Food is important.
Without food, a person cannot satisfy their basic needs.
In fact, if hunger isn’t satisfied, even the most cultured and civilized person will turn into a wild beast after a while.
Simply put, even the Vengeful Spirit of Nostramo had to eat.
After all, he wasn’t a real ghost — how could he not eat?
A cold wind swept past, billowing Kariel’s cloak and black hair.
The Ghost was crouching at the other end, looking down with a bewildered expression.
When he wasn’t on a mission, that was usually the look on his face.
Well, a one-and-a-half-year-old child should look like that, shouldn’t he?
The stone gargoyle at the edge of the tall building was usually an excellent vantage point, offering a view of many scenes below.
However, if you chose it, you also had to put up with the biting cold.
This was probably what they meant when they said it was lonely and cold at the top.
Kariel took a deep breath and picked up a large lump of black, viscous mass from a plastic tray.
It looked like poison or some sewer substance, and the taste… Honestly, sometimes Kariel wished he didn’t have taste buds at all.
The Ghost turned his head and saw Kariel’s face change from serious to strangely contorted after a painful swallow.
This made him involuntarily tilt his head.
“Why do you eat that?” the Ghost asked in bewilderment.
“And you always eat it.” “Because I’m an ordinary person.
Besides, I don’t have the means to improve my diet.
We don’t have money, Ghost.” Kariel forced down the filth stuck in his throat and replied: “And most importantly — I need to eat, at least once a day.
Not like you — you can get by once every three days.” The Ghost thought about it and nodded.
He didn’t hear any malice in Kariel’s words, only slight mockery, and even that was directed more at Kariel himself.
Besides, the Ghost really did eat once every three days.
Kariel closed his eyes and sighed — the disgusting taste of the nutrient paste made him nauseous.
He had just finished a six-hour shift, and this was his meager reward for a short rest.
He had cleared out that building with the air purifiers on the roof.
Except for a few innocents, most of the inhabitants were corrupt officials and their hired thugs from the gangs.
Kariel killed them, but he didn’t distribute their hidden money to the poor.
He scattered it, and burned all the cash.
Such money… ordinary people couldn’t take it, and it was better not to.
“You still going to eat?” the Ghost asked.
“Of course… conserving food is a virtue,” Kariel replied.
His expression remained calm, but that didn’t mean he actually wanted to eat.
In fact, he was very glad right now that this nutrient paste turned into a viscous sludge after soaking in water.
If it were another variety, he might have had to light a fire.
That yellowish variety of nutrient paste was hard as a brick.
A knife couldn’t cut it; it wouldn’t soften in water.
To eat something like that raw, you’d have to be a Pilot-tooth from outside the city, capable of gnawing steel.
However, Pilot-teeth fed on people; they wouldn’t eat such garbage.
“Why not eat rats?” the Ghost asked, frowning.
“If you’re afraid of microbes, you can gut them and roast them over a fire until they’re charcoal.” Kariel’s cheek twitched.
“…Ghost, please don’t tell me you’ve been secretly catching and eating rats lately.
I bring a lot of nutrient paste every three days!” “…Nutrient paste is tasteless, and rats are tasty.
And big.” The Ghost turned away, trying to change the subject.
“Besides, they usually run in packs, so if you catch a few, you can eat your fill…” “That’s no reason to eat rats!” Kariel said this seriously, at the same time scooping up a handful of the black viscous mass with his fingers.
The sensation that transmitted to his hand made his stomach lurch.
Still, he ate it.
Without hesitation.
No matter how disgusting this food was, it was still food.
And in a cursed place like Nostramo, it was relatively clean.
“But I still think rats are better than nutrient paste, Kariel,” the Ghost objected hesitantly.
“You really should consider rats.” “…Remember, Ghost, you are human!
And humans don’t eat rats!” “You’re lying.
I know many ways to cook rats.
If people didn’t eat them, who would have come up with so many ways to make them tasty?” As he said this, the Ghost smacked his lips, as if trying to recreate the taste of those rat dishes in his memory through sheer imagination.
“I’m not lying.” “And also, is the one who created you right in the head?” Kariel frowned incredulously.
“Why would he put recipes for cooking rats into your brain?” “But those rats look so appetizing,” the Ghost said.
He was crouching, turning his head with some anticipation to look at the landscape below the gargoyle.
Neon lights, as always, cut across the sky.
Not far away, a car roared past.
The bronze gargoyle they were sitting on was lucky — the acid rain hadn’t yet eaten it away.
The Ghost liked it; he stroked its head, feeling the correctness of its form.
His warmth gradually warmed the stone, and the spot he touched stopped being so cold.
This positive feedback prompted the Ghost to keep his palm there even longer.
Kariel noticed this.
Knowing the Ghost’s habits, he understood that if nothing changed, he would be watching the city from this very spot for the next few days.
His behavior was naive and childish, like a child’s.
And Kariel knew that behind that naive exterior lurked a monster that only needed time to grow and turn the whole world upside down.
He didn’t answer the Ghost anymore.
Kariel was afraid his imagination would run wild at the most inopportune moment.
Eating nutrient paste was torture enough; if he also started imagining rats roasted to charcoal or skinned and steamed… His face twitched.
“…And them?” the Ghost suddenly asked.
His question interrupted Kariel’s thoughts, and Kariel sighed with relief.
“Who?” Kariel asked.
“Them, the ones who live in the slums.” “You’re asking what they usually eat, right?” The Ghost nodded.
Kariel glanced at him, then shoved the last piece — or rather, lump — of nutrient paste into his mouth.
Having done that, he didn’t forget to put the plastic tray into the inner pocket of his clothes.
He wouldn’t litter just anywhere; besides, throwing objects from a height was very dangerous.
So, trying to swallow that filth that numbed his taste buds, Kariel mumbled an answer to the Ghost’s question.
“Most eat the same thing I do.
This stuff started being promoted on Nostramo about ten years ago.
They say some aristocrat from the heights decided workers didn’t need to eat well.” Having said this, Kariel coughed, trying to get rid of the unpleasant feeling in his throat so the viscosity wouldn’t torment him anymore.
Of course, his attempt failed.
Meeting the Ghost’s gaze, he added: “As for whether they get enough to eat… it depends on how hard they work.
If they’re willing to work eighteen hours a day, they can eat their fill that day.” The Ghost’s eyes went wide.
His knowledge of the world was limited, but what he knew was enough to understand what that meant.
“Is that why there are so many suicides?..” the Ghost asked quietly.
Kariel smirked.
“You haven’t seen the whole truth about this cursed place,” he thought.
People kill themselves not only because they have nothing to eat and nothing to wear, but also because they can’t see even a glimmer of hope.
And the aristocrats didn’t care — for them, the death of workers was even a blessing, since they stopped consuming resources.
“No, not only for that reason,” Kariel said.
“That’s just part of the cause.” “Then because of the gangs?” “They’re only accomplices.” “So… are the aristocrats to blame?” “In a way, yes,” Kariel shook his head.
“But the root cause still isn’t them, Ghost.
You once said that, in your opinion, this world is sick… but you don’t even know what a normal world should look like.” The Ghost was silent for a moment, then objected: “…I saw fragments; those worlds aren’t like Nostramo.” “Not just unlike it,” Kariel thought.
“What makes them different from Nostramo?” the Ghost asked in confusion.
“Kariel, do you have the answer?” “Yes.
Of course, I do.” “I can give you a thousand answers.
I could even write a book about what needs to be done.” “I’ve had too much time to ponder this question.
Over the years I’ve wandered this world, I’ve seen too much…” “And all of it was enough to turn a ghost who only wanted to die into a philosopher.” “But I can’t, Ghost.” Looking at him, Kariel said quietly: “You have to find the answers to some questions yourself, Ghost.
I can’t tell you.
Everyone has their own attitude toward the world, and I don’t want to influence you…” “Though I already have.
Sorry.” “And now — break is over.” Kariel stood up, and his face instantly changed.
He tightened the ties on his cloak, flicked his hand, and silver metal glinted dangerously on his wrist.
“Who is it tonight?” the Ghost asked.
“‘Crimson Finale’… don’t forget to say hello to them, Ghost.
Last time, they generously lent us two motorcycles.” Kariel laughed loudly and jumped off the gargoyle.
The Ghost followed.
The gargoyle coldly observed all this.
The warmth left by Ghost on its head was rapidly fading.
* * * An elderly woman, hunched over, entered the dark corridor.
She was gray-haired, somewhat stout, and her legs didn’t obey her well.
In her hands, the woman carried a large silver tray with a golden rim, laden with food.
Three huge, perfectly seared steaks, soft white bread, thick soup, and an entire elaborate pie.
The aroma was exquisite.
In the Underhive, thousands of people would kill each other for such a meal.
They would pay an enormous price just for a single bite.
From the woman’s back, from a black metal base fused into her flesh, extended a graceful black mechanical arm.
On its three sharp mechanical fingers, a candle burned slowly.
She walked along the corridor, and the weak flame of the candle gradually dispelled the darkness.
The woman walked slowly, but not because of her age or bad legs.
She did it deliberately.
The corridor walls were hung with portraits of men and women in luxurious clothing, with pale, powdered faces.
The dead were enclosed in elegant frames, their edges adorned with lavish carvings that reflected the candlelight.
They all stared at the woman with empty eyes.
She responded to each with a respectful bow.
Fifteen minutes later, she finally left that corridor.
Holding the tray, the woman stopped before two heavy gilded doors with relief carvings and struck her head against them three times heavily.
A dull thud sounded.
After the third impact, the doors opened automatically.
She entered a new, enormous room.
A heavy dark red carpet, eighteen crystal chandeliers, and an abundance of massive furniture and decorations made this place resemble a small palace.
“My esteemed Count.” The woman bowed low.
Gray hair fell over her already reddened forehead.
Her voice was filled with reverence.
“Your lunch is served.” “Put it on the table.” From the far end of the room came a voice that carried notes of indifference and authority, typical of those who had held power for a long time.
It was worth noting that, besides this, his voice was hoarse.
The woman, keeping her head down, moved forward slowly, finding the long mahogany table by memory.
She set down the tray, then headed for the doors, preparing to leave.
But at that moment, the same voice spoke again: “In twenty minutes, summon Gendor, Laina, and Irenu… Their time for games is over.
House Skraivok has a task for them.” “As you command, my Count,” the woman turned, bowed respectfully, then struck her head against the doors three more times.
Only when they opened did she respectfully withdraw.
Her forehead was already bleeding, but no one cared, not even herself.