Good day to you all. I need to know if the epilogue is readable (in terms of grammar), if there are enough descriptions, and if the characters' emotions feel natural from your point of view. If you have the time, please tell me your opinions:
Gosha sighed heavily, tilting his head back to look up at the gray, eight-story concrete block that stuck up like a broken finger among the cozy little shops and two- or three-story houses on the neighboring streets. It stank here. Not of urine or feces, but of marks rubbed into corners and even the tiniest cracks in the pavement tiles. And then some other idiot had decided to re-mark what was already marked, and the first one wanted to restore the original scent…
Disgusting.
His escort cracked his neck and patted the boy on the shoulder. Nervous? He probably thought Gosha was a savage or a burden. And wasn’t he? The other children had been taken by Normie parents, and he’d been shoved into this… this… herd.
Passersby rarely glanced back at the hulking Malformed. Maybe they tried to avoid eye contact. But then why were they even walking along the boulevard around the building? He’d expected heavy security at the shops, grilles, and broken windows, but right across from the entrance to the den, there was a bakery with its door wide open, beckoning with the aroma of fresh bread, grains, and sweet creams.
Seemed the Oathtakers had learned to keep the barbarians in check.
He boldly grasped the handle with his artificial hand, already used to the whirring of motors in his fingers and the clicking of pistons. The new limb resembled a human one—smooth, without spikes, only much thicker. He’d wanted to become a mechanic, work with prosthetics. That dream was over now. Behind the door was a long, branching corridor leading to the elevators; a round hole gaped in the ceiling—you could climb up if your legs were strong enough to jump that high.
There were no signs of recent repairs on the wooden walls; informational posters hung untouched inside their frames. His keen nose caught the scent of recently dried blood. Damn, damn, damn! Concealing his utter disappointment at his shattered hopes, Gosha entered with his escort.
Around the corner to the left, an open area revealed the upper floors and the darkening sky. Staircases wound up the wall. Two Malformed were locked in combat on the stone floor. Tentacles wrapped around pincers, legs locked around a waist, flexible bodies writhed, snorting and hissing, exchanging bites and pounding each other’s heads against the ground. Gray skin seemed to shimmer into the opponent’s spotted hide, and even Gosha found it hard to tell where one fighter ended and the other began.
Blood sprayed. Fangs sank into spotted hide; pincers slashed across gray flesh.
“I’ll break them up,” the escort stammered, setting down the suitcase. “They’ll hurt each other.”
“Leave it to me.” Gosha unbuttoned his gifted blue leather coat, carefully slipped it off so as not to tear it, removed his brown bowler hat—two things he really adored—and stood there in a green t-shirt and shorts.
He slammed into the brawlers, pulling them apart without much gentleness. In his left fist was a bulbous-headed adolescent, whose tentacles flailed uselessly against the mechanical arm as he glared with dark oval eyes. His right hand held a girl, slightly older, by the scruff; her pincers bounced off the bony growth without leaving a scratch, and a tuft of legs with inverted knees kicked in the air.
“Enough,” Gosha barked and added a scent mark demanding submission.
There. He’d done it now. The local chieftain wouldn’t let such insolence go unpunished.
“Stop hurting each other for no reason!” He threw them apart.
The spotted girl landed nimbly, scraping her sharp little feet on the stone. The octopus-boy spread his tentacles, stopping nearby. Ragged zigzags of red purpled his gray skin; blood oozed from the uneven wounds on the girl’s shoulders.
“What’s your problem, outsider?” the female grated.
“We were permitted to play!” the male’s tentacles shot up. “But if you’re looking for trouble…”
“We’ll pound you until you burst!” the girl squealed.
Ripples ran across the boy’s body; his nervous system made his skin cells change color, blending with the surroundings. Gosha raised an eyebrow mockingly, not falling for such a cheap trick. Relying only on sight, he grabbed the lunging forward doofus—he hadn’t even tried to circle around behind him—by the neck, spun him in the air, and slammed him into the stone.
“Careful!” the escort exclaimed. “They’re just kids!”
“I’ve got it under control,” Gosha assured him.
“How did you spot me?!” The young male pulsed in his grip and raised his lower body, wrapping tentacles around the wrist of the hand holding him captive. The suckers attached firmly to the metal.
“Open wounds, idiot,” Gosha smirked. “They don’t change color.”
“Oh. Didn’t think of that… Take this, so you don’t get too cocky!”
A stream of black liquid splashed into his face, blinding and staining him. Snarling, Gosha raised his right arm, relying on hearing and smell. They didn’t fail him; he caught the scrape of sharp pincers against the bony plate. With a sweep, he knocked the girl down, found the scruff of her neck, grabbed it, and squeezed his eyes shut, wiping the caustic gunk from them. After blinking, he knocked the Malformed’s heads together.
“Got it? No fighting. Be friends, you pests,” he growled.
“We are friends!” the boy protested.
“Now you’re friends who get to clean my metal arm together,” Gosha grumbled, releasing them. A black stain spread across the silver prosthesis.
Curses. He’d only cleaned and oiled it this morning.
“Hey!”
A dark chestnut ball, shot through with veins and the size of the taxi that had brought them here, dropped from the upper floor. The unknown figure rebounded off the landing, hovering in the air for a moment. Small fangs jutted out all over her convex body, stretching the skin through which blue veins showed. Instead of a head, a beak clicked predatorily. Long, thick appendages radiated from its neck and lower body; two braced against the stone, supporting the female, while the others stabbed into the boy, pushing the younger Malformed toward the edges.
Gosha gasped quietly, gritting his teeth against the pain. Each appendage ended in a sharp claw; most got stuck in the bony growths, but several had penetrated the joints of his armor at the waist, gouging his flesh. The local chieftain is a chick?! No matter. He didn’t waste time on talk. His kind understood one language.
Clenching a cluster of appendages tightly between his palms, Gosha whipped them, yanking the opponent several meters upward to the delighted howls of the children. Ignoring the pain, he stepped forward and slammed the ball into the ground with all his might. There was no crash, no crack; the body flattened like a sponge, cushioning the blow.
An appendage lashed at the muscles behind his left foot, throwing him off balance. Several more jabbed at his chest. Gosha fell onto his back, releasing the tentacles. The female lifted him parallel to the floor, and raising his head, he saw a wave rippling along the appendages, heading straight for him.
Just perfect. At least I took off my clothes.
“One!” the young Malformed cried.
The appendages slammed his head against the floor with full force. The bony growths softened the blow, but he still sneezed, blinking from disorientation and the bruises blooming.
“Two!” The children clapped their hands, bursting into laughter.
“Hell no!” Gosha snarled.
He arched his back, catching the moment before the next impact. Straining with all his might, he slightly loosened the grip of the tentacles and managed to pin a few to the floor using the momentum of the throw. Caught between two hard surfaces, the appendages couldn’t stretch, and the skin on them split; the beak clicked irritably.
Now we play by my rules. Gosha dropped low, balancing on three limbs, grabbed a bundle of tentacles with his prosthetic, and pulled the female toward him. He lunged forward, intending to test whether she could ignore the piercing blows of his spikes and bites as easily as she did blunt force. Guessing his intent, she didn’t dodge but, on the contrary, swelled even larger, raising her appendages above her head, aiming for his eyes and throat.
