Punch (118)
Still, my Health seemed to be restoring quite fast. My own awkward punch had only dealt him 13 pt. damage.
The figures spoke for themselves: I had to level up some combat skills. Street fighting, boxing, karate, whatever. Also, my poor Agility was to blame. That would have to be addressed as well.
I supported myself on one shoulder and peered at the hoods. Alik was busy explaining something to Yagoza, pointing at me, at his new shirt and at the bottles.
Yagoza seemed to ask him about something.
Alik nodded and headed toward me. “You okay? Feeling better?”
“Sort of,” I grabbed at his proffered hand and scrambled to my feet. “Why would you keep company with somebody like that?”
“Eh, you know... Yagoza’s asking you to come and talk to him,” Alik said, watching me brush the dirt off my clothes. “Don’t worry, he only wants to have a word with you.”
I was about to say something proud and stupid, something along the lines of “If he wants to talk to me, let him come and do it himself.” Or should I just tell him I had more important things to do? Why should I bother? I was going to move out, anyway. I might never see them again for all that I knew. Why should I stoop to their level?
Instead, I looked up at the pavilion. The men’s gazes were watchful and expectant.
“All right,” I mumbled as I followed Alik. It was probably better to finish all this here and now.
I might have appeared in control but according to the system, I wasn’t. My pulse was off the scale. I’d never been good at socializing with their sort of people. I tensed up in expectation of another punch — this time in the eye maybe — or another illogical intimidation attempt on their part.
I focused, trying to pretend this was just another sales pitch. I had to sell myself to them in such a way that I wouldn’t have to worry about their attitude toward me anymore.
I was pressed for time, too. Kira would arrive any minute now, and I still had the dog to walk.
The men sat at the shaky wooden table. A few meager scraps were laid out on top of a plastic shopping bag: slices of rye bread, an open can of sardines, a few boiled eggs, some pickles and a smoked sausage. The rest of the table was crowded with plastic cups and beer cans. In the corner of the pavilion sat a crate of vodka, already half-empty.
“Guys, this is Phil,” Alik said. This time his voice lacked the arrogance of a streetwise hood: it was the humble tone of an omega group member.
No one said anything. Yagoza studied me from under half-closed, sleepy eyelids. I peered back at him and his buddies, ID-ing them. The puny little guy going by the moniker of Sprat was busy making sandwiches for the entire group, slicing bread and topping it with pickles and sausage. Vasily, a guy of about my age, just sat there picking his teeth with a dirty fingernail. The fat guy who’d attacked me was pouring out vodka, smirking at me. Yet another guy in a wife-beater and a baseball cap stood outside the pavilion talking to someone on the phone. His name was apparently Muhammad.
Well, well, well. This particular branch of Alcoholics Anonymous had just ceased to be anonymous to me.
“Well, nice to meet you... Phil,” said Yagoza — or rather, Mr. Igor Stepanenko, social status level 9.
I just couldn’t help myself. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Stepanenko,” I replied.
He tensed up. That might not have been a good idea, after all. As if the earlier episode with the clinic patients hadn’t been enough for me!
“You’re smart, aren’t you?” Yagoza said. “Now how would you know my name, I wonder?”
“You’d be surprised what I know. Alik is in fact Romuald, isn’t he? That fat joker over there is Ruslan, Rus for short. He’s a good plumber, by the way, only he can’t keep a job because he drinks too much. The one eating the sandwich is Sprat, also known as Alexey. Oops, he’s choking. Give him a slap on the back, someone. This guy here is Vasily. Such a shame his wife Catherine had to divorce him. And that one over there is Muhammad Abu Talimov.”
“No way!” the fat guy guffawed. “Did you hear that?”
“Jesus,” Alik said. “That’s right, he knew my name when I first met him! How did you do that?”
“Well, I might have guessed,” Yagoza said heavily. “Or maybe you’re buddies with our local cops?”
“Neither. It’s irrelevant, anyway. What do you want?”
