

You clutched the keys to your chest and cautiously peeked around the corner.

Three small figures — floating, it seemed — circled a tall figure standing firm, towering over the man cowering in the corner.

“You and your threats. Worthless!” the woman adjusted her gloves.

“That hat… Lord, it’s her again,” you frowned. “Now, that’s what your voice sounds like.”

“You’ll be sliced to ribbons!”

Her shoulders spread. In a blink, claws slashed out from her fingers with a metallic snap.

You flinched and squeezed your eyes shut.

Metal scrapped against stone. A muffled scream.

You forbade yourself from giving away. Not now. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, and… Who cursed you to peeked again?

The man’s lifeless body. The pistol slipped from the limp fingers. Two figures scanned the surroundings while the third — a smaller one — clung to the tall woman, that stood half-turned, breathing heavily with her eyes darting.

“Bela! Cassandra!” the woman barked in a commanding voice.

The two smaller figures scattered with a swarm of flies, flitting from corner to corner.

You pressed harder against the wall, keys digging into your palm.

Your coat was no shield against this kind of cold, since the weather wasn’t causing it.

“You again? Why now?” you clenched your jaw. “The hideaway’s so close…”

The buzzing moved closer, then drifted away… It was futile trying to pin down its source.

“Think better, Eighth… Think, for fuck’s sake!”

The clouds thickened overhead, and your heartbeat pounded in sync with the approaching thunder.

“Mama! The storm!”

A blaring car horn, a flash of lightning — and you seized the moment, darting forward and flying into Alex’s building. Only the wind whistled in your ears.

The path to your friend’s door stretched like a nightmare loop. You ran the best you could. The best you were taught to. Almost flying, grabbing the railing, barely missing the walls.

A look back — and you’ll trip — you’ll fall — and then, that’s all. The damned, distant top floor.

Right at Alex’s door, as you tried to shove the key into the lock, it hit you — your hands were shaking. Leaving all the attempts on opening the door behind, you cried out:

“Alex! Alex, open up!”

“Don’t the keys in your pocket ring a bell to you?” came a lazy reply from the other side.

“Alex, please!” you shut your eyes tight, cursing everything under your breath.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!”

When he finally opened the door, you stormed inside without a word, only gesturing for him to shut it. Your body slid against the cold wall and slowly sank to the floor.

“You look pale as a ghost. What happened?” — Alex asked, concerned.

You shook your head, coughing, struggling for air. The trembling wouldn’t cease, and anger crept up, tickling your heels.

“Wait, wait — I’ll get you something!”

Unable to withstand it, you shot up and rushed to the window. Outside — nothing but rain. A lightning flash reflected in your eyes.

“Here,” Alex handed you a glass of water.

You took a sip and quickly gave it back.

Your hands gripped the windowsill. The urge to say something — anything — but thoughts scattered like leaves. All you could do was breathe. Your face twisted in rage, and clenching your teeth, you kicked the nearest suitcase.

“Bitch!” you squeezed your eye shut.

“Eighth?”

“Ran away again… Bolted!” the thought flared up red. “Is that how it’s always going to be? Every single time? Until what? Until I end up like that poor man? Who am I against her anyway? What can I even do?”

You pressed your forehead to the glass.

“What’s wrong with you?” Alex’s hands gently grasped your shoulders.

“Screw you!” you were breathing, inflating like a balloon with every sharp breath. “Screw every last one of you! If that’s how it is — fine. I’ll set up our meeting myself, Lady Dimitrescu. Shall jump higher than I can? So be it. At least, will reach you!” you finally exhaled. “I’m no greater than you, but… We should… No. We will play for the same team!”

You turned and, for the first time that night, met Alex’s eyes. He did nothing but blinked.

“So… What’s with the show on Friday, Alex?”

###

“And… Five, six, seven, eight!”

Smooth sweeps of hands, short steps forward.

“T-u-u-urn! Perfect! Keep your backs straight!”

The body never lies. The bones feel the movements on their own.

“Up to the rhythm, girls! Just like that!” Alex clapped along to the beat. “Now I see why the whole picture was falling apart — we were missing one more link,” he looked straight at you.