Both froze, trying to suppress their bloodlust, as the escort threw himself between them, getting caught between pincers, the gaping beak, and spines.
“Philona.” The escort raised his hands. “This isn’t an attack. Gosha broke up the fight at my request…”
“Gosha?!” The beak clicked in surprise. Philona instantly deflated by half, her aggression receding; Gosha released her tentacles. “Why didn’t you say so right away?”
“You assaulted me. No opportunity,” Gosha grumbled.
“So you’re not going to fight anymore…” the girl said, disappointed.
“Shoo, go to your parents, little ones; we have guests.” An appendage slapped the stone, and the children ran for the stairs leading up, laughing as they went. Their wounds had already closed. “I didn’t recognize you. They sent me your file, but we have a field trip this week, and your appearance slipped my mind. Plus, you smell completely different.”
“Cologne. And now ink,” Gosha replied, realizing why the orphanage had asked him to put a scent mark on his documents.
“Terribly sorry about the torn t-shirt and the blood.” Philona twisted her beak, lowering her appendages.
“No problem, I can sew and wash it. The main thing is my coat and hat are fine.” Gosha sighed with relief, seeing his treasures unharmed.
“What’s going on here? Cheating on the spider, Phi?”
Malformed had gathered above; the noise, fight, and smell of blood had attracted them. Dozens of the most varied forms clung to the railings on every floor, curiously sniffing and sizing up the newcomer. To Gosha’s astonishment, there were humans among them. Three held terminals, like the ones teachers used at school, but a company of muscular, tattooed men and women in light clothing were hugging Malformed. A many-legged girl, stopping by such a couple, stuck her tongue out at the people below.
At the orphanage, they’d said some wild Normies and Abnormals had decided to stay with the herd that had saved them. But hearing those tales was one thing; witnessing their truth was truly shocking.
How could these people trust beasts?
“Choke on a bone.” Philona lashed an appendage, shooing away the joker two floors up.
She tilted her head, conferring with the escort.
“Not bad, Iron Hand!” a man from the third floor called out. “It’s not often someone manages to draw blood from Phi.”
“Welcome to the Herd!”
“Thanks.” Gosha scratched behind his ear, unsure how to react properly. He’d expected an attack, a beating. “I’m Gosha.”
“You hungry? We’ve got dinner soon.”
“Throw your t-shirt up here, I’m doing laundry anyway. I’ll fix it up later.”
“I can do it myself…”
“Just because you can doesn’t mean you must.” Philona deftly pulled the shirt off him, crumpled it, and sent it up to a Malformed woman four floors above. “In the herd, we do everything together. Get used to it.”
“There’ll be a check-up tomorrow,” the escort warned. “At the slightest problem, contact the child protection services immediately,” he told Gosha.
“It’ll be fine, merely a minor domestic misunderstanding; we won’t hurt him.” Appendages settled on Gosha’s shoulders, picked up the suitcases and coat. “Don’t even think about objecting,” Philona stopped his nascent protest. “I messed up, let me at least look after you a bit. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the chieftain.”
“You’re not the chieftain?!” escaped Gosha.
Compared to his father, Philona seemed much more powerful.
“You kidding? Who’d listen to a scrawny thing like me? I’m not even sixteen yet.”
They entered an elevator, clearly meant for freight inside a factory, not for delivering visitors to a residential building, and the girl pressed herself into the corner, squeezing her bulk in and leaving enough space.
“Sorry about the attack,” she said. “Sometimes wildlings come by, think they have to show strength to be respected. I usually tie them in knots and explain the rules. I figured you were one of them, going after the cubs. Should have noticed how gently you handled them.”
“No one’s perfect. I didn’t think either. We’re even.”
“Not yet. First, we'll fix your clothes.” Philona smiled. Little teeth grew in her beak.
On the floor, there were also round holes in the floor and ceiling, passages between floors. Gosha skirted one, wondering what they were for. From behind some apartment doors came snorts and music; each den was marked by its own unique scent. Bright lamps in protective casings lit the corridor, and there was no trash anywhere.
The teen led him to a door reeking of a sharp, acidic mark that overpowered even Philona’s own scent. Even a Normie would have smelled that stench, screaming: “Danger, submit.” The first thing the boy saw upon entering was a foot, lit by the sun from the balcony; he initially mistook it for an entire Malformed.
The foot, as if clad in bulging bony plates growing through bright red skin, disappeared into the darkness that hid the chair. The gleam of a blade triggered a surge of aggression in Gosha; he bent his legs, ready to defend himself, as the titan rose. About five meters tall, wider than anyone present, the chieftain revealed his full glory. His entire body was ridged with muscle, scars blackened in the joints of protective growths. The gaze of two burning coals of nauseating green instantly assessed the boy.
Behind him dragged a long, flat, flexible tail, seemingly designed more for raking objects closer. From the elbows of both arms grew real swords: the bone, mutated, had become externally indistinguishable from the strongest metal. Rotary cannons’ barrels jutted over his shoulders, connected directly to his spine.
The chieftain exhaled a cloud of white steam right into Gosha’s face.
“Dad, this is Gosha. He…”
“Source of disturbance.” With incredible speed, the chieftain was beside him, and Gosha found his jaw clamped between crossed swords that hoisted him above the carpet. “Listen, brute. No biting or hitting without consent. I don’t care how much you want to fight; break the rule, lose your face.” The swords twitched, shaving a layer off the bony growth. “Don’t tease the students, don’t steal…”
“Duval, he’s civilized!” Philona shouted.
The swords released. Gosha collapsed onto all fours, breathing heavily from terror. This chieftain was scarier than his father. He hadn’t even seen how this hill moved. He tried to get up and sank to the floor, staring at the balcony while Philona explained what had happened. Holes in the floor. Duval didn’t fit in the elevator and moved between floors like a nightmare creature.
Which wasn’t far from the truth.
“Got it.” The chieftain nodded. “Got the wrong idea. Welcome to the herd, live as you please, study well. Your room’s ready, don’t forget to mark it…”
“Why…” Gosha touched his neck. He could have been beheaded with one move. “Why are you pretending?”
“Hmm? Dad’s a terrible actor,” Philona put in.
“That’s not what he means. Well, Gosha? You started, now finish it,” Duval demanded.
“The facade of civilization. Hopes. It’s all a lie,” Gosha’s voice wavered. No punishment came. “I saw the kids fighting.”
“Instincts. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel the urge to bite Philona or stab her during that scuffle.” Duval sat down, crossing his legs, still towering over the teens. “There’s nothing shameful about bloodlust. But to keep from directing it at those who don’t want to fight, you need to give those aggressive urges a useful outlet.”
“Scars, wounds…”
“Adorn a person, heal in a couple of hours,” the chieftain dismissed the argument. “We’ve got a quickly growing bunch of city kids here. No one bothers or touches them.”
“Will you deny that you’ve stolen females? Forced them to mate with you?” Gosha jabbed a trembling finger at the bony face.
“Gosh, we don’t do that kind of thing,” Philona assured him.
“Why would I steal?” The chieftain raised an eyebrow. “Any female worthy of my affections reciprocates on her own. The rest don’t appreciate their good fortune, so they’re not worth pursuing. Ask any of my eighteen wives; I never took one without consent.”
“I… but… Malformed…”
“For the most part, you’re correct. But what’s that got to do with me? I’m not like them. Philona’s not like that. You turned out better, and that’s why you’re here. Don’t shoulder others’ sins, boy.” The chieftain stood up. “We done?”
“As his guardian, you need to be at Gosha’s school registration tomorrow. So take off the cannons, take a shower, and get dressed for once, you nudist,” Philona said.
The right sword scratched the top of the chieftain’s head.
“School… where’s that?”
“You were at my performance there!” Philona lashed her appendages, nearly hitting Gosha. “Don’t play dumb.”
“But the scent marks have faded…”
“Use a map! Ask the locals. Order a taxi. Gah, how can you be so capable in war and so helpless in daily life?!” Philona turned and put an arm around Gosha’s shoulders. “Let’s get out of here; the chieftain prefers to jest.”
They returned to the elevator, descended to the third floor. Before stepping out, Gosha touched the girl’s appendage, shifting from foot to foot.
“Listen… sorry for dumping all that on you and implying stuff about you and your dad…” he trailed off awkwardly.
“Forget it.” Philona led him down the corridor. “We often get Malformed who can’t talk at all or are completely bitter at the world. They find themselves eventually. One guy even enlisted, wants to serve in Dad’s unit. You think I’ve never embarrassed myself? And what, do you think, was that fifteen minutes ago? Ha! If you worry about every little thing, you’ll never find a mate.”
Gosha’s den was a corner unit, windows facing an intersection. He marked the mailbox, took the key, opened the door, and froze. Someone had already made the bed; clothes, books, and gifts collected yesterday by the orphanage staff awaited on shelves; a brand-new terminal was charging on the nightstand, and next to it, in a frame, stood the photo taken by friends on the cruiser.
“I… thanks,” Gosha said.
“This? It’s nothing.” Philona brought in the suitcases and clothes. “We’ll make it even better here. Any favorite music groups? I can get posters, even autographed ones…”
“Philona! Your Iternian’s on the line, calling you!” came a voice from the corridor.
“Coming! Gosh, don’t go anywhere, we still have a tour of the den,” Philona called out and disappeared in a leap.
Gosha decided to follow her advice. He closed the door, hung his coat in the closet, blew the dust off his hat, and sat on the bed, carefully testing if it would hold. Convinced of its sturdiness, he opened the suitcase, took out the cleaning solution, and prepared to scrub the dried stains off his prosthetic.
There was a knock at the door. Putting the things aside, he opened it to find himself body-to-snout with the chieftain.
“You’re one of those, aren’t you? Who think we’re monsters?” Duval asked directly.
“We are monsters.” Gosha clenched his fists. “I swore I’d never eat human flesh. But when my friends were attacked, I lost it.”
“Fool. Think what you want. But you missed the obvious.” Duval didn’t get angry. “What kind of monster best protects soft-skinned buddies?”
“A strong one?” Gosha suggested.
“Wrong. Strength is useless if the hand wielding it is poisoned by indecision and grief. Answer: a living, happy one, full of energy for action. Until tomorrow, Gosha. Sweet dreams. My den is always open. I heard the local school has excellent workshops.” The chieftain turned and, walking down the corridor, climbed through a hole in the floor to the level above.
Disgusting.
His escort cracked his neck and patted the boy on the shoulder. Nervous? He probably thought Gosha was a savage or a burden. And wasn’t he? The other children had been taken by Normie parents, and he’d been shoved into this… this… herd.
Passersby rarely glanced back at the hulking Malformed. Maybe they tried to avoid eye contact. But then why were they even walking along the boulevard around the building? He’d expected heavy security at the shops, grilles, and broken windows, but right across from the entrance to the den, there was a bakery with its door wide open, beckoning with the aroma of fresh bread, grains, and sweet creams.
Seemed the Oathtakers had learned to keep the barbarians in check.
He boldly grasped the handle with his artificial hand, already used to the whirring of motors in his fingers and the clicking of pistons. The new limb resembled a human one—smooth, without spikes, only much thicker. He’d wanted to become a mechanic, work with prosthetics. That dream was over now. Behind the door was a long, branching corridor leading to the elevators; a round hole gaped in the ceiling—you could climb up if your legs were strong enough to jump that high.
There were no signs of recent repairs on the wooden walls; informational posters hung untouched inside their frames. His keen nose caught the scent of recently dried blood. Damn, damn, damn! Concealing his utter disappointment at his shattered hopes, Gosha entered with his escort.
Around the corner to the left, an open area revealed the upper floors and the darkening sky. Staircases wound up the wall. Two Malformed were locked in combat on the stone floor. Tentacles wrapped around pincers, legs locked around a waist, flexible bodies writhed, snorting and hissing, exchanging bites and pounding each other’s heads against the ground. Gray skin seemed to shimmer into the opponent’s spotted hide, and even Gosha found it hard to tell where one fighter ended and the other began.
Blood sprayed. Fangs sank into spotted hide; pincers slashed across gray flesh.
“I’ll break them up,” the escort stammered, setting down the suitcase. “They’ll hurt each other.”
“Leave it to me.” Gosha unbuttoned his gifted blue leather coat, carefully slipped it off so as not to tear it, removed his brown bowler hat—two things he really adored—and stood there in a green t-shirt and shorts.
He slammed into the brawlers, pulling them apart without much gentleness. In his left fist was a bulbous-headed adolescent, whose tentacles flailed uselessly against the mechanical arm as he glared with dark oval eyes. His right hand held a girl, slightly older, by the scruff; her pincers bounced off the bony growth without leaving a scratch, and a tuft of legs with inverted knees kicked in the air.
“Enough,” Gosha barked and added a scent mark demanding submission.
There. He’d done it now. The local chieftain wouldn’t let such insolence go unpunished.
“Stop hurting each other for no reason!” He threw them apart.
The spotted girl landed nimbly, scraping her sharp little feet on the stone. The octopus-boy spread his tentacles, stopping nearby. Ragged zigzags of red purpled his gray skin; blood oozed from the uneven wounds on the girl’s shoulders.
“What’s your problem, outsider?” the female grated.
“We were permitted to play!” the male’s tentacles shot up. “But if you’re looking for trouble…”
“We’ll pound you until you burst!” the girl squealed.
Ripples ran across the boy’s body; his nervous system made his skin cells change color, blending with the surroundings. Gosha raised an eyebrow mockingly, not falling for such a cheap trick. Relying only on sight, he grabbed the lunging forward doofus—he hadn’t even tried to circle around behind him—by the neck, spun him in the air, and slammed him into the stone.
“Careful!” the escort exclaimed. “They’re just kids!”
“I’ve got it under control,” Gosha assured him.
“How did you spot me?!” The young male pulsed in his grip and raised his lower body, wrapping tentacles around the wrist of the hand holding him captive. The suckers attached firmly to the metal.
“Open wounds, idiot,” Gosha smirked. “They don’t change color.”
“Oh. Didn’t think of that… Take this, so you don’t get too cocky!”
A stream of black liquid splashed into his face, blinding and staining him. Snarling, Gosha raised his right arm, relying on hearing and smell. They didn’t fail him; he caught the scrape of sharp pincers against the bony plate. With a sweep, he knocked the girl down, found the scruff of her neck, grabbed it, and squeezed his eyes shut, wiping the caustic gunk from them. After blinking, he knocked the Malformed’s heads together.
“Got it? No fighting. Be friends, you pests,” he growled.
“We are friends!” the boy protested.
“Now you’re friends who get to clean my metal arm together,” Gosha grumbled, releasing them. A black stain spread across the silver prosthesis.
Curses. He’d only cleaned and oiled it this morning.
“Hey!”
A dark chestnut ball, shot through with veins and the size of the taxi that had brought them here, dropped from the upper floor. The unknown figure rebounded off the landing, hovering in the air for a moment. Small fangs jutted out all over her convex body, stretching the skin through which blue veins showed. Instead of a head, a beak clicked predatorily. Long, thick appendages radiated from its neck and lower body; two braced against the stone, supporting the female, while the others stabbed into the boy, pushing the younger Malformed toward the edges.
Gosha gasped quietly, gritting his teeth against the pain. Each appendage ended in a sharp claw; most got stuck in the bony growths, but several had penetrated the joints of his armor at the waist, gouging his flesh. The local chieftain is a chick?! No matter. He didn’t waste time on talk. His kind understood one language.
Clenching a cluster of appendages tightly between his palms, Gosha whipped them, yanking the opponent several meters upward to the delighted howls of the children. Ignoring the pain, he stepped forward and slammed the ball into the ground with all his might. There was no crash, no crack; the body flattened like a sponge, cushioning the blow.
An appendage lashed at the muscles behind his left foot, throwing him off balance. Several more jabbed at his chest. Gosha fell onto his back, releasing the tentacles. The female lifted him parallel to the floor, and raising his head, he saw a wave rippling along the appendages, heading straight for him.
Just perfect. At least I took off my clothes.
“One!” the young Malformed cried.
The appendages slammed his head against the floor with full force. The bony growths softened the blow, but he still sneezed, blinking from disorientation and the bruises blooming.
“Two!” The children clapped their hands, bursting into laughter.
“Hell no!” Gosha snarled.
He arched his back, catching the moment before the next impact. Straining with all his might, he slightly loosened the grip of the tentacles and managed to pin a few to the floor using the momentum of the throw. Caught between two hard surfaces, the appendages couldn’t stretch, and the skin on them split; the beak clicked irritably.
Now we play by my rules. Gosha dropped low, balancing on three limbs, grabbed a bundle of tentacles with his prosthetic, and pulled the female toward him. He lunged forward, intending to test whether she could ignore the piercing blows of his spikes and bites as easily as she did blunt force. Guessing his intent, she didn’t dodge but, on the contrary, swelled even larger, raising her appendages above her head, aiming for his eyes and throat.
Both froze, trying to suppress their bloodlust, as the escort threw himself between them, getting caught between pincers, the gaping beak, and spines.
“Philona.” The escort raised his hands. “This isn’t an attack. Gosha broke up the fight at my request…”
“Gosha?!” The beak clicked in surprise. Philona instantly deflated by half, her aggression receding; Gosha released her tentacles. “Why didn’t you say so right away?”
“You assaulted me. No opportunity,” Gosha grumbled.
“So you’re not going to fight anymore…” the girl said, disappointed.
“Shoo, go to your parents, little ones; we have guests.” An appendage slapped the stone, and the children ran for the stairs leading up, laughing as they went. Their wounds had already closed. “I didn’t recognize you. They sent me your file, but we have a field trip this week, and your appearance slipped my mind. Plus, you smell completely different.”
“Cologne. And now ink,” Gosha replied, realizing why the orphanage had asked him to put a scent mark on his documents.
“Terribly sorry about the torn t-shirt and the blood.” Philona twisted her beak, lowering her appendages.
“No problem, I can sew and wash it. The main thing is my coat and hat are fine.” Gosha sighed with relief, seeing his treasures unharmed.
“What’s going on here? Cheating on the spider, Phi?”
Malformed had gathered above; the noise, fight, and smell of blood had attracted them. Dozens of the most varied forms clung to the railings on every floor, curiously sniffing and sizing up the newcomer. To Gosha’s astonishment, there were humans among them. Three held terminals, like the ones teachers used at school, but a company of muscular, tattooed men and women in light clothing were hugging Malformed. A many-legged girl, stopping by such a couple, stuck her tongue out at the people below.
At the orphanage, they’d said some wild Normies and Abnormals had decided to stay with the herd that had saved them. But hearing those tales was one thing; witnessing their truth was truly shocking.
How could these people trust beasts?
“Choke on a bone.” Philona lashed an appendage, shooing away the joker two floors up.
She tilted her head, conferring with the escort.
“Not bad, Iron Hand!” a man from the third floor called out. “It’s not often someone manages to draw blood from Phi.”
“Welcome to the Herd!”
“Thanks.” Gosha scratched behind his ear, unsure how to react properly. He’d expected an attack, a beating. “I’m Gosha.”
“You hungry? We’ve got dinner soon.”
“Throw your t-shirt up here, I’m doing laundry anyway. I’ll fix it up later.”
“I can do it myself…”
“Just because you can doesn’t mean you must.” Philona deftly pulled the shirt off him, crumpled it, and sent it up to a Malformed woman four floors above. “In the herd, we do everything together. Get used to it.”
“There’ll be a check-up tomorrow,” the escort warned. “At the slightest problem, contact the child protection services immediately,” he told Gosha.
“It’ll be fine, merely a minor domestic misunderstanding; we won’t hurt him.” Appendages settled on Gosha’s shoulders, picked up the suitcases and coat. “Don’t even think about objecting,” Philona stopped his nascent protest. “I messed up, let me at least look after you a bit. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the chieftain.”
“You’re not the chieftain?!” escaped Gosha.
Compared to his father, Philona seemed much more powerful.
“You kidding? Who’d listen to a scrawny thing like me? I’m not even sixteen yet.”
They entered an elevator, clearly meant for freight inside a factory, not for delivering visitors to a residential building, and the girl pressed herself into the corner, squeezing her bulk in and leaving enough space.
“Sorry about the attack,” she said. “Sometimes wildlings come by, think they have to show strength to be respected. I usually tie them in knots and explain the rules. I figured you were one of them, going after the cubs. Should have noticed how gently you handled them.”
“No one’s perfect. I didn’t think either. We’re even.”
“Not yet. First, we'll fix your clothes.” Philona smiled. Little teeth grew in her beak.
On the floor, there were also round holes in the floor and ceiling, passages between floors. Gosha skirted one, wondering what they were for. From behind some apartment doors came snorts and music; each den was marked by its own unique scent. Bright lamps in protective casings lit the corridor, and there was no trash anywhere.
The teen led him to a door reeking of a sharp, acidic mark that overpowered even Philona’s own scent. Even a Normie would have smelled that stench, screaming: “Danger, submit.” The first thing the boy saw upon entering was a foot, lit by the sun from the balcony; he initially mistook it for an entire Malformed.
The foot, as if clad in bulging bony plates growing through bright red skin, disappeared into the darkness that hid the chair. The gleam of a blade triggered a surge of aggression in Gosha; he bent his legs, ready to defend himself, as the titan rose. About five meters tall, wider than anyone present, the chieftain revealed his full glory. His entire body was ridged with muscle, scars blackened in the joints of protective growths. The gaze of two burning coals of nauseating green instantly assessed the boy.
Behind him dragged a long, flat, flexible tail, seemingly designed more for raking objects closer. From the elbows of both arms grew real swords: the bone, mutated, had become externally indistinguishable from the strongest metal. Rotary cannons’ barrels jutted over his shoulders, connected directly to his spine.
The chieftain exhaled a cloud of white steam right into Gosha’s face.
“Dad, this is Gosha. He…”
“Source of disturbance.” With incredible speed, the chieftain was beside him, and Gosha found his jaw clamped between crossed swords that hoisted him above the carpet. “Listen, brute. No biting or hitting without consent. I don’t care how much you want to fight; break the rule, lose your face.” The swords twitched, shaving a layer off the bony growth. “Don’t tease the students, don’t steal…”
“Duval, he’s civilized!” Philona shouted.
The swords released. Gosha collapsed onto all fours, breathing heavily from terror. This chieftain was scarier than his father. He hadn’t even seen how this hill moved. He tried to get up and sank to the floor, staring at the balcony while Philona explained what had happened. Holes in the floor. Duval didn’t fit in the elevator and moved between floors like a nightmare creature.
Which wasn’t far from the truth.
“Got it.” The chieftain nodded. “Got the wrong idea. Welcome to the herd, live as you please, study well. Your room’s ready, don’t forget to mark it…”
“Why…” Gosha touched his neck. He could have been beheaded with one move. “Why are you pretending?”
“Hmm? Dad’s a terrible actor,” Philona put in.
“That’s not what he means. Well, Gosha? You started, now finish it,” Duval demanded.
“The facade of civilization. Hopes. It’s all a lie,” Gosha’s voice wavered. No punishment came. “I saw the kids fighting.”
“Instincts. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel the urge to bite Philona or stab her during that scuffle.” Duval sat down, crossing his legs, still towering over the teens. “There’s nothing shameful about bloodlust. But to keep from directing it at those who don’t want to fight, you need to give those aggressive urges a useful outlet.”
“Scars, wounds…”
“Adorn a person, heal in a couple of hours,” the chieftain dismissed the argument. “We’ve got a quickly growing bunch of city kids here. No one bothers or touches them.”
“Will you deny that you’ve stolen females? Forced them to mate with you?” Gosha jabbed a trembling finger at the bony face.
“Gosh, we don’t do that kind of thing,” Philona assured him.
“Why would I steal?” The chieftain raised an eyebrow. “Any female worthy of my affections reciprocates on her own. The rest don’t appreciate their good fortune, so they’re not worth pursuing. Ask any of my eighteen wives; I never took one without consent.”
“I… but… Malformed…”
“For the most part, you’re correct. But what’s that got to do with me? I’m not like them. Philona’s not like that. You turned out better, and that’s why you’re here. Don’t shoulder others’ sins, boy.” The chieftain stood up. “We done?”
“As his guardian, you need to be at Gosha’s school registration tomorrow. So take off the cannons, take a shower, and get dressed for once, you nudist,” Philona said.
The right sword scratched the top of the chieftain’s head.
“School… where’s that?”
“You were at my performance there!” Philona lashed her appendages, nearly hitting Gosha. “Don’t play dumb.”
“But the scent marks have faded…”
“Use a map! Ask the locals. Order a taxi. Gah, how can you be so capable in war and so helpless in daily life?!” Philona turned and put an arm around Gosha’s shoulders. “Let’s get out of here; the chieftain prefers to jest.”
They returned to the elevator, descended to the third floor. Before stepping out, Gosha touched the girl’s appendage, shifting from foot to foot.
“Listen… sorry for dumping all that on you and implying stuff about you and your dad…” he trailed off awkwardly.
“Forget it.” Philona led him down the corridor. “We often get Malformed who can’t talk at all or are completely bitter at the world. They find themselves eventually. One guy even enlisted, wants to serve in Dad’s unit. You think I’ve never embarrassed myself? And what, do you think, was that fifteen minutes ago? Ha! If you worry about every little thing, you’ll never find a mate.”
Gosha’s den was a corner unit, windows facing an intersection. He marked the mailbox, took the key, opened the door, and froze. Someone had already made the bed; clothes, books, and gifts collected yesterday by the orphanage staff awaited on shelves; a brand-new terminal was charging on the nightstand, and next to it, in a frame, stood the photo taken by friends on the cruiser.
“I… thanks,” Gosha said.
“This? It’s nothing.” Philona brought in the suitcases and clothes. “We’ll make it even better here. Any favorite music groups? I can get posters, even autographed ones…”
“Philona! Your Iternian’s on the line, calling you!” came a voice from the corridor.
“Coming! Gosh, don’t go anywhere, we still have a tour of the den,” Philona called out and disappeared in a leap.
Gosha decided to follow her advice. He closed the door, hung his coat in the closet, blew the dust off his hat, and sat on the bed, carefully testing if it would hold. Convinced of its sturdiness, he opened the suitcase, took out the cleaning solution, and prepared to scrub the dried stains off his prosthetic.
There was a knock at the door. Putting the things aside, he opened it to find himself body-to-snout with the chieftain.
“You’re one of those, aren’t you? Who think we’re monsters?” Duval asked directly.
“We are monsters.” Gosha clenched his fists. “I swore I’d never eat human flesh. But when my friends were attacked, I lost it.”
“Fool. Think what you want. But you missed the obvious.” Duval didn’t get angry. “What kind of monster best protects soft-skinned buddies?”
“A strong one?” Gosha suggested.
“Wrong. Strength is useless if the hand wielding it is poisoned by indecision and grief. Answer: a living, happy one, full of energy for action. Until tomorrow, Gosha. Sweet dreams. My den is always open. I heard the local school has excellent workshops.” The chieftain turned and, walking down the corridor, climbed through a hole in the floor to the level above.
“We’ll have to leave you for a while. The pacification of Volnitsa is coming to an end, and the commanders of the Onyx Order need to attend an official ceremony,” Ruda said.
“Good luck in your new home,” Ney added.
“But… but you promised Rustam wouldn’t be left alone! We had an agreement!” Sylvie blurted out.
Four weeks had passed since their arrival in the Land of the Oath. Wounded, exhausted, having lost friends, the group was met by hordes of journalists eager to learn about the events abroad and the strange alliance with the Reclaimers. News of the joint battle rippled through both countries, becoming the main topic of conversation, overshadowing even the death of Volnitsa’s ruler.
The children were separated from the group and settled in a cozy border town in the northwest. There were no seas here, unfortunately; from the windows to the north, a mountain range stretching beyond the horizon was visible, but right in front of the orphanage, wonderful flowerbeds bloomed with green, orange, and yellow flowers, divided by a clean, cold stream on whose banks white water lilies trembled in the wind.
Swaddled like a mummy, with a broken arm in a sling, Rustam hadn’t been able to explore the surroundings as quickly as Sylvie. But his friend secretly brought him armfuls of flowers and herbs, let him smell each one, and showered him with their names. The orphanage staff proved to be masters of their craft: they engaged the children in games and conducted lessons. The only person Rustam found strange was the psychiatrist, who gently asked questions and let him talk things out in private meetings, to which the boy was initially transported straight on his bed.
During the first week, they lost Grisha, Unni, and Decimus. The first was taken in personally by Lord Steward, the second went home accompanied by the recovering Carde and promised to return, and the third was taken away by his parents. They were probably worried since they hugged their son, but it was impossible to gauge the Trolls’ mood from their appearance.
In the second week, Rustam was allowed to get up, and he set off on his own little expedition: he curiously explored the wooden corridors, peeked into the workshop, exchanged a few words with the guards. Every room and hall of the four-story complex was bathed in welcoming warm sunlight, and at night, in moonlight.
The orphanage was built in the shape of an open rectangle; its wings faced the foothills of the mountains, where mines darkened. Its entrance faced a road that curved toward the town and was fenced off. The stream flowed south, emptying into a river dammed further down. As the teachers explained, it provided power to part of the town, but Rustam didn’t quite understand yet how water could create electricity.
He did, however, enjoy dipping his feet in the water with Sylvie and telling tall tales on the bank.
Each day, the orphanage gradually emptied. He often woke up to say goodbye to acquaintances; they were picked up by relatives or foster parents. Adults constantly came and talked with the orphans. No one ever called Rustam or Gosha for such conversations.
He understood about himself: who needed a mongrel without any special powers? But Gosha was one of the Blessed. Why was he being overlooked?
At the end of the second week, Ruda, Ney, and Yeshua showed up, bringing loads of gifts. There were wind-up toys, firecrackers, portable game consoles, musical instruments, soccer and basketball balls—the orphanage already had plenty of these, much to the guests’ slight disappointment. But what truly delighted the children were the sweets: chocolate cakes, candy bars, nut paste, fried sausages in bread with a spicy sauce that made you want both another bite and a drink simultaneously, soda, honey, and cotton candy.
Most of the orphans had never tried anything like it. During the ensuing feast, Ruda told them what had happened.
Volnitsa had been divided into spheres of influence. The Reclamation Army got the mineral-rich southern lands; everything else went to the Oathtakers. Day and night, instructors, police, military, and intelligence officers were sent there in convoys to establish order and explain the new laws. Slavery was abolished; mercenaries who submitted were amnestied and integrated into the military forces under constant supervision.
Paikan’s capital met the researchers from both countries with emptiness: only soldiers’ families remained, while all slaves and technological innovations, down to the last drone, had vanished. Iterna, under the pretext of rescuing its citizen, and the Barjoni Family got ahead of their competitors, scouring the untouched zone.
This minor flaw didn’t spoil the overall picture. The Shroud of Darkness was being repaired; Paikan’s transport was taken for study and rearmament deeper into the state. President Lord Steward personally visited the critically injured Szarel and healed him with his power. The Onyx Order did not perish. On the contrary, volunteers flocked to them, including Bahran and Farrin.
The three defenders of the children received extraordinary promotions. Ruda sported dark-as-night power armor, with a cloak and tabard embroidered with a golden seahorse emblem. Not a trace remained of her monstrous wounds; both arms moved with equal dexterity, and she seemed more worried about her new subordinates than displaying any discomfort.
Ney moved with a cane, without power armor, but in an exoskeleton that eased the strain on his damaged legs. The ordeal hadn’t erased his self-assured smile; he had truly grown into the role of commander, easily handling his unit.
Yeshua had changed the most. Scars snaked across his face with every movement; his artificial arm and leg stood out on his modified armor like welded-on plates. But his spirit hadn’t faded; he chatted cheerfully with the children, letting them watch his sister’s performances. As Rustam learned by morning, there were no Trolls in his unit. The commander led the former cadets of Eloise, who had joined the Order to clear their mentor’s reputation. They took as their emblem the image of the one who had saved them.
Every day, the newly appointed commanders and their subordinates visited the orphanage. Ney helped Rustam rehabilitate his arm after the fracture. Yeshua and Gosha trained together, getting used to their new limbs, while Sylvie and Ruda cooked for the teenagers. The latter was stopped at the staff’s request, who didn’t appreciate too much sugar and spices being added to breakfasts and lunches.
Those days became some of the happiest in Rustam’s life. There was still weakness in his arm, while Ney had recovered faster and was already fully clad in his magnificent armor, but overall, the boy had regained his strength.
Then it finally happened. In the morning, Gosha said goodbye and left for his foster family. At lunchtime, the crusaders and Sylvie’s father arrived.
“You could adopt him!” Sylvie turned to her dad.
Sylvie herself wore a vest with von Bülow patches; she had officially become Carde’s remote assistant in archaeology. She spent hours at the terminal, absorbing masses of data. Unlike other girls, she had refused skirts, stubbornly preferring sturdy pants and boots, and hid her hair under a beret.
Rustam had noticed, however, that in the last week she’d stopped doing that, apparently noticing how long her hair had grown.
Her father was a stocky, almost square, short man, his shirt barely containing his muscles. A purple ocular lens replaced one eye; his neck was hidden by ridges of scars, the right side of his face whitened with healed skin, but he was lively, warmly hugging his daughter on their first meeting and holding Sylvie’s face pressed to his flat stomach while she cried. Soon, the touching reunion gave way to their usual friendly teasing and arguments.
“As if!” her father snorted. “So the neighbors think my kids are meeting?”
“Relatives meet all the time! They often live under the same roof, blockhead!”
Rustam waved goodbye to the crusaders to the accompaniment of Sylvie’s voice. The teacher glanced at him, but he shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips.
“Not in that sense, flea!”
“How dare you! Rustam and I aren’t in love, ram!”
“You look at him like a cat in heat. You’re practically wiggling your rear. All you’re missing is a tail to go with those big, soft calf eyes,” the man laughed.
“W… wipe your own peepers, you romantic old coot.” Sylvie pouted, pulling her beret tightly over her head.
“Sorry, sir…”
“Ah, call me father-in-law; we’re practically family.” The man interrupted Rustam and shook his hand.
“Dad!” Sylvie exclaimed.
“You mentioned new neighbors, and you have a city emblem on your wallet.” Rustam pointed at his belt. “Do you live around here?”
“Yep!” He nodded readily. “Our settlement… it wasn’t exactly wiped off the face of the earth, but my memories of that place aren’t good.” A shadow passed over his face. “So when Ruda contacted me, I accepted the so-called communion and bought a house near the Fleshtearers. Wonderful people, they helped with the move.”
“Wait! You spent time assembling furniture instead of rushing here?!” Sylvie’s eyes became saucers. “You unfeeling oak! I missed you so much!”
“And if I’d brought you to an empty house?” The man propped his fist under his chin.
“Then I’d have called you a disorganized slob,” Sylvie muttered.
“Women, huh?” Sylvie’s father nudged Rustam with his elbow. Then he stood up and took his daughter’s hand. “Come on, tonight you sleep in your bed. We still need to discuss what color you want your room to be . And… I’ve quit drinking, smoking, and I’m generally working on myself. Sorry about the past.”
“There was nothing bad about it, Dad. B… but what about my friend?” Sylvie turned around.
“You’ll see him tomorrow. We have a terminal; you can call each other tonight, no one’s going to steal him.” The man smiled at Rustam for some reason and put on his hat.
Alone. Honestly, Rustam hadn’t expected this. All the orphans had been placed. The caretaker who escorted him back kindly explained that children didn’t stay here long. It was a feature of the Land of the Oath: locals didn’t leave members of society alone. Mutual aid had built this nation and had forever become an accepted tradition. She said Rustam’s turn would surely come; a potential adopter was supposed to come today. The orphanage wouldn’t stay empty for long; soon, the Malformed children rescued by the Order would be brought here for socialization.
He smiled, assured the woman everything was fine, and lay down on the bed in the empty, spacious room where just a week ago there had been a racket. Alone. Was he really so… useless? So unwanted that he was left for last? What if no one wanted him? Rustam closed his eyes in the suddenly too-large room. Not surprising. He hadn’t saved his family; who could possibly want him? The boy turned on his side, didn’t bother to cover himself, and dozed off under the sun streaming through the window.
Happiness had to be earned. He didn’t really need it, anyway. The main thing was that everyone else was okay. As for him? Well, he’d become a soldier or a policeman, protect the weak, atoning for the sin of weakness.
A creak jolted him from his doze. The clock showed six. Rustam turned and saw a giant sitting beside the bed. Dressed in a fur-lined sleeveless vest, a t-shirt, and cargo pants, a familiarly looking mutant rocked in an armchair, reading a book too small for his hands. The tips of his fingers were covered in black, horny skin, from a distance resembling split hooves; branching horns grew from his temples, casting a long demonic shadow in the rays of the setting sun.
Then he smiled, revealing several missing teeth, and closed the book: You’ve Decided to Adopt a Normie. Now What?
“Didn’t wake you?” the mutant’s voice was pleasant, confident.
“N-no,” Rustam answered, trying to remember where he knew this man from.
A furry paw extended, and the boy’s hand disappeared into it as they shook.
“This is new for me, Rustam,” the mutant admitted. “Let’s start small. Shashlik with onions or without? You do eat meat, right?”
“Of course! With onions is tastier.”
“My boy. Dahel always asks to remove the rings. Well… shall we go fill out the paperwork? We need to get it done quickly.”
“What for?” asked the uncomprehending Rustam.
“We’re having a family dinner tonight. Welcoming a new family member. You, if you agree to become Rustam Fleshtearer.” The horned one tilted his head. “Didn’t Ruda tell you?”
Rustam slapped his forehead. Fleshtearer. Ruda Fleshtearer. She’d shown them a family photo during a lesson on the cruiser. It seemed like ages ago. And before him was her father.
His father.
“I agree,” he blurted out. “I’m ready to help with cooking, washing dishes…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The foster father raised a finger and touched the boy’s forehead. “We’re not taking you as a servant. Tonight you relax, meet your siblings, then get some sleep. Don’t be afraid we’ll…” He glanced at the book. “…dump you if you don’t meet expectations. Tomorrow we’ll introduce you to the neighbors…”
“I think I already know some of them,” Rustam let slip.
“Ha. Even better. Let’s go, Mom’s made you some new clothes. Buckle up in the car. They told me your arm’s shaky after the fracture. Let me carry your things to the office…”
“Good luck in your new home,” Ney added.
“But… but you promised Rustam wouldn’t be left alone! We had an agreement!” Sylvie blurted out.
Four weeks had passed since their arrival in the Land of the Oath. Wounded, exhausted, having lost friends, the group was met by hordes of journalists eager to learn about the events abroad and the strange alliance with the Reclaimers. News of the joint battle rippled through both countries, becoming the main topic of conversation, overshadowing even the death of Volnitsa’s ruler.
The children were separated from the group and settled in a cozy border town in the northwest. There were no seas here, unfortunately; from the windows to the north, a mountain range stretching beyond the horizon was visible, but right in front of the orphanage, wonderful flowerbeds bloomed with green, orange, and yellow flowers, divided by a clean, cold stream on whose banks white water lilies trembled in the wind.
Swaddled like a mummy, with a broken arm in a sling, Rustam hadn’t been able to explore the surroundings as quickly as Sylvie. But his friend secretly brought him armfuls of flowers and herbs, let him smell each one, and showered him with their names. The orphanage staff proved to be masters of their craft: they engaged the children in games and conducted lessons. The only person Rustam found strange was the psychiatrist, who gently asked questions and let him talk things out in private meetings, to which the boy was initially transported straight on his bed.
During the first week, they lost Grisha, Unni, and Decimus. The first was taken in personally by Lord Steward, the second went home accompanied by the recovering Carde and promised to return, and the third was taken away by his parents. They were probably worried since they hugged their son, but it was impossible to gauge the Trolls’ mood from their appearance.
In the second week, Rustam was allowed to get up, and he set off on his own little expedition: he curiously explored the wooden corridors, peeked into the workshop, exchanged a few words with the guards. Every room and hall of the four-story complex was bathed in welcoming warm sunlight, and at night, in moonlight.
The orphanage was built in the shape of an open rectangle; its wings faced the foothills of the mountains, where mines darkened. Its entrance faced a road that curved toward the town and was fenced off. The stream flowed south, emptying into a river dammed further down. As the teachers explained, it provided power to part of the town, but Rustam didn’t quite understand yet how water could create electricity.
He did, however, enjoy dipping his feet in the water with Sylvie and telling tall tales on the bank.
Each day, the orphanage gradually emptied. He often woke up to say goodbye to acquaintances; they were picked up by relatives or foster parents. Adults constantly came and talked with the orphans. No one ever called Rustam or Gosha for such conversations.
He understood about himself: who needed a mongrel without any special powers? But Gosha was one of the Blessed. Why was he being overlooked?
At the end of the second week, Ruda, Ney, and Yeshua showed up, bringing loads of gifts. There were wind-up toys, firecrackers, portable game consoles, musical instruments, soccer and basketball balls—the orphanage already had plenty of these, much to the guests’ slight disappointment. But what truly delighted the children were the sweets: chocolate cakes, candy bars, nut paste, fried sausages in bread with a spicy sauce that made you want both another bite and a drink simultaneously, soda, honey, and cotton candy.
Most of the orphans had never tried anything like it. During the ensuing feast, Ruda told them what had happened.
Volnitsa had been divided into spheres of influence. The Reclamation Army got the mineral-rich southern lands; everything else went to the Oathtakers. Day and night, instructors, police, military, and intelligence officers were sent there in convoys to establish order and explain the new laws. Slavery was abolished; mercenaries who submitted were amnestied and integrated into the military forces under constant supervision.
Paikan’s capital met the researchers from both countries with emptiness: only soldiers’ families remained, while all slaves and technological innovations, down to the last drone, had vanished. Iterna, under the pretext of rescuing its citizen, and the Barjoni Family got ahead of their competitors, scouring the untouched zone.
This minor flaw didn’t spoil the overall picture. The Shroud of Darkness was being repaired; Paikan’s transport was taken for study and rearmament deeper into the state. President Lord Steward personally visited the critically injured Szarel and healed him with his power. The Onyx Order did not perish. On the contrary, volunteers flocked to them, including Bahran and Farrin.
The three defenders of the children received extraordinary promotions. Ruda sported dark-as-night power armor, with a cloak and tabard embroidered with a golden seahorse emblem. Not a trace remained of her monstrous wounds; both arms moved with equal dexterity, and she seemed more worried about her new subordinates than displaying any discomfort.
Ney moved with a cane, without power armor, but in an exoskeleton that eased the strain on his damaged legs. The ordeal hadn’t erased his self-assured smile; he had truly grown into the role of commander, easily handling his unit.
Yeshua had changed the most. Scars snaked across his face with every movement; his artificial arm and leg stood out on his modified armor like welded-on plates. But his spirit hadn’t faded; he chatted cheerfully with the children, letting them watch his sister’s performances. As Rustam learned by morning, there were no Trolls in his unit. The commander led the former cadets of Eloise, who had joined the Order to clear their mentor’s reputation. They took as their emblem the image of the one who had saved them.
Every day, the newly appointed commanders and their subordinates visited the orphanage. Ney helped Rustam rehabilitate his arm after the fracture. Yeshua and Gosha trained together, getting used to their new limbs, while Sylvie and Ruda cooked for the teenagers. The latter was stopped at the staff’s request, who didn’t appreciate too much sugar and spices being added to breakfasts and lunches.
Those days became some of the happiest in Rustam’s life. There was still weakness in his arm, while Ney had recovered faster and was already fully clad in his magnificent armor, but overall, the boy had regained his strength.
Then it finally happened. In the morning, Gosha said goodbye and left for his foster family. At lunchtime, the crusaders and Sylvie’s father arrived.
“You could adopt him!” Sylvie turned to her dad.
Sylvie herself wore a vest with von Bülow patches; she had officially become Carde’s remote assistant in archaeology. She spent hours at the terminal, absorbing masses of data. Unlike other girls, she had refused skirts, stubbornly preferring sturdy pants and boots, and hid her hair under a beret.
Rustam had noticed, however, that in the last week she’d stopped doing that, apparently noticing how long her hair had grown.
Her father was a stocky, almost square, short man, his shirt barely containing his muscles. A purple ocular lens replaced one eye; his neck was hidden by ridges of scars, the right side of his face whitened with healed skin, but he was lively, warmly hugging his daughter on their first meeting and holding Sylvie’s face pressed to his flat stomach while she cried. Soon, the touching reunion gave way to their usual friendly teasing and arguments.
“As if!” her father snorted. “So the neighbors think my kids are meeting?”
“Relatives meet all the time! They often live under the same roof, blockhead!”
Rustam waved goodbye to the crusaders to the accompaniment of Sylvie’s voice. The teacher glanced at him, but he shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips.
“Not in that sense, flea!”
“How dare you! Rustam and I aren’t in love, ram!”
“You look at him like a cat in heat. You’re practically wiggling your rear. All you’re missing is a tail to go with those big, soft calf eyes,” the man laughed.
“W… wipe your own peepers, you romantic old coot.” Sylvie pouted, pulling her beret tightly over her head.
“Sorry, sir…”
“Ah, call me father-in-law; we’re practically family.” The man interrupted Rustam and shook his hand.
“Dad!” Sylvie exclaimed.
“You mentioned new neighbors, and you have a city emblem on your wallet.” Rustam pointed at his belt. “Do you live around here?”
“Yep!” He nodded readily. “Our settlement… it wasn’t exactly wiped off the face of the earth, but my memories of that place aren’t good.” A shadow passed over his face. “So when Ruda contacted me, I accepted the so-called communion and bought a house near the Fleshtearers. Wonderful people, they helped with the move.”
“Wait! You spent time assembling furniture instead of rushing here?!” Sylvie’s eyes became saucers. “You unfeeling oak! I missed you so much!”
“And if I’d brought you to an empty house?” The man propped his fist under his chin.
“Then I’d have called you a disorganized slob,” Sylvie muttered.
“Women, huh?” Sylvie’s father nudged Rustam with his elbow. Then he stood up and took his daughter’s hand. “Come on, tonight you sleep in your bed. We still need to discuss what color you want your room to be . And… I’ve quit drinking, smoking, and I’m generally working on myself. Sorry about the past.”
“There was nothing bad about it, Dad. B… but what about my friend?” Sylvie turned around.
“You’ll see him tomorrow. We have a terminal; you can call each other tonight, no one’s going to steal him.” The man smiled at Rustam for some reason and put on his hat.
Alone. Honestly, Rustam hadn’t expected this. All the orphans had been placed. The caretaker who escorted him back kindly explained that children didn’t stay here long. It was a feature of the Land of the Oath: locals didn’t leave members of society alone. Mutual aid had built this nation and had forever become an accepted tradition. She said Rustam’s turn would surely come; a potential adopter was supposed to come today. The orphanage wouldn’t stay empty for long; soon, the Malformed children rescued by the Order would be brought here for socialization.
He smiled, assured the woman everything was fine, and lay down on the bed in the empty, spacious room where just a week ago there had been a racket. Alone. Was he really so… useless? So unwanted that he was left for last? What if no one wanted him? Rustam closed his eyes in the suddenly too-large room. Not surprising. He hadn’t saved his family; who could possibly want him? The boy turned on his side, didn’t bother to cover himself, and dozed off under the sun streaming through the window.
Happiness had to be earned. He didn’t really need it, anyway. The main thing was that everyone else was okay. As for him? Well, he’d become a soldier or a policeman, protect the weak, atoning for the sin of weakness.
A creak jolted him from his doze. The clock showed six. Rustam turned and saw a giant sitting beside the bed. Dressed in a fur-lined sleeveless vest, a t-shirt, and cargo pants, a familiarly looking mutant rocked in an armchair, reading a book too small for his hands. The tips of his fingers were covered in black, horny skin, from a distance resembling split hooves; branching horns grew from his temples, casting a long demonic shadow in the rays of the setting sun.
Then he smiled, revealing several missing teeth, and closed the book: You’ve Decided to Adopt a Normie. Now What?
“Didn’t wake you?” the mutant’s voice was pleasant, confident.
“N-no,” Rustam answered, trying to remember where he knew this man from.
A furry paw extended, and the boy’s hand disappeared into it as they shook.
“This is new for me, Rustam,” the mutant admitted. “Let’s start small. Shashlik with onions or without? You do eat meat, right?”
“Of course! With onions is tastier.”
“My boy. Dahel always asks to remove the rings. Well… shall we go fill out the paperwork? We need to get it done quickly.”
“What for?” asked the uncomprehending Rustam.
“We’re having a family dinner tonight. Welcoming a new family member. You, if you agree to become Rustam Fleshtearer.” The horned one tilted his head. “Didn’t Ruda tell you?”
Rustam slapped his forehead. Fleshtearer. Ruda Fleshtearer. She’d shown them a family photo during a lesson on the cruiser. It seemed like ages ago. And before him was her father.
His father.
“I agree,” he blurted out. “I’m ready to help with cooking, washing dishes…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The foster father raised a finger and touched the boy’s forehead. “We’re not taking you as a servant. Tonight you relax, meet your siblings, then get some sleep. Don’t be afraid we’ll…” He glanced at the book. “…dump you if you don’t meet expectations. Tomorrow we’ll introduce you to the neighbors…”
“I think I already know some of them,” Rustam let slip.
“Ha. Even better. Let’s go, Mom’s made you some new clothes. Buckle up in the car. They told me your arm’s shaky after the fracture. Let me carry your things to the office…”
Last edited: