Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The musicians energetically played the final chord and lowered their instruments. The heated crowd burst into applause and cheered. Then, relative silence settled in the hall. The frontman of a band, whose name I didn't catch, breathlessly said into the microphone, "Thank you!" and announced a break. The crowd slowly headed towards the bar.
"Pour me some!" A hefty fist slammed on the counter. "She's gonna teach me?! I know my limit. Pour it, you dumb cunt!"
The fairy-like bartender fluttered her eyelashes and helplessly looked at me.
"Is there a problem?" I sat down on a tall stool next to the source of the commotion. The old guy was wearing a leather jacket so studded with spikes that the leather itself was barely visible. His fingers were adorned with rings featuring skulls, dragons, and other mythical creatures. His thinning, graying hair hung over his shoulders. He had a noticeable beer belly. The type was clear—a washed-up rocker.
"And who the hell are you?" His bleary eyes focused first on my face, then on the "Security" badge. "Oh… One of those… You gonna lecture me too?"
"Not at all," I assured him diplomatically. "I'll just throw you out into the cold if you start making trouble."
"Oh yeah? Do you even know who I am?" The scruffy guy tried to stand up, but the stool wobbled dangerously, and he grabbed onto the counter for support. The fairy squeaked.
'Some washed-up has-been,' I thought.
"I… I was there at the very beginning!" he suddenly rasped, yanking at the collar of his leather jacket. "We… on that stage… oh, how we rocked, you wouldn't believe it!"
He buried his head in his fists and whimpered softly.
"Maybe we should call him a cab?" the girl whispered in my ear.
"Don't worry about it, darling," I said reassuringly. "Go take care of the other customers waiting for their mojitos."
She quickly fluttered away, leaving me alone with this "rock monster." Wait, did he fall asleep?
Oh, no. He's stirring again and turning back to me. Man, life really beat him up. How old is he? Fifty, tops—same as me. But he looks seventy. Then again, what did I expect? He's probably been drinking his whole life, drowning in crocodile tears over his glory days.
"Brother, tell me…" The guy leaned in, reeking of tobacco and vodka. "Is this even rock? What kind of rock is this, huh? They're all castrated! Punks? Ha! They've never even seen real punks! Get this, I went up to one of them to share a drink with the younger generation. And he's a vegan! A VEGAN! Said he doesn't drink alcohol, sorry. What kind of punk is that, for crying out loud?!"
"Vladimir Lvovich, want me to throw this guy out?" It was Stepa. His neck was wider than his head, his forehead was two fingers broad, and his nose was bent sideways. Good guy, Stepa. He's a former heavyweight boxing champion, so he tries not to hit clients.
"Leave it," I waved my hand. "See, we've got a 'Rock Province' veteran here. We need to treat him with respect."
"I'll toss him out gently," Stepa grinned—or at least, he probably thought he was smiling. "With all due respect. I heard the cops used to kick them out back in the day, so it'll be a trip down memory lane."
"You have no empathy, Stepa," I patted his mighty shoulder.
"Where's that young rabble that's gonna wipe us out?" The aging rocker tugged at his jacket collar again. Metal trinkets clattered to the floor. "Is it them? These… These… They're just pop trash!"
He spat out the word "pop" like it was the dirtiest insult. And he literally spat—spraying saliva across the glossy bar counter.
"Rock Province!" he kept ranting. "Who's the idiot that named this trash that? Bring him here, I wanna look him in the eye!"
"If you don't like the concert, I can call you a cab," I offered peacefully.
Actually, I knew the festival organizer well. My old classmate Gena came up with the idea of reviving the wild local rock history and bringing back an event from the nineties. He asked me and the guys to handle security at this youth event as a favor. He wanted to relive the old days, filled with a sense of total freedom and fun chaos. I agreed, even though I barely experienced those so-called crazy nineties myself.
While the country was in political turmoil and tanks were firing at the White House, I was toasting to my discharge with one hand and signing a contract for further service with the other.
When the country celebrated 1995 with various types of champagne, my airborne blue was being poured out at the train station in Grozny.
When my former classmates were making their first money, I was trudging through the freezing mud of Gudermes and catching sleep in brief snatches, hugging my rifle.
On New Year's Eve of 2000, I was lying alone in my hard-earned one-bedroom apartment, listening to a gray-haired Boris Yeltsin mumble his famous "I'm tired, I'm leaving," while drinking champagne straight from the bottle, with no idea how I'd live from then on. So, the nineties ended for me before they even really began.
"Are you gonna pour me some vodka, or should I smash this dump to pieces?" the shaggy rocker roared like a madman. And then he pulled something out from under his jacket.
Time immediately slowed down. His nicotine-stained fingers clutched the streamlined side of a terribly familiar but utterly out-of-place object. An RGD-5, a timed hand grenade. And with surprising speed for a drunk, he yanked out the pin and tossed it behind him.
Four seconds.
Stepa opened his mouth but hadn't yet managed to shout. The fairy's eyes behind the counter went wide and round.
Three seconds.
Clunk, clunk, clunk. The grenade rolled across the floor straight towards a group of brightly dressed youngsters.
Two seconds.
A guitar riff blared from the stage, signaling the end of the break, but it was drowned out by the panicked screams of the scattering crowd.
One second.
"It's probably a training grenade," flashed through my mind just as I dove forward, covering the absurd little deadly object with my body. "I'll look like a fool... But who cares, we'll laugh about it later."
I didn't hear the explosion. The world simply shattered into countless fragments, spinning into a wild kaleidoscope that sucked me into a dark whirlpool of oblivion.
"Belial, wake up!" Someone was mercilessly shaking me by the shoulders. On the next shake, my head slipped off the pillow, hit the floor with a dull thud, and started buzzing. "Come on, wake up! Mom's coming home from her night shift any minute!"
"Grmbhdff," I responded very eloquently, struggling to figure out who I was, where I was, and why the owner of an obviously teenage voice was calling me Belial. Eventually, I managed to pry my eyes open.
First thought: The grenade was a training one, and I drank myself into oblivion out of relief?
Second thought: Hey, my grandma used to have a chandelier like that!
Third thought: Was I sleeping on the bare floor?!
I somehow managed to prop myself up on shaky arms. My head felt like it had been run through an old Soviet meat grinder with dull blades. Damn… Why am I even thinking about meat grinders?
I finally took a proper look around. Okay, a room with a "grandma's renovation" vibe, a cabinet with sliding glass doors—inside, instead of crystal like at my grandma's, there were cheap glass goblets. Faded floral wallpaper, peeling in the corners, barely holding on. A sofa—shabby, sagging, covered with a homemade patchwork quilt. On top of the quilt sprawled a scrawny body of indeterminate gender, with a bony elbow sticking out from a tangled mane of red hair.
"Belphegor, wake up!" came the same voice that had woken me up. This time, it was shaking the body on the sofa. I finally managed to see who was being so insistent. Their face was half-hidden by disheveled hair. Black hair, though… with streaks of some odd color, like the person had tried to dye it pitch black, but their hands must've grown out of a bony, scrawny butt. Said butt was barely holding up a pair of gray jeans, scribbled all over with pentagrams, inverted crosses, and other very occult symbols.
"Leave me alone, Astaroth, let me sleep," the sharp elbow jabbed the persistent one in the ribs. He yelped but resumed shaking the guy on the sofa with renewed vigor. "Belphegor, what the hell? I told you my mom gets back from her night shift at nine!"
"It's only eight…" a whiny voice grumbled from somewhere below. I turned my splitting head in that direction. A square, polished table—straight out of the depths of the Soviet Union. On the table—a manual sewing machine, black with golden patterns. Did the owners of this place raid a retro museum?
And under the table, wrapped in a plaid flannel blanket, was another long-haired person. For a change, this one was chubby instead of scrawny.
Let me guess, this one's name is Behemoth? Did I end up in hell? Belial, Belphegor, Astaroth… Aren't those demon names? So that means I'm a demon too? And this scruffy little twerp is trying to wake me up so I can get on with my duties? You know, torturing sinners, stoking the fires under the cauldrons…
"I still need to clean up!" Astaroth's voice took on a hysterical edge. "Or it'll be like last time! Get out already! Belial, don't even think about falling back asleep!"
"I'm not sleeping…" I muttered, feeling an overwhelming urge to lay my head back down on the pillow—well, on the crumpled denim jacket, and cover myself with… uh… this thing. Wait, what is this? Some kind of coat? Worn-out fur, buttons. Yeah, definitely a coat.
"Belial, are you out of your mind?!" Astaroth jumped at me and yanked the shabby dark burgundy thing out of my hands. "I told you not to touch mom's stuff!"
"So what?" I said. Wait. Did I say that? What's with my voice?! And more importantly… I stared at my hands. Well, not really my hands, but someone else's hands that I could somehow control. I knew my own hands very well. There was the faded tattoo from my army days. I could've had it removed ages ago, but I didn't, for the memories. And the burn scar shaped like Africa, from an unfortunate encounter with scorching armor. But these hands were completely clean and… so scrawny. Elbows like a puppet's.
"Damn it!" Astaroth wailed. "If my mom catches us here again, she's going to twist my head off!"
"Oh please, what do you need a head for, Astaroth? You never use it anyway…" grumbled the red-haired Belphegor from the sofa. Hmm, look at that, I'm already starting to remember these guys' nicknames. Or… did I already know them? Who am I even?
My foggy mind flashed a vision of a grenade rolling across the nightclub floor and the wrinkled face of an aging rocker. Or did I dream that? Who the hell am I?
Okay, wait a second. I'm Vladimir Lvovich Korneev, callsign Kamysh. Born in 1973, head of the security agency "Lev." But then why…
I shook my head. Pain exploded inside my skull, colorful spots danced before my eyes, and long hair slapped against my cheeks.
"Where's the bathroom?" I mumbled as I got to my unsteady feet. I noticed that I was also wearing gray jeans covered in satanic symbols drawn with a black marker. Is this our uniform in hell?
"Are you an idiot, Belial?" Astaroth, leaving me and the other two guests alone for the moment, was gathering up the bottles scattered around the apartment.
Yeah, not much choice in a cramped Khrushchyovka apartment. To the right—a tiny kitchen, to the left—a tiny corridor. And there, a door. Behind the door—a combined bathroom, a nightmare for any claustrophobe.
I sat on the low, uncomfortable toilet. My sharp knees were up near my chin. If my head wasn't splitting, I'd probably… probably what? Freak out? Lose it? Scream in terror?
Thoughts crawled sluggishly through my mind—slow, dumb, and fat. I couldn't hold more than one at a time in my head. I should check the mirror, but I was scared to. I already knew I wouldn't see anything good there, judging by my hands and legs.
Maybe this is just a dream? Or maybe I'm in a coma? It's possible I survived the grenade explosion and am lying hooked up to machines, hallucinating… all sorts of things. The last time I woke up with a tube in my lungs, I was also seeing crazy stuff.
Right, survived. An RGD blew up under me—how could I have survived that? Am I the Terminator or something?
Alright, screw it. Three-two-one, go!
I stood up, staggered from the sudden movement, and grabbed the scalding hot towel rack. I felt the rough texture of peeling paint under my fingers.
I glanced into the oval mirror above the sink. My memory helpfully reminded me that my grandma had a similar one. A scrawny, hunched teenager with long tangled hair stared back at me. On the black T-shirt was a crooked inscription, "Angels of Satan" painted in white. The face… well, it was normal enough, at least not covered in acne. The eyes were gray, the nose a bit long, but… who knows. Maybe… sixteen or seventeen years old?
"Who are you?" I whispered to my reflection. Unsurprisingly, it didn't respond.
"Maybe this really is hell?" I thought again. "I died, and this is my personal punishment for all my sins." And all that "light at the end of the tunnel" or boiling pots stuff is just fiction. I was a tough guy, and now I'm a scrawny metalhead stuck in an apartment with three other metalhead buddies. And now I'll have an eternal hangover, while Astaroth nags us to leave on a dark, cold autumn morning.
"Belial, you done yet?" Belphegor banged on the door.
"Hold it," I grumbled, still studying myself in the mirror. Honestly, aside from being a long-haired weakling, it wasn't all that bad. Hit the gym, load up on meat, cottage cheese, and eggs, and in six months, I could be presentable. The chin was decently shaped, and the hands—solid enough, could make a decent fist. The fingertips on my left hand were a bit rough… Calloused, like from playing guitar. Am I a guitarist too?
Well, that makes sense. I'm a metalhead, and this is my Metalheadland. A well-deserved afterlife—enjoy with a bun, and try not to make a mess.