Yagoza rubbed his hands. “Pour him a drink! Let’s give our guest a proper welcome!”
I had no idea what he was up to and I wasn’t going to play along. “You’ve already greeted me, I believe. Can’t say I enjoyed it very much though. Just tell me what you want and I’ll be off.”
“Who do you think you are?” the fat guy began.
“Shut your mouth,” Yagoza said. “Were you born so stupid? I want you to apologize to mister... what’s your name again?”
“It’s Phil. Phil Panfilov.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Panfilov. He’s sorry too, aren’t you, Rus?”
The fat guy shrank under his stare. “I am... It was a joke. Sorry about that.”
I touched my still-smarting flank and winced. Pointless going to the police. Not worth it. It had been me who’d attacked him first, anyway. Or that’s what they’d say. In their eyes, it was only a joke.
“Apology accepted,” I said and turned to leave.
“Phil!” Alik called behind my back. “Good luck, man!”
“You too,” I swallowed the rest of the sentence.
I just hoped he could rise over his current environment. I didn’t want him to go back to his habitual drunken lifestyle. He was still young, you know. He had a life to live.
At home, I peeled my shirt off and studied the bruise under my ribs. Nothing too serious. Still, this had sounded like a second warning. The first one had been when that fake Gypsy had attacked me. Combat skills weren’t limited to a computer game. You never knew when you might need them IRL. Some people managed to live their entire lives without picking a fight once, but I’d somehow managed to do it twice in the past week.
For the moment, it was all academic, anyway. Time to get ready to see my parents.
I called my two pets into the kitchen. As they ate, I sent Richie’s picture to his owner. Sveta immediately replied with a voice message,
“Thank you so much! I’m counting the days till I can see him again! I’ll be back in five days. Please give him a hug from me.”
Five more days. Which meant I could forget house-hunting for the time being. Not with a cat and dog in tow. I had to wait for Sveta to come back and collect him.
Kira called to let me know she was stuck in a traffic jam. I checked the map. She was still a long way away and might stay there for a while. So I took Richie out to the park, hoping for a quick run just to keep myself awake.
I didn’t manage much running. My Happiness buff had long since disappeared. Between my aching ribs, the Lack of Sleep debuff and the weakness of hunger, I’d only managed some quarter of an hour of jogging at the most. Still, even that had been enough to build up a good sweat. My Stamina had grown another percent, bringing me very close to its next level.
By the time Kira finally arrived, I was already quite awake after a shower and a cup of coffee. Still, she was bound to start asking questions. I looked a sight. The black circles around my eyes spoke for themselves.
As she drove me to our parents’, she showered me with questions. I gave her an edited version of my last few days’ escapades, avoiding any unusual or uncomfortable details.
“Phil, come on. I think your new boss is okay. I would have done the same. The agreement was they’d hire you, and so they did. They even paid you a bonus. Which isn’t that small, by the way. Some people have to work a whole month for that kind of money.”
“I know, but-”
“But what? Had they given you a percentage on that deal, you know what would have happened? You’d have relaxed and lost momentum. At least this way they gave you enough incentive to keep selling
, plus they did pay you something just to keep you happy. Besides, how can they be sure you weren’t just plain lucky that day? And if you weren’t, then your future earnings are pretty much guaranteed, aren’t they? Trust me, that’s the way they look at it.”
“No good arguing with Mom,” Cyril’s voice came from the back seat.
I smiled. There seemed to be a whole bunch of Cyrils around me just lately, starting with my nephew. Then there was my new workmate Cyril Cyrilenko, the one with the coughing problem.
From Cyril, I logically thought about Vicky. Smiling, I sent her a quick text asking if Saturday’s movie outing was still valid.
She replied within a minute,
Sure. Cant wait
I wished her a nice Friday night and added, See you tomorrow.
Kira’s words had convinced me that Ultrapak wasn’t such a bad option, after all. So should I really quit the moment my one-month notice period was over? Just imagine how it would look on my CV. Bet my future employers would have a few questions to ask me!
As we drove, Mom called, berating us for being late and saying that the food was already cold and Dad was hungry but waiting for us. Typical. Dad had always treated family get-togethers as big events — to the point of which he’d lose all appetite.
Kira and I spent the rest of the way talking about her son’s academic successes. He was already quite proficient in the three Rs — and he still had another year until he started school.
Finally, we arrived. Kira parked up by the building. I got out of the car and looked over the courtyard where I’d spent my childhood years.
The place filled me with fuzzy nostalgia. The sandbox where I used to play with my friends, building sand cities complete with streets and apartment blocks; a peeling old slide I must have used thousands of times; a small garden where we’d tried to catch grasshoppers with a rare wing color. What a blissfully carefree time it had been, where unfinished homework or the call to go home were my biggest problems!
My parents lived in a quiet quarter in the city’s historical suburb. Here the apartment blocks were squat and small, the narrow streets lined with tall, ancient oaks, chestnuts and maple trees which towered over the small front yard of my parents’ house.
Dad stood on the small apartment balcony smoking, watching for us to arrive.
“Grandad!” Cyril screamed.
Dad beamed. “There they are!”
Once inside, I gave him a big hug. My heart clenched. This was my Dad, once so strong and powerful — and now he felt so small and frail in my arms. Both he and Mom had grown so old. His favorite checkered shirt hung loose on him, its hem bunched up inside his trousers. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his smell: the strong aroma of tobacco and a classic Russian aftershave he’d stayed true to since Soviet times.
Groaning and complaining about her back, Mom supervised Kira who got busy laying the table in our small sitting room. My sister rushed between the kitchen and the table, all the while regaling Mom with the latest gossip about some mutual friends.
As usual, the TV was blaring out, showing the finals of the Wheel of Fortune[16]. The ticker tape below announcing the upcoming newscast. Old habits die hard: no amount of Internet could change my parents’ Soviet-era trust in the television as the only source of the latest news.
The table stood next to the old sunken couch. My heart clenched again. That’s where Yanna had sat only two months ago when we’d come here for my Mom’s birthday. That day, Yanna had joined Kira and Mom early in the morning. Together they’d cooked, cleaned and polished the place while I was sleeping it off after a raid.
That had been the last time we’d visited my parents. And that was how I wanted to remember her. We’d been through so many good things together...
Dad and I decided to give our ladies some space and walked out onto the balcony. He struck a match and lit up a cigarette. When I’d been a kid, I used to love that smell.
He offered me the cigarette pack.
“No, thanks. I quit,” I said.
“Did you really? For how long have you been battling with that?”
“Just over a week. And it hasn’t really been a battle.”
“What, you don’t even feel the urge?” he asked.
“Oh yes, I do. But I just grin and bear it for a couple of minutes. Then it gets easier. And how about you? How’s Mom?”
“We’re fine, thanks. Don’t listen to her complaining all the time, it’s just a habit she’s adopted from those old hags next door. They say that complaining of poor health makes your children visit you more often. Attention seekers, that’s what they are.”
I believed him. I’d already checked Mom’s stats first thing as I’d entered the house. She was fine, and so was Dad — for their age, of course. Their Old Age debuff kept ticking.
My Reputation with both of them was identical: Love, 1/1. Their social status levels were also impressively high: 30-plus each. That must have been due to Mom’s decades of teaching experience and Dad’s job as a fireman. As long as I’d known them, they’d always been ready to help anyone in need and kept a large circle of friends — the two factors which too must have contributed to their excellent stats.
“And how about you?” Dad asked. “Is it true what Kira said? Have you found a job?”
“Yeah. It all happened quickly. I went for an interview on Monday and by Thursday they’d already hired me.”
“Oh. Are you sure about them? What kind of place is that?”
“Just a production company making plastic packaging. They seem okay. I can always reconsider if I want.”
“At your age, son, you shouldn’t be doing too much reconsidering. You’d better stick with them now and stop fooling around. Your CV is a joke,” he gave me a long look which made me uncomfortable. “And this book of yours seems to take forever. Have you finished it yet? No? That’s what I thought. And all those games... such a waste of time. And now you’ve lost Yanna too. Happy now?”
As I stood there listening to him, I was finally able to relate to his pain. Having lost my wife, for the first time in years I couldn’t just dismiss his words as the ramblings of a clueless old man.
“Dad, it’s gonna be all right. I assure you.”
He turned away, wiping his glistening eyes with his fist. “Smoke got in my eyes, I think. Never mind, son. You’re a big boy now. You don’t need babysitters. Your life is yours to live.”
I seemed to be having a déjà vu. This was what I’d told Alik earlier that day. Logical, really: I must have heard it from Dad hundreds of times.
“Dad? You two okay?” Kira asked, peeking onto the balcony.
“I’ll just finish my cigarette and we’re coming,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
“I don’t,” she said doubtfully with a studying look at each of us. Then she stepped back and disappeared.
Dad chuckled and put out his cigarette. We walked back into the apartment.
We had a nice family dinner. A few tactful questions about Yanna gradually evolved into a discussion about my plans for the future. Mom’s cooking was predictably delicious even if unhealthy: according to her old-school Soviet cooking standards, there was no such thing as too much mayonnaise. Mayo salads for starters, followed by mayo chicken and — our festive staple — wild mushroom soup. Mom was rightfully proud of her mushroom soup which had never failed her — neither in the empty-shelved Soviet times nor in the penniless 1990s or later in the prosperous 2000s. That was Dad’s favorite dish which by default made it everybody’s favorite.
Little Cyril was yawning his head off. Mom and Kira began cleaning the table. Dad walked out for another smoke[17]. I tried to watch some TV as Cyril cheerfully zapped through the channels.
“Wait a sec,” I took the remote from him.
A local news channel showed a picture of a missing girl. A voice off screen was reading her description.
I grabbed my phone and took a picture of the screen.
A girl named Oksana Vorontso
va, fourteen years old, went missing about 8 p.m. on May 12 2018 and hasn’t returned home since.
Oksana is five foot eight. She looks about 16 years old, slim with long dark hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows and an upturned nose.
At the time of her disappearance, Oksana was wearing a pink cardigan over a white T-shirt, denim shorts and a pair of white sneakers.
We encourage everyone who might have any information regarding Oksana’s whereabouts to step forward by calling the number below...
A long line of phone numbers followed: the police and the girl’s parents as well as some volunteers.
I memorized them all, peering closely at the face of the missing girl, trying to remember her eyes, her smile, her chipped upper tooth...
Then I opened the map and sent a search request.
Nothing. Apparently, I didn’t have enough KIDD points to access the data. I needed five units and I only had four: her picture, her name, her age and the name of the town — which probably doubled as her birth place. Not enough.
I cussed, then bit my lip and looked around me to check if Dad had heard me. He was still out on the balcony smoking. Cyril was fast asleep. Kira and Mom were talking in the kitchen.
I rose, carried Cyril into my parents’ bedroom and lay him on the bed. Then I returned to the sitting room and opened my interface.
On impulse I went to the skill tab and tried to invest the available skill point into Insight. Fingers crossed.
Sorry. You can’t improve a system skill.
What kind of crazy game system was that? I’d activated this skill by investing an available level point in it, and now I couldn’t improve it further? Did that mean I could only level Optimization through repeated use?
With a 30-day cooldown, yeah right.
Or maybe you couldn’t improve it at all. As it was, it was already a cheat to end all cheats.
Oh. That wasn’t what I should be thinking of. I tried to concentrate on the missing girl.
Dad had already walked back into the room and switched the TV to some crime series. He was watching it now while stroking me on the head.
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