“What are you guys up to?” Vlad, who had showed up for a few days, approached the stage, following the dance with slight tilts of his head.

“Lower! That’s right!” Alex kept marking the rhythm, then added more calmly, “getting ready for Friday at Onyx.”

“She as well?” surprised, Vlad nodded toward you.

“And she — more than well!” Alex grinned. “I’m telling you the girl knows what she’s doing. We’ve had a headway in the dance dynamics, at last!” he finished triumphantly.

Vlad shrugged, clearly displeased.

When the rehearsal wrapped up, Alex called you over.

“Oi! You know, while picking the track for the dance, I nearly broke a sweat trying to please both our team and theirs.”

“And let me tell you — you’re a real musical bastard, Alex!” you smiled, taking off your mask. “That melody swings!”

“It sure does!” he smirked, glancing at the mask. “Besides, isn’t it more fun this way? People always seek for a show — as if it’s a movie. And that’s actually where we have the edge.”

You nudged him softly in the side.

“Just so you know — if this dance comes back to bite us, you’re in for a fun time. In case they don’t make sure I get plenty of fun first,” Vlad added through gritted teeth.

“Pff… Bring it on! Just make sure it’s fun for both of us,” Alex chuckled, pulling you closer.

You both laughed, while Vlad stood with his arms crossed, lips pressed tight in disapproval.

The day of reckoning was rushing closer — wanting to burst in uninvited, to strike first. Yet this time, it was under watch. Expected. And then — it was struck first.

###

Friday.

“Do you think the bar will be packed tonight?” one dancer asked another.

“No idea, but they say some momentous personas are coming tonight.”

“Oh sure, momentous!” you squinted slyly. “I’d even say highly momentous.”

You stood behind the curtain, clutching a plumed boa in your hands. Your gaze kept darting toward the front door, waiting for the one guest this entire venture had been staged for. A twinge in your stomach — a mix of thrill and impatience.

“They say appetite comes with eating… Planning to drill a hole through that door with your eyes?” Alex remarked ironically, adjusting your dress.

“Can’t wait! Wish I could just fling it open… or kick it down!”

“Easy, easy! You’ll have your turn in railing. Now, do a little spin for me, would you?”

You obeyed, reluctantly.

“Oi! I didn’t let it show in front of Vlad, but I’m still a little shocked by your decision.”

“Not willing to ever run away again…” you looked at Alex quietly.

“Yes, yes, I remember — this time, we go head-on. Straight through!” Alex smiled kindly. “Just don’t forget to glide, alright?”

You gave a soft nod.

“Now, fabulous that you are!” he added the final touches to your look. “I need to check on the other dancers. Oh, and one last thing! I—”

He paused, shooting a mischievous glance toward the hall.

“You know what?” Alex spun you to face guests. You froze. “Fuck it! Tear up the stage, darling!”

With a glide of his hand across your back, Alex vanished into the shadows of the curtain.

You blinked.

Lady Dimitrescu — in the flesh — stood with her back to the stage, calmly conversing with someone.

A sharp exhale. Another blink. The crack of your knuckles.

Through your body — strength coursed. In your head — the rhythm of the dance flowed. And in your heart… frightening to admit — clash of nerves and desire was being woven.

From the flick of her fingers to the slight sway of her long black dress — not a single move of hers left unfollowed with your eyes. The way she walked, the way she tilted her head ever so slightly, clenching a cigarette holder between her teeth…The way she let others lean in to light the cigarette for her. The way her hands gently intertwined. The woman exhaled smoke, the corners of her mouth curling into a soft smile. Her lips — red. And the hat — at its place — as always.

You never even noticed when you started biting your fingertips.

Lady Dimitrescu took her seat and, tapping her fingers on the table, patiently waited for the performance to begin.

Around her — waiters in masks fussing. She, slightly tilting her head and stroking her cheek with the back of her hand, listened to them and replied softly.

The bottle — that very bottle, with the convex pattern — rested on the table, and next to it, the tall lady in black, squinting like a cat, alternated glances between her glass of red liquid and the stage.

“What a night I’ve got ahead of me……”

The first performers stepped onto the stage. In the hall — behind the thrill of fans — quiet whispers were spelled.

Lady Dimitrescu sipped her drink, eyes following the dancers’ movements. Each new performance equaled a sip. Her glass swayed from one hand to the other. Sometimes — it was soft applauding. Occasionally — pursed lips of discontent. But more often, her fingers roamed the bottle’s neck, and the lady nodded gently to the rhythm.

You waited backstage for your cue, your heart pounding. As the lights dimmed once again, inviting the next performers on stage, the mask embraced your face, sending a chill across your skin. A sly squint.

“Welcome to the show, Lady Dimitrescu!” you threw the boa over your shoulders.

Alongside the dancers, you stepped onto the stage, and in the half-light you caught Lady Dimitrescu straighten slightly, then cross her legs nervously. And only god could reveal what was happening beneath that hat of hers.

Light.

With your back to the audience — the boa slid smoothly down, baring your hips and thighs.

The hall gasped as one. The whispering dissolved into thin air as the music began to play.

The first pulse of the music. The slow swaying of the dancers… A flick of your hand — and the boa vanished behind the curtains. You straightened your shoulders.

“There’s no one else here. Us and them. Just you and I. And our worlds that only music can divide.”

You merged with wave of the dance, and the dark lines on your dress, running all along your body like claws-marked patterns, shimmered under the lights. A turn — and your head fell back, revealing your neck.

The tall woman didn’t touch her glass. Not a single stir. Not even one. Startled, she blinked only once or twice.

Your palm glided demonstratively along your neck, then lower and lower… Slowly, it pressed into the curves of your body, which responded to your touch, bending softly like a snake.

Lady Dimitrescu’s gaze was glued to you. She slightly opened her mouth in confusion.

When the dancers gripped your hips — firm and steady — you stretched like a panther, arching in their hands. And the lower they tilted you, the lower Lady Dimitrescu’s head sank. Slowly, almost unbearably.

A wicked grin bloomed behind your mask. The embellishments on your dress sparkled playfully. And there you are, winking to the audience. To your spectator.

“How do you like me now? That’s what you get for making me run.”

The rhythm swelled, and the swaying became more intense. A pull — the hands seemed to draw something in, as if the air itself was made of translucent fabric. Another pull — a circular twist of the wrists. Another one — a twist… You pulled that fabric towards you with zeal. Each tug grew sharper, faster: your hair tips sliced the air, and your fingers stung like lightning bolts. This was your territory. Your truth.

The dance wavered — slowed down, then surged again, like water that first retreats, makes itself seem tranquil, then with each new wave, crashes harder against the rocks. And so it went, over and over, never letting itself be caught. The guitar and saxophone intertwined in conversation — at first glance, stealing space from each other, but in fact — each spoke of its own sorrow. Of its own solitude. And just as you, bending in dance, played upon Lady’s soul strings, so did she — watching your every move, flaring her nostrils like valves of a saxophone. A ping-pong of a music, nothing less.

Alex was spot on about you: when the music played, it allowed you to possess adamant confidence. Another act of audacity — a turn — and once again, your back faced the audience, and fingers sliding from your hip up to your lower spine.

The saxophone roared again. You straightened up and threw a glance at Lady Dimitrescu. She sank deeper into the chair, flaring her nostrils, drawing in breath sharply.

“Oh, not that nose again! Well then, if you insist…”

While the others danced on, you softly stepped down, each move dispersing the cigarette smoke that had flooded Onyx. Descending step by step, you smoothly approached the one who had frightened and amazed you to death — and all within just a week in New York.

“You and this city… How alike of you…”

Lady Dimitrescu glanced at you briefly — not a twitch — not a flinch — nothing could be hidden behind those blue eyes.

The music kept pulsing. You glided around the chair, barely brushing the headrest with your fingers. In your mind — the bartender’s words floated.

“It’s all just a show, you say? Just an illusion, huh?”

The woman’s gaze darted, searching for something to hold onto, until finally it landed on her own gloved hands gripping the armrests.

The final glide — and you paused, leaning towards Lady Dimitrescu.

Another nervous thrill of fans in the hall, and you caught snippets of outraged whispers:

“Is this really happening?”

“Who does she think she is?”

“This isn’t right… She wouldn’t dare…”

And then — like a lightning bolt to your braincells — a thought struck you.

“Oh, she would!”

You leaned in lower — almost touching — and the wide-brimmed hat shot up, revealing Lady Dimitrescu’s face. The woman looked up from under her brows, slightly squinting, trying her best to breathe evenly. Her legs still locked together.

The music vibrated, enveloping you both, and you slowly reached for the armrests. Lady Dimitrescu raised an eyebrow in a slient question, yet you, locking eyes with her, gently lay your fingers on hers. Her lips quivered silently.

Stretching your neck slightly, you let Lady Dimitrescu breathe deeper, to take in the odor that teased, tormented her. The woman closed her eyes, frowning, and inhaling much calmer.

“Don’t be shy… It’s just a show, isn’t it? Just don’t wrinkle your nose. Please. I’m no threat to you.”

Sensing your touch was soft, the woman finally gave in, relaxing her legs, inviting the dancer to sit on her lap. The moment your hips brushed against Lady Dimitrescu’s, pleasant warmth spread through your body.

“Ah, but the breaking point — that’s something entirely different. Still ahead. To endure. To live through…”

You didn’t let yourself fully sink onto Lady Dimitrescu. Instead, you gripped her hands tighter and, arching smoothly, threw your head back. Your neck — exposed — and behind the mask bloomed a smile of freedom.

When dark eyes met blue once more, Lady Dimitrescu froze for a second, then blinked softly in return.

“Lord of mine, you’re such a kitten…”

And more than once would those fine lines at the corners of her mouth make you feel the tremor of the earth itself. But that — New York would tell you some other time.

For now, your fingers slid along the bottle that had watched this improvisation from the very start. And as the music faded, Onyx stirred back to life. You slipped away lightly, holding up your trophy for all to see — the bottle in your hands.

###

“Whan an insane of a show it was! Girl, you really set the place on fire!”

Astonished glances, giggles muffled by palms, whispers behind your back… The dancers gathered around the troublemaker, giggling and chatting about the performance.

You smiled shyly and shook your head, pretending not to understand a thing.

“Oh, come on! You all better look at Alexander — smoking himself a good one, standing there…”

“Off to the side… And you owe me, by the way!” he handed you an empty cigarette pack. “I snapped almost all of them out of sheer nerves watching you from backstage,” he smirked, exhaling smoke. “And stop playing the modest one! I’ll tell you at home what THAT show was about. But for now… I’m damn proud of you!”

“If Vlad finds out, there’ll be even more of a show.”

At the mention of the crew member’s name, the laughter burst out even louder.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Alex clapped, urging the dancers toward the exit. “Let’s leave the girl alone with her trophy. Space! Give her space!” he winked, then stepped up and hugged you tightly. “Oh, so sneaky…Oh, so MINE! Happy debut to us!”

“It felt so liberating, Alex!” you hugged him back. “And so… loud!”

As the hug loosened, your smiles met.

“I don’t know what’s our next step, but we have to celebrate this one! Objections denied! Once you change the outfit — catch up with us! We’ll be waiting there, in Harlem!”

You blinked in reply and watched your friend as he left, surrounded by the dancers, already tipsy and excited. Alex threw his arms large around them, and together they made their way out.

Only the soft hum of the city beyond the bar doors and the fading laughter of the performers remained.

“You knew perfectly well what you were up to. And yet, nothing stopped you from getting into it. Right, Eighth?" your gaze fell upon the bottle.

Red — matte. Silver — glossy. You gently turned your trophy, trying to store in every curve. And the trophy responded: gleaming unashamed, showing itself off in all its glory.

“I better show this one to the crew back at the sanctuary. Vlad will be so thrilled…” you smiled quietly. “Still, I wish I could linger in this evening just a little longer…”

The guests were slowly leaving. The dancers, rustling in their costumes, scattered — some to the dressing rooms, others with Alex, off to merge with the night. And you also were about to follow them, when suddenly a gloved hand pressed against the wall across from you.

The space around you thickened, as a tall shadow loomed over the troublemaker.

Onyx lived up to its damn whip-crack of a font.

“So, we finally meet.”

^[5] fr.: Maybe.