You Are A Monster
Shapes protruded from its contours, snub-ends of broken horns
Previously: An adversary named Alexei kept Astra & her old companion, Crowley, trapped in an endless nightmare with a daemon. Narrowly, they escaped. They prepare to face Alexei’s thugs.
○ Opening Era: Spring, 2026, Brooklyn
“What is wrong, Papa?”
“Nothing.”
“Papa, do not tell me it is nothing, I can tell it is not nothing.”
“What are you, a fucking psychic, Seryozha?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“What?
“We are all psychic now, Papa.”
The Papa blinked. Then he stared out the window of the restaurant. He listened to the waves of the Atlantic beyond the boardwalk and beach. Sighing: “It’s the boy.”
“Aha! You see, Papa Yuri, I know you, Papa! You don’t smush your face into your hand like that when it is nothing, I do not even need Psi.”
“Yes, good job, Seryozha, very perceptive, now fuck off.”
“Wait, which boy? Viktor Novikov’s son? Is he stealing potato chips from the corner store again? I will impress upon him that the Hindus are under our protecti––”
“No, not Viktor Novikov’s son, the boy!”
“Ohh. Careful, Papa, Alexei Rakovsky does not like it when you call him that and he could be listening.”
“Ah. The boy is listening you say? Hellooooo Aleyoshaaa!” The Papa spoke to the room, which was undoubtedly infested with microphones too small for his men to find. “You think you can become a fancy technology man and leave me to do your filthy work? I, who took you in, here, in Brighton, here, in this restaurant?” The Papa pointed. “I, who taught you how to dance like Michael Jackson right over there.” The Papa looked down at his coffee. “I taught the boy everything he knows.”
“You taught him brain science?”
“I–– what? No, I did not teach him brain science. Seryozha, it is good that you do not need to use your intellect to be useful to me.”
“That is not kind, Papa.”
“Vasya is dead,” said the Papa.
A pause. The Papa stared into his coffee as he stirred it, as if he would find the meaning of his predicament there.
Sergei shook his head. “…Do not kid, Papa, I saw Vasya yesterday.”
“And Grisha. Oleg. Lyova. All dead. And that new man, what’s his name?”
“Anton.”
“Anton is dead. No––Anton is in the hospital.”
Sergei balled his fists. “Traitorous bastard!”
“Who?
“Alexei Rakovsky!”
“No, Seryozha,” Papa said, psi-ing Sergei’s miscomprehension. “The boy sent them to their deaths. He did not kill them.”
“Who then?”
“His girlfriend.”
“The blue-haired woman? She killed four of our best soldiers? Ohh I knew she was trouble, Papa. I told Aleyosha but he did not listen.”
“She had help. Regardless, Aleyosha did not inform us of the danger of this job. You know what he said to me? I texted him––wait, I will bring it up––I texted him, ’Your girlfriend escaped. Four men dead, including Vasya. He was like an uncle to you.’ He called me on the phone to ask what happened. I told him. You know he said back to me? He said, ’Good. She is as adaptive as I hoped. I wonder if you are.’ What the hell does that mean?”
“We will withdraw our contracts! No more soldiers, no more black market engineers, no more spying for him!”
“It does not matter, Seryozha.”
“Papa, do not smush your face in your hand again. It matters. Why does it not matter?”
“Because the boy rules the world now.”
There was a commotion outside.
“Stay here, Papa, I will go check on it.”
“Do not bother. I have made my peace. I am proud of the boy. Even if….”
Sergei did not like what he felt emanating from Papa.
“Men like us, Seryozha, we are dinosaurs in this new world, and we will go extinct. I told the boy, on his first promotion––”
“Papa, something is happening outside.”
“I told him, first law of power is you must evolve or die. He listened carefully. And I did not, to my own philosophy.”
Outside there was a crack. Sergei leapt out of his seat, hand to his firearm. The Papa stayed put, staring deeper into the coffee he’d forgotten to stop stirring.
The door flew open. A man entered. The setting sun circled his head like a halo.
Sergei raised his pistol. Then he lowered it. “Kostya, what is happening?”
But Konstantine could not speak. His face was twisted and red. Both hands were wringing his own throat, knuckles white and fingertips digging into the flesh.
Sergei took a step back. “Kostya?”
Konstantine swayed and tumbled. As he hit the floor, a presence leapt out from him. It burrowed itself into Sergei’s mind. Sergei opened his mouth to scream but his vocal cords were no longer his own. The presence spoke to him in memories, ones that Sergei had kept tucked under the sharp pain in his chest for years. Memories brightened in rapid succession; they flitted past like a film reel unspooling in a darkened theatre: The flicker of fluorescent lights overhead and the Papa counting on his fingers, calmly, while Sergei stood with his jaw mottled and bloodied. The flick of Papa’s hand to dismiss Yul, his own son, before beckoning Aleyosha to his side. “Go babysit my little idiot, Seryozha.” And the young woman, her legs twitching, the Papa laughing, and the bitter taste of his cigar smoke pluming into Sergei’s face.
It occurred to Sergei that the Papa was something like a monster. He was something like Koshchei, the evil sorcerer that Sergei’s mother would tell him bedtime stories about. And Sergei was under his spell. No longer. He turned to the Papa. Staring down at the Papa’s hairy forearms and bulbous nose, Sergei finally let himself realize something: beneath his loyalty to this man who was his brother-in-law, beneath his love for this man, was pure unbridled hate.
The Papa stopped stirring his coffee and glanced at Sergei. “Yikes.”
“You have done psi on me then?”
“Yes, very impressive, Aleyosha. How did you get in there, boy?”
“I am Sergei Ivanovich! And you…are a monster!”
“Yes, that’s true. But you seem to have a monster inside you too, Seryozha. May I speak to him?”
Sergei’s eyes went screwy. Then they returned possessed by an uncharacteristic shrewdness. “Hhhaiyhh Pawpwah.”
“Excuse me?”
Sergei’s face twisted and twitched . His voice came out strangely: “Sohree. Stuuull. Wurkung. Ohn. Spuueech.”
“It is a good trick, Aleyosha.”
“Tahmmed. Deeemon. Put it…ihn Kostya. Ahnd. Seryozha. Cuuool, raiight?”
“You put a demon in Seryozha? Do you know that Seryozha donated to your college fund?”
“Seryozha. Awlsho. Soooohld. Smaachk. Tooo. Mhy. Muhther. ”
“Yes, well… Why don’t we have a drink together? Talk it out. You tame demons now? I thought you were a technology man, or brain scientist, or something. I heard you pull strings at this new International Progress Organization. Man-behind-the-scenes. Is it true? Ha! My little mastermind. We can work together––more closely, like old times.”
“Lihhk. Ohld. Tihmes?”
“Tell me: what is the nature of your pet demon?”
A silhouette stepped into the frame of the open doorway. Cirrus clouds licked the sky beyond, rendered red and bright like streaks of flame by the dying sun. The shadow took a step past the threshold. Shapes protruded from its contours, snub-ends of broken horns––no: cylinders. Metallic.
The shadow spoke, “My pet demon kills the thing you hate most in the world.”
Papa Yuri took this in. He nodded slowly. “So you hate me, boy?”
“No. You taught me everything I know. ‘Always clean up loose ends,’ for instance.”
“It is me who hates you,” said Sergei. He raised his weapon.
A pop echoed across the beach.
Next release: Deshawn receives a special invitation.