"Damn it, Vova!" The banging on the door started again. An awakened Belphegor was eager to commune with the tiny toilet. Wait, what did he just call me? Vova?
"Belphegor!!!" Astaroth screamed hysterically from the other room. "We agreed to only use our true names!"
"I need to pee, and Vovka's hogging the bathroom again!" Belphegor snapped back. "What kind of Belial is he right now?"
"I'm coming out…" I muttered as I reached for my fly. Nature was hinting that if I left without taking care of business, I'd have to pee out the window. The zipper zipped down. Well, at least nature didn't shortchange me here. Though I'm not sure if the former owner of this body, despite being named after a demon of temptation and vice, ever used it for anything other than bathroom visits.
"Is there anything to eat?" came a whiny voice from the fourth metalhead, the chubby one, in the room.
"You'll eat at home!" Astaroth shouted back and started banging on the bathroom door again. Now both he and Belphegor were knocking, and it seemed like the flimsy door might give way soon.
I unlatched the bolt and let in a hopping-from-impatience Belphegor. Standing up, he looked even skinnier than when lying down. His long, red hair was tied into a tangled bun at the back of his head, and his face was still babyish, with smooth cheeks covered in brown freckles. If I met him on the street, I might've mistaken him for a girl. But in Metalheadland? This place was clearly a haven for hardcore loners who've only ever seen real women in porn.
Astaroth and I were about the same height, while Belphegor was half a head shorter. I hadn't yet seen the fourth guy standing up. Astaroth dashed out onto the stairwell with a bucket in hand, clattering down the steps with bottles jangling.
The chubby Behemoth took the opportunity to poke his nose into the fridge. No, my grandma had a different one. Hers was a massive "Biryusa" with a chrome lever, but this one was a tiny "Saratov."
"You've been told, eat at home," I said, pulling the chubby guy back by his belt.
"I can't hold out until I get home!" the chubby guy whined, batting my hands away. "I just want one potato and maybe some sausage… Ugh, liverwurst!"
"Put it back," I said, giving him a swift kick in the plump behind. "You didn't buy it, so why are you grabbing for it?"
"What's your problem?" Behemoth flared up. "If I don't eat, I get a headache, you know that!"
"And I get a headache when you act like a rat," I grimaced. "They told you no, so why are you pushing it?"
The chubby guy reluctantly let go of the piece of liver sausage he was almost holding and turned to me. His face showed righteous indignation, and his chubby cheeks turned pink. Hopefully from embarrassment. Judging by the place, it's clear Astaroth's mom isn't well-off. Feeding her son's deadbeat friends can't be easy on her wallet. She's even got an ancient fridge straight from the scrapheap of history. No microwave, either. And the dishes drying on the rack look like she bought them from a flea market. The enameled kettle was probably thrown in as a bonus.
"And who put you in charge?" The chubby guy flared his nostrils, planting his hands on his pudgy hips. But I still wasn't scared. "A red panda raises its paws to look bigger and scare off predators." I had that meme on my phone for ages, and the chubby guy reminded me of it now.
"Did you put anything in that fridge to be reaching in for it?" I raised an eyebrow. Was he really going to fight over a piece of liverwurst?
He didn't. His childish face showed nervousness, like, "Have I gone too far?" He shuffled in place and closed the fridge.
"You're still here?" Astaroth burst back into the apartment, waving the empty bucket around. He quickly shoved it under the sink and started pushing me and Behemoth toward the door. "Move it, Abaddon!"
Abaddon? Oh, right. These kids probably chose their own nicknames. Where have you ever seen a chubby guy seriously call himself Behemoth?
"Belphegor, hurry up already!" Astaroth pounded on the bathroom door again.
"I can't! I… well, I just can't!" Belphegor whimpered from inside.
"Fine, we'll say you just got here. You two, get going already!" Astaroth darted around the corridor and room, grabbing things. He shoved the same denim jacket I'd slept on into my hands. And a pair of well-worn sneakers. "Come on, come on, she's probably already in the stairwell, put your shoes on at the third floor!"
He was in such a desperate rush that I actually started worrying for him. Would he make it in time or not?
He didn't. The key turned in the lock just as Astaroth had almost shoved us out the door. Which, of course, opened right at that moment.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone