Aliyn Raven

Story-6. The Love Hunt

"The shop will be closed on Sunday for the festival," Riana told her assistant Tracy, a pretty thirty-year-old brown-haired lady, on Friday. "So tomorrow morning we have to hang the shop's banners on the window panels. They'll be delivered later today and I'll send you pictures of how they should look in the contract with the manufacturer. Take the order and check that everything is correct."
Weekends were understandably the busiest time for trading, and the assistants had Wednesdays and Thursdays off, when virtually no one came into the antique shop. Riana sat behind the counter herself on those days, monitoring the market, doing bookkeeping, and editing commercials for the website.
But this Sunday is the parade, part of the annual Maypole Festival, and drunken idiots, petty robberies, and brawls are the inevitable result. Almost all the small shops and cafes close for the parade when there is zero trade and many problems. Fortunately, the rest of the festival is quite profitable, so persons from mini-businesses support it in every way.
Tracy nodded, and Riana said:
"The shop got four tickets to the Gala Centre from the advertisers who hang out on my site. Two of them are yours. You can invite that cute brunette you had such a nice conversation with near the display case with the yataghan last Sunday. That conversation had its consequences, didn't it?"
"No consequences," Tracy said sullenly. "And all my friends are only on social media. And there's no point in going to a show alone if there's no one to talk to about it while it's going on."
Riana raised an eyebrow. Tracy flirted with the brunette quite zealously; he himself looked decent: young, handsome, athletic, and tastefully dressed. And this is not a fool, if he has an interest in antiques; even if he is not rich, like all newly graduated postdocs—then he would soon get a research grant and thus his bun with jam. In other words, he is not the kind of man who tries to get money from his girlfriend.
"If there's something wrong with the client," Riana said, "I need to know."
"The client," Tracy emphasised, venomously and viciously, "is fine. He's just not a man. But for the chance to swing a yataghan in the backyard, he'll mention your shop in the foreword to his novel, you can bet."
Riana nodded. Normal potency and beauty do not always coincide. It is understandable why Tracy is so indignant. When you expect a night of pleasure and get only undischarged excitement, which must be urgently thrown off on the treadmill, you can be even more angry than that.
"There's always plenty of fish in the sea," Riana said comfortingly. "Soon there will definitely be..."
"How I hate that phrase!" Tracy interrupted angrily. "People stop appreciating each other. They don't value relationships. As soon as they see an obstacle, they immediately go where there won't be problems."
"Quite naturally. Obstacles are only good in video games. Well, also if you want to run through bushes and ditches in a paintball club."
"I'm not kidding! As soon as a man hears that I'm not ready for a love relationship, he disappears!"
"A reasonable reaction from a polite person." Riana was a little surprised that Tracy was so indignant. "When you will want a romance, you'll accept the offer or ask the guy you like out on a date yourself."
"And on a date he'll say "OK, let's go to bed!" And if I refuse, he'll call me a swindler!"
Riana smiled and replied:
"If you say along with the invitation that you only kiss on the second date and have sex on the third, then this will be part of an erotic game that many people like to play. And if the guy's tastes in bed are the same as yours, this will excite him. Or he will say "No," and you will start looking for a suitable option. There are billions of people in the world, and the choice is unlimited."
Tracy shook her head:
"Once upon a time, people achieved love. They waited for an answer for years. They walked under windows, called, sent letters, and courted. They followed their loved ones to all the parties and walks. And they reached reciprocity! Love was a precious reward. Now, if I call a guy twice in a row, he will call me a maniac! If I refuse a date, he will not win me over and prove his love because he is afraid of being accused of stalking! These days, it's all about sifting through options, as if people were a yoghurt display in a mall: pick the one you like and use it. If you get bored with this flavour, try another. No work. No need to cherish love and relationships. You are not a treasure."
"One amendment," Riana noted. "If a yoghurt can slap your hands, it is no longer a yoghurt but a person. But a treasure has no voice. No freedom of choice. A treasure can always be broken or sold. Throw it away. To become a treasure, you must first cease to be human. And the fate of those who fall into the hands of the winner is always a horror. You can ask the refugees about this."
"Oh, my God, that's not what I mean!" Tracy said indignantly. "This is not about violence! I'm saying that people... all people, not just men! No one strives to deserve and keep love."
"But love is not a sports trophy or a sales chart. It does not have to be deserved or kept. Your hormones either make fireworks and you are happy, or they are silent and then the person in front of you is not the one you want. Love is meant to be enjoyed, and if it causes problems, it is not love, but fake."
Tracy waved her hand in annoyance.
"Everyone says that! And it's catastrophe! "Someone didn't immediately accept your invitation to bed? Don't waste your energy on seduction; forget about this person; there are always plenty of fish in the sea." "Have your feelings for your love partner cooled? Don't waste your efforts on rekindling the flame; throw away what's boring; there's always plenty of fish in the sea." "Is your marriage complicated by quarrels? Get a divorce; don't waste time on grinding and compromises; there are always plenty of fish in the sea." This is the age of loneliness and total egoism! This is the time of unhappy people. No one values ​​love, no one wants to become one with their loved ones, and no one works on relationships."
"Loneliness in a bad relationship is much worse," Riana said. "Ask the housewives of yesteryear who couldn't get a divorce and washed down their sedatives with alcohol. Their husbands did the same thing at work. Everyone is miserable. And many of those people are still alive."
She shook her head, "It's pure hell. But to become one with someone, to lose yourself, your personality, your uniqueness... It's frightening even to imagine. That's why a sane person would never break through a wall when there are open doors to happiness nearby. And with a fool, violence is inevitable".
Riana spread her hands, emphasising the lack of other options. And asked:
"But what do you want? A romance, or for someone else to prove your importance and value to you? Unless you are important and valuable to yourself first and foremost, no one else will find you important and valuable, not even for a penny. Or is it arousing for you to be a victim of violence? No problem, on BDSM sites you can find someone with whom you enjoy playing coercion according to pre-agreed rules, observing safety standards, and the ability to stop everything immediately if something becomes uncomfortable. If you want an asexual romance, there are plenty of fans of that too. But living without romances at all is just as normal. The main thing is to understand what you want and follow your desires."
"I want to go," Tracy said. "Right now."
Riana just shrugged and accepted her resignation. Working in an antique shop requires the ability to get along with people, and to do that you have to want to get along with yourself. A person who doesn't see the world because he collects his problems instead of solving them will be of no use to anyone, anywhere.
Tracy left. Riana sent an invitation for an internship to the local university. She didn't have to wait long; within an hour the university had sent CVs of several students who needed part-time work.
In the usual whirlwind of affairs, romances and friends, trips to flea markets around the world, and rest in stillness in a boarding house in nature, Riana did not notice how a year had passed. And in the midst of preparations for the next annual city festival, Riana received a call from an unknown woman, who introduced herself as a social worker and informed her about Tracy's funeral.
Riana didn't even immediately understand who they were talking about, and when she did, she gasped in horror.
"What happened to her?" Riana asked.
"Her phone contacts only included you and two other friends, and that was in a hidden directory. A police expert found it when he went through Tracy's things. She was hiding from her boyfriend in a women's shelter. There is a closed area for walks, but Tracy went outside to meet her ex. And he killed her."
"Oh no..." Riana muttered. "Poor little fool..."
"I understand that you weren't happy about her unwillingness to talk to you. Victims of destructive relationships always start their road to disaster by cutting off communication with friends. But women at the shelter can't leave until their tormentors get a court order. And if Tracy makes her final journey alone, that's not good. Her parents are not so much saddened by their daughter's death as they are angry about her bad behaviour; they see Tracy's death as a disgrace to the family. My experience tells me that there is a lot of domestic violence, at least verbal abuse and maybe beatings. The wife is intimidated; the husband decides everything. They may not even come to the funeral."
"I'll come," Riana said. "And please give me the shelter's bank account. I'll send them a donation."
Riana put the phone in her pocket and sighed sadly. All this was inevitable. The main rule of the hunt, even if it's a love hunt, is only one: the target will be destroyed. And whether it will be, mentally or physically, is a matter of chance. But you can avoid turning yourself into a victim, right?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52497217

I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
*****
Modern urban fantasy, our world, mythical creatures in our world, adventures, an active heroine, maybe a slash, but more than a Gen.
The name of the novel may be changed.
If someone corrects the grammar mistakes, I will be glad.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

I tried to calm down. Even though there was never any stress in my previous life, I didn't have conflicts with anyone, but I'm not a piece of jelly! My granny taught me to be calm and strong and to be able to defend my rights. Of course, kidnapping, captivity, and this maniacal house, a constant convoy, all of these don't add anything to self-confidence, but it is too early to turn into a hysterical person.
Why am I so upset anyway?
Ah, got it. On the carpet lay a newspaper with a full-page headline, "Mortal Kombat in TGS: There can be only one."
The rag, judging by the headline, is yellower than a lemon, but even such publications don't write lies. They exaggerate, embellish, or understate, but they don't lie.
This means someone has already been killed here. The police didn't find evidence; this happens, but there was noise in the newspapers. Who was killed then? Could it have been my father?
Because of the lawyer's visit, I thought Albert Terrent had died two or three months ago, but nothing in the house suggests there had been a recent funeral. Even if Dave treated his son with indifference and was happy about his death, then death itself will continue to influence the existence of the house itself, and especially the enterprise, for a long time. Irma, Eleanor, or even Chris would definitely have blurted out about Albert's recent death. Or even more so, Chris, who had an affair with Albert.
It turns out that my father died a long time ago. And Dave hoped to make Eleanor's son an heir, but something went wrong, and I was needed.
This means that the father was killed. I don't want to know why; it doesn't matter; all that matters to me is the threat to my life. And it's more difficult to defend against her than against Diongus Tinoliadis.
"What?" I asked. Dave was saying something all this time, but I listened.
"The gift of a calligrapher-ligaturer can't leave the family!" Dave growled, rather furious.
"Oh, come on, it doesn't have any value!" I said it contemptuously. "A crowd of designers, historians, and specialists in dead languages graduates every year. Hire at least a dozen calligraphers. Or did you imagine that I, as a relative, would do the design for free? Eat shit!"
Dave looked at me very strangely: with an absolute amazement, which gave way to suspicion, and then he said accusingly:
"You don't believe in the power of folitvons?"
"Do you treat yourself with an elixir made from hare droppings?" I asked sarcastically. "That's noticeable."
Dave glared at me with hatred. I just grinned contemptuously. And Dave said,
"The Alnorrian Bible Church recognises the grace of folitvons."
"I amn't interested in the opinion of any religious institution, and in a civilised country, they can all express it only within the confines of their institutions."
"No one from the Terrent family can ignore the church!" Dave growled. "And all Terrents are only Biblians!"
"I'm Calvin. And you owe me."
To my surprise, Dave didn't argue or blackmail me. He suddenly smiled as sweetly as possible with his nefarious mug and said that we would discuss this topic later, and now he had an important online meeting.
I felt scared. What is this ghoul up to?
But strangely enough, until the ball itself—this is a week—nothing significant happened. Even in the interview Dave arranged the day after our conversation, nothing special happened. Five journalists came, obviously from TGS-friendly publications, and said that there would be a live broadcast on their television and online channels. I told the cameras that I wanted to take my father's property, pay off the debts for the candy shop, and, if my granny wanted to withdraw from business, find a tenant. Then I will go to the east of the country and create a fund for the development of Old-Alnorrian, joining those who are seeking recognition of it as the fourth state language.
The fact is that the meeting with journalists was in the afternoon, and in the morning Professor Gatti brought fresh newspapers and five modern books of different genres in Old-Alnorrian to choose from, so that I could do independent reading, as is done when studying any language. And also a DVD with one of the anime that I planned to watch before the kidnapping—now it's clear why he asked what films I had in my queue to watch: Gatti was looking for interesting training material for listening.
I was surprised and excited that in the east of the country, the real language of our island is so well developed. There, they took the revival of real Alnorria culture seriously. Enthusiasts of Old-Alnorrian banded together, did serious research into which of the three types of writing was best adapted to modern software and easier for children to learn, and adopted it as the main one—not forgetting the other two as a constantly used addition. Since there were programmers among the Old-Alnorrian fan groups, they created language packs for several of the most popular personal computer operating systems and negotiated with their owners to add these packs to their product—via online download, of course. Support groups of Old-Alnorrian made alnorrizations of popular video games and contacted the developers so that such an addition would become official and could be downloaded through the settings of the game purchased on all popular game sites. There were Alnorrian subtitles and amateur voice-overs for movies and television series.
But what outraged me even more was that this was not known in other parts of the tiny island. In the east, for some reason, they decided that the revival of the Alnorrian language was interesting only to the inhabitants of their region.
And then I realised what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. There must be his real language on the island! And not only in the east, but everywhere. This needs to start from the east, because there is a base there with which you can work: teacher training centres, people who can make online courses and self-instruction applications for phones, and all that stuff.
Of course, the languages of the occupiers will not disappear in the coming decades, or even completely, but Alnorrian should have equal status with them!
We need to clarify here. If a tiny island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea has many fresh springs, then in an era when there were no desalination plants and refrigerators on ships, even a piece of this island will be tried to be conquered by everyone who has even heard about the Mediterranean Sea. In very ancient times, Egyptians, Mesopotamians, Phoenicians, Greeks, Persians, Romans, Vikings... Many others made their mark here. And in the not so distant years, the south of Alnorria was controlled more often and longer by the Venetians; in the north, England was more successful than other competitors; and in the west, the Teutonic Order first dug in, then the Margraviate of Brandenburg.
And almost every vicegerent left by the occupiers very quickly realised what a treasure he had and how he could influence the politics of two continents if he became independent. And in order to turn his masters away, he needs to conclude an alliance with the aborigines, giving them more rights and freedoms, and then, with their support, enter into a second alliance, this time with the rest of the vicegerents who want independence. The occupiers soon began a new seizure, and the vicegerents again declared independence... In short, until the beginning of the 17th century, it was fun on the island. Afterwards, the United Republic of Alnorria appeared, and things became calmer.
The east of the island was captured on a residual basis, the British and Venetians looked at it more as a satellite than a colony; the Germans didn't need the east of the island because there is not a single natural harbour there capable of accepting anything larger than a fishing boat.
Groundwater is also scarce, and artesian waters lie too deep to have been extracted in the pre-industrial era. Accordingly, only in the east was the true language of the island preserved in the form in which it was. Although it was not used very actively, Italian and English were needed for trade.
What adds piquancy is that the languages of the occupiers were influenced by Alnorrian, and therefore we do not have English, German and Italian, but our own dialects based on them. Although, of course, the differences are not as many as the founders of the Republic Of Alnorria claimed when they declared final independence in 1614.
But it's time to return to our days. Dave didn't argue with me during the interview; he just said that he hoped to persuade me to join the Terrent family and become the heir to the conglomerate during the time that I was visiting here. I replied that he had Eleanor and her son, who would be more suitable for this role.
The news of Eleanor's pregnancy became a much greater sensation than my appearance in the Terrent family. The journalists instantly latched on to Dave, and he immediately ended the interview.
I didn't find out what statement Eleanor herself made to the press; I had enough worries with letters from friends and with my studies.
Fatima found all the wills on the Terret property, and Niccolò—he is a law student—said that the situation is quite murky. The Terrents themselves tried to create a majorat by means of their wills. This is when possessions can't be inherited by a woman or transferred through a woman, but everything automatically goes to the closest male relative through the male line.
The heirs rarely argued with this, but there were still cases. The fact is that in Alnorria there was never formally an aristocracy; from the very beginning, a republic of trading shops and workshops was created, and therefore the freedom to individually dispose of property became the basis of the foundations. In addition, Alnorrian women have had the right to property since the very beginning of the state. They could not give a dowry to their husbands if they didn't want to; Alnorrian women were only obliged to pay an annual interest on the house and children. Likewise, the husband alone owned his property and paid interest to the family. If one of the spouses wanted, then at the local city hall, he or she drew up a power of attorney for his half to manage the property or gave it to him or her as a gift.
And there were many cases when men, busy with long-distance business trips or politics, transferred all management of their property to their wife or sister. And a married woman was free to bequeath her funds to anyone, even the first tramp she met, leaving nothing to her children or husband. There were many cases when a man bequeathed all his houses and lands not to his sons but passed them on to his daughter or niece, who showed more business qualities, and she was not necessarily the eldest.
At the same time, there was a law according to which it was impossible to leave children, the living half of the marriage union, and parents completely without funds; the testator was obliged to allocate at least something to them that could save them from starvation.
On the other hand, there is the same freedom to individually dispose of property and the inviolability of property.
It is easy to guess that in such conditions, lawyers and judges in inheritance cases have never suffered from unemployment. And the 20th century, with its demands for complete gender equality and the abolition of distinctions between children born of wedlock and extramarital, only added fire to the judicial furnace.
In relation to Dave, all of the above meant that he could simultaneously bequeath the conglomerate and estates to any outsider, and at the same time, he was firmly bound by the need to transfer the property to the closest male relative on any line, be it male or female.
Therefore, there are precedents for any court decision. Law in Alnorria is normative; that is, it is based only on a set of laws adopted by parliament and not precedent, but in any normative decision, the experience of past verdicts matters. That's why pure normative law, also known as continental law, doesn't exist anywhere. And the most interesting thing, Eleanor may even try to sue Dave for all his property on behalf of her son. The success of such a process is doubtful, but she will receive a considerable share of the conglomerate and estates. Niccolò had just started studying the differences between normative and case law at university, and the Terrents' situation became a good question in class.
Considering that TGS is on the verge of bankruptcy, snatching at least something and bringing it under the hammer means ensuring a more than comfortable and carefree future for yourself.
However, all this is a matter of the future. And I need to solve current problems.
Now I'm at that same ball at City Hall. My dress and shoes are what I wanted. But the event itself is very boring. There are no normal dances, no stand-up comedians. There is no one to even chat with since there is only the society of "old money" and those who seek their favor. I am an outcast for both. Even my convoyers stepped aside so as not to get dirty from my unworthiness.
So I can finally escape.
No matter what granny says about the danger from Diongus Tinoliadis, Dave is even more dangerous. Therefore, I need to get out of the city hall, catch a taxi, and go to Fatima. I'll think of something there. And Fatima's mother will probably lend me money for the first time. Who, if not her, can understand my trouble?
And Carlita is a genius at searching the Internet for any secret information and knows how to use the darknet. She had already started looking for Diongus. He couldn't help but leave traces on the network. So we'll hand him over to the cops before they can find him.
Eleanor, by the way, didn't come to the ball. And, judging by the snippets of conversations that I heard, this is the main gossip of the evening. The gloating of the local ladies was off the charts; Eleanor, it seemed, really was an unattainable star among them. And now everyone is happily trampling the former champion into the dirt.
That's what this fool needs. If she had immediately agreed to help me, one would not have gotten into a scandal. Eleanor for sure had a plan to make the local sanctimonious patriarchal bunch of vipers consider the birth of an illegitimate child a matter of honour, but such transformations take time, and this is exactly what Eleanor lost thanks to her stupid stubbornness and snobbery.
A small thing, but nice. And now I need to start escaping.
I followed where the waiters went and slipped through the service door. Now I need to find some kind of jacket, a chef's or a waitress's one, so that the staff won't kick me out into the ball hall.
I looked for the utility room. And she found a grey janitor's robe there. Just what I need. The uniform will be noticed earlier than the fact that the ammunition sticking out from under it is by no means for work. And as you know, people in uniform always become invisible, even to other people in uniform.
I walked through the room where the servers were pouring champagne and water into glasses and placing canapés and tiny cakes on trays. (Cakes are lousy, it should be noted. Even our far-from-elite candy shop makes better cakes! Although, if there are two types of champagne here, for gentlemen and for rabble, then there are better cakes than the ones they served me.)
But that's not my problem.
I found the service door and walked out into the backyard of City Hall. The wicket and gate were locked, but I climbed over the fence. I chose the right dress—not the best clothes for parkour; however, escape is still possible.
Behind the city hall there is a small park, and behind it there is Ascension Square, which, if Niccolò understood the guidebooks correctly, is always full of taxis. Even if this park was a risky place for a lonely girl at night, it was safer to walk through it than to be seen on the street, which was probably full of the press and video bloggers.
Before I had walked a hundred metres, the park, the city hall, and Aesa lived up to their bad reputation: a fight broke out in the park. And not just like that, but with the use of flash grenades, which for some reason exploded in the hands of the fighters and did it silently.
But this is bullshit. The main thing is that now there will be a crowd of journalists and bloggers.
And I ran as fast as I could towards the square. It's good that the shoes have a small heel; although it's difficult to run, it’s possible.
Something huge collapsed right in front of me; I barely had time to jump to the side.
The dragon.
A real dragon, like from a fantasy movie. With the size of a bus, plus a long neck, tail, and wings.
I covered my mouth with my hands to keep from screaming. All I need to make a complete screw up is to get the attention of bloggers, police, and kids, journalists, and other extremely undesirable audiences.
But where do I get glitches from? I didn't even drink champagne at the ball. There couldn't be a drug in a crappy brownie, could there?
I don't give a damn about it. Only taxis matter. And I rushed through the hallucination.
The dragon turned out to be prickly and hard.
Can glitches be so realistic? Or do dragons exist? Then why didn't anyone see them?
Doesn't matter. I need to go to the square. I'll think about everything else in the taxi.
I stepped off the path into the bushes to walk around the dragon on the lawn. But a wave ran through his body, and the huge carcass turned into a man. An unremarkable man of about thirty, average height, fair hair, wearing dark jeans and a T-shirt.
I took off running, but I was tightly entangled, from head to toe, by a net that came from nowhere. And a few moments later, some thick cable or flexible manipulator threw me onto something that looked like a hard sofa, and this sofa rose into the air and flew somewhere.
I was kidnapped by a dragon?!

Essay by Aliyn Raven

Video games have gained the status of art thanks to relevant laws passed in many countries through parliamentary votes.
But why so many difficulties for the sake of what is obvious to anyone and everyone at first sight?
Yes, when video games first appeared, they had neither meaning nor beauty.
It was a good way to kill time, but nothing more—no better than dominoes in the nearest cafe or grandma's home solitaire.
However, cinema was also once just a plug between the performances of dancers in a cabaret (if the next number was late). At best, a 2-3-minute movie was a way to quickly calm the audience in the theatre after intermission and divert their attention from the buffet, the lavatory, and gossip to the stage. Yes, yes, the very phrase "cinema(movie) theatre" comes from those same short videos with stupid gags that were shown in an ordinary stage theatre; the broadcast went on the curtain; no one has thought about a white screen yet.
Cinema was considered trash, a hopeless trinket, and a delight for fools. But one day, suddenly, movies turned from toy-trinkets to art, and no one even thought to argue with it.
When and how did this happen?
First, we need to understand where the border between a toy and art lies.
Dolls and cars from the nearest supermarket are only trinkets for children. Collectible dolls and cars are works of art.
Family photos and posters with photo arts.
Children change toys, break them, and forget. And you can tell so much about each collectible doll and car that it would be enough to fill a book.
Offering to look at a family photo album is the best way to get rid of overstaying guests. Photo posters are a great topic for a long conversation.
Art is a story that is equally meaningful to many different people.
But a story is just a listing of events. This is not enough. Something else is needed.
A meaning that is important to many. An idea that can unite many. A pain that torments many. Healing is needed by many.
This is the same quadra that separates art from lists and trinkets.
Cinematography became an art when the length of the film made it possible to tell not only how the klutz slipped on a banana peel but also where and why the person was going, how the fall made it difficult to achieve the goal, and how he or she or they dealt with the problem.
Meaning, idea, pain, healing. Without this content, there is no movie, no book, no painting, no music.
And then someone remembers "Black Square".
Rest assured, this work complies with the rules. But we'll talk a little later about how it does this and why it's related to video games.
Now let's look for the line between a video game, which is a toy, and art.
Of course, the power of digital hardware is very important. No matter how hard you try, you can't do anything more than throw a small pixel at a large one on primitive hardware.
However, we have long had both long films and powerful digital hardware that can easily handle the complex movements of photorealistic characters in a setting that is more realistic than our reality. But good works worthy of the title "art" are still scarce in both cinema and video games.
And yet, the situation is not hopeless.
Match3. Bored public transport passengers love it, and gamers hate it. A game without content; a toy game. But what if the outcome of the battle of the heroes depends on the number of points scored, and if you make a mistake, they die?
Oh, there are a lot of questions here about who is fighting and why, how well developed the lore and characters are, and whether the collection of triplets occurs logically or chaotically. The situation has changed, hasn't it?
What if, by collecting triplets, you needed to build a city with all the necessary infrastructure? So think about what is more important: turn three bushes into one tree to raise your index from the scale of clean air, or exchange them for three piles of bricks to get points from a smooth road for transporting goods. You can't get a new map area without raising the index, but you can't build without money, and your city will die without farm fields next to it and jobs for the people inside it. Silly Match3 has dramatically added adrenaline and challenging gaming challenges to your life, right?
Mahjong. These video games have a very distant resemblance to real mahjong, but the only thing that matters is how much the colouring of the dice conveys the atmosphere of East Asia and how deep the associations are with the ancient and rich cultures of this region.
Dreams and fantasies. The desire to touch something different, to enter another world—modern, past, or future. Pain that we are not there right now, and healing through interaction with the pictures on the dice. Immersion in reveries, creation of your own world—for which the video game itself is only a springboard, but what an effective one. Will this video game be art? Oh yeah.
There are thousands of video games with deep and clever plots about how heroes save the world, avenge murdered relatives, restore tragic events of the distant past through old letters and photographs, fight social injustice, establish love or family relationships, escape from captivity, etc. These games are amazing for the splendour of photorealistic graphics or the creativity of drawings.
But one day it turns out that those same pieces of indistinctly shaped pixels, which not so long ago were the only option for video games and were shocking with their ugliness and stupidity, can tell an amazing story about problems with self-esteem and self-realisation, about friendship and loneliness. I'm talking about "Thomas Was Alone". This game is reminiscent of those days in childhood when we suddenly got bored with expensive, beautiful toys from the store, and we made dolls and cars out of candy wrappers and tree leaves, right?
Or a video game has no plot and realistic visuals at all but makes you think about the variability of the world around you and your own soul, as "140" does.
And then "Black Square" and "Circles in a Circle" say hello to us. Art doesn't have a duty to tell a story. It can encourage us to ask questions of the world, thereby changing it. And in this case, video games give a head start to all paintings, books, and movies taken together, since through interactivity and our direct influence on the situation, we see the world wider and deeper, which means there are more questions to it.
No one argues that in the early years of its existence, the world of video games did not shine with intelligence and beauty. Well, cinema was no better in its infancy. Another thing is that cinema is much older than video games, and therefore we forgot the unsightly period of cinema's formation under the pressure of many masterpieces.
The same thing happens with video games. The gaming world has even started furious debates about who is a genius and who is mediocrity, who is a creator and who only wants money, just like it was with artists at all times (despite the fact that everyone wants high fees and rich customers).
The video game market is developing as quickly as the cinema market was in due time. This means many new masterpieces await us. And it's not necessary that only AAA-class work will conquer the world. NNs and online trading that doesn't require a physical medium have provided enormous opportunities for tiny indie teams.
https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliyn_Raven

Short sketches from the lives of a variety of people through the eyes of an ironic lady.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52497217
https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3370230/1/Riana-s-Adventures

Story-3. Can a genius clean?

When her ex-lover from university days entered Riana's store, she whistled.
"Why did you become a drug addict?" Riana said instead of a greeting.
The man twitched indignantly, but more fearfully. He was sure that he looked great: a fresh and fashionable suit, a good haircut. And said:
"You became a salesperson in an antique shop? This is an improvement over the fast food stall where all the philosophers find haven."
Riana made herself more comfortable on a high bar stool, which allowed her to sit rather than stand behind the showcase counter, and said:
"You missed, dear. I am the owner of this store. So why did one of the best, if not the best, physicists of our time become a junkie?"
"Why did you..."
Riana interrupted with a grin:
"Steve, I buy not only antiques but also vintage. Two out of ten of those who bring goods for appraisal are drug addicts. These are long-time stoners offering things stolen from old women, and newcomers selling off inheritances. I don't want to go to jail for an illegal transaction, and I quickly learned to recognise a drug addict at first glance. By the look of you, I'd say you're raising money for an anonymous clinic. I approve of the decision to undergo treatment, but I cannot understand how you, a scientist and a genius, got hooked on the needle."
"It's not a needle," Steve said quickly. "I wanted to stop being a genius but not turn into an animal. This is cough syrup. A full liqueur glass was washed down with the same amount of brandy. And you get a state of slight lethargy for the whole day. Your brain no longer solves the problem of studying quantum mechanics, but it still doesn't confuse a door with a window."
"Cough syrup?" Riana didn't believe it.
"It contains psychotropic substances. They lull the cough centre in the brain if the cough is dry. In half of the cases of illness, the person doesn't have mucus in the lungs that needs to be removed, and the cough only injures the throat. Then it must be turned off through the brain. The dose of the psychotropic is so small that it is harmless even to an infant, and cough syrup is sold without a prescription. But it's not for nothing that a small measuring spoon and a note are placed in a box with medicine, demanding that you strictly adhere to the dosage. Moreover, such drugs are prohibited from being combined with ethanol."
"Well, why do you need this?"
"I wanted to be happy," Steve said. "Nobody needs geniuses, and everyone likes a fool."
"Not true!" Riana was indignant. "I fell in love with you only through your mind."
"And you ran away a month later."
"I ran away from your life plans, not from your superintelligence or your obsession with science. The prospect of becoming a housewife with a dozen children is not for me."
"And I found a girl who wants to be a housewife!" Steve exclaimed. "And he wants a lot of children. At the same time, she is not a religious fanatic, but a normal person, she has free, modern views on life, and a calm attitude towards those who want to live differently. She wants a big family for herself and doesn't seek to force everyone else to do so. She's okay with sex, too. There is no nonsense about saving yourself until marriage. She says that if you want a lot of children, you need to find someone with whom it is pleasant to make them and should go to the altar only after amazing orgasms."
"And you, out of joy that you met the woman of your dreams, began shooting up yourself at all sorts of lousy?" Riana asked sarcastically.
Steve collapsed into a visitor's chair and buried his face in his hands.
"She is incredibly stupid. It's like a frying pan talking to you. But my god, she is so cheerful and happy! She always sparkles with the life that I never had. This is a new, fabulous, heavenly world. However, to enter there and be with her, I must become like her. Brainless. I took the syrup, quit my job at the research centre, and now work as a gas station operator. And everything immediately improved in my personal life."
"Why so many unnecessary difficulties?" Riana was surprised.
"Because I can’t be silent with her all the time! I have to listen to what she says and answer her. I need to watch all these degenerate TV shows with her. Laugh at the jokes of her stupid friends. Oh my God... They are unbearable. But when I'm on syrup, it all becomes wonderful. I'm having fun, I have a lot of wonderful and kind-hearted buddies, I love the best girl in the world, and she agrees to be my wife. I will have a family. I am not a loner, rejected by everyone. And don't tell me to find a smart wife! No smart woman would want more than one, maximum two children! And generally, half of smart women are childfree. And I want a house full of children!"
"As for the connection between stupidity and having many children, the thesis is dubious," said Riana. "If you look at women with many children, among them there will be professors, top-level business people, and successful politicians. But I’m wondering, why do you think your bride is a fool? I see only wise judgements and actions."
"She's practical," Steve said, sitting up straighter in his chair. "But it is not intellect."
"And this comes from a drug addict who has cluttered up his life so much that he doesn't see a door in it."
"Door?" Steve didn't understand.
"Our life is a house in which there are many rooms. And if you want to live happily, you need to arrange everything that life consists of in different rooms and not dump everything into one so that there is no room left even for yourself."
"Is it possible without metaphors?" Steve got angry. "Are philosophers able to speak clearly?"
"Carrying work home is extremely impolite towards both home and work. And all psychologists say that for the best functioning of the mind it is necessary to work no more than eight hours a day, and the rest of the time need to be devoted for sleep, visits to the gym and relaxation with the most stupid, turning off the brain shows and conversations."
"Psychology is a fraud, not a science!" Steve seethed.
"Yes, this is fraud. But when a fraudster says chamomile tea and raspberry jam will cure your cold, he or she isn't lying."
Steve wanted to say something, but Riana interrupted:
"Have you been tested for genetics? Your lover of hyperprolific wants healthy children. But who will you make for her?"
Steve recoiled. And Riana said:
"Something went wrong with the syrup. Does your liver hurt? Or is there blood in the urine?"
"Lack of dose. The syrup has stopped working. I tried to increase the portion, but it all ended with vomiting. I told Ginny that I was leaving for two days and decided to do without the syrup in order to wean myself off and start all over again... But withdrawal symptoms began. And I bought meth from a pusher on the street... I didn't accept it. More precisely, I took very little, just to stop everything. And I found a clinic. But Ginny... If the treatment lasts longer than two weeks, she will find out, and she will guess... And will leave me. She hates drunks and junkies!"
"Do you love her?" asked Riana. "Or is she a convenient household appliance for you with the additional option of an incubator?
"You loved me. But you quit instantly."
"The number of loves in life is infinitely huge. And therefore, you can replace one love with another easily, quickly, and free of charge. But there is only one life. And if it is damaged, then restoration will be long, difficult, and expensive."
"There are always a lot of fish in the sea, aren't there?" Steve said it angrily.
"So do you love Ginny, or should you catch another love?"
"I don’t know," he sighed. "I'm happy with her for the first time. But I cannot stand even a moment with her without syrup."
"How do you like the syrup without her?"
"No!"
Riana nodded.
"Then ask her to help with distributing things into rooms. No doubt, she's doing a perfect job with it. And Ginny will take great care of the profitability of your patents. In order to make money from your brilliant discoveries, she doesn't need to understand science; it's enough to be a good hostess. And children, if you haven't forgotten, are a very expensive pleasure."
"What?!" Steve twitched. "I can’t tell her the truth!"
"I understand that tech people have an extremely limited vocabulary, but you are taught to understand the difference between truth and true from the first days of your first year."
"What are you talking about?"
"The true: You were depressed and afraid to go to the doctor, and when you met Ginny, out of fear of losing her, you became even more nervous and began taking legal over-the-counter sedatives yourself; you constantly increased the dose of the medicine until problems began. The true: You want to be treated, you want to be with her, and you want to put your confused life in order. The true: There is a risk that you are now prohibited from conceiving children, but you are not against adopting them."
Steve twitched again, but Riana beat him to it:
"If you real want a big family and don't strive to kill your wife with unnecessary births, then you can't do without foster children. Well, do you want a big family?"
Steve thought and said:
"I don't want her to suffer. I don't want her to feel pain. Even if all the children are adopted."
"O.K." Riana nodded. "Then let's continue. The next true: Your children and grandchildren, whether your own or adopted ones, may turn out to be geniuses, and only another genius can teach them how to live happily with this. The true: First you need to learn to live life yourself and not flush it down the toilet bowl." Riana looked at Steve with irony: "And how does all this contradict the truth that you jumped into shit yourself and wanted to get out of it on someone else's back without making any effort of your own?"
"I hate you," Steve muttered.
"I don't care. Do you sell your junk or treat drug addiction through a free government programme?"
"I don't know."
"The trouble with your Ginny," said Riana, "is that she is kind and unselfish. Avid bitches, having the educational and intellectual level of an amoeba, use geniuses as a source of money and a pass to social parties, leaving them with a bare bottom in a divorce, but the geniuses are happy with them."
"What kind of money is there in science?" Steve was indignant. "We are financed on a residual basis."
"If you can't profit from scientific discoveries, this does not mean that others cannot. Management is a different type of activity. If you haven't forgotten, I entered the Faculty of Philosophy only because there was no money for economics and especially for business school. And philosophy cost me a handful of copper coins. However, I studied the philosophy of the market. I wasn't the only one who was so cunning, but the teachers who loved to wander into the philosophical empyrean wanted to sit on a relatively decent salary. And they were deathly afraid of the closure of the Faculty of Philosophy due to the lack of students, and therefore they pretended that everything was planned that way. But you can be a good dealer even without having an A-level school."
Steve muttered something that sounded like a curse. Riana laughed.
"It's time for cleaning. Come back when you're done. I will help you choose a wedding gift for the bride."
Steve shot her an angry look and ran out into the street. Riana snorted and opened the series on her laptop.

Short sketches from the lives of a variety of people through the eyes of an ironic lady.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52497217
https://www.wattpad.com/user/Aliyn_Raven

Story-1. Marital Bliss And Piglet

Riana has always been a clever girl, and she realized one of the foundations of being even at her tender childhood age: "The most important organ of almost all people is the butt. People think, watch, read, write, work and make any choice from small to fateful with the help of the butt. They love each other and children are also raised through the butt, for the most part. So it makes no sense to wonder why so many people's lives are drowning in shit".
Riana grew up, turning from a little girl with violet eyes and red pigtails into a thirty-five year old lady with an elegant haircut; her fiery hair colour darkened to mahogany, but the people remained the same.
And yet, the stupidity of others is not as horrifying as it seems.
The main thing is not to forget for yourself — the head is needed not only to eat with help of it and wear a hat on it.
In addition, it would not be possible to get a chic hat for yourself without a well-functioning head, and Riana loved them very much.
She also loved cookies, antiques, and adventure.
Alas, both that, and the second, and the third are expensive, and if you also add hats, then you won’t see happiness in life.
But if the head is used for its mental purpose, then you can become the owner of an antique store, and then all three delights will become tax-free business expenses.
And even cookies, when consumed correctly, do not harm your body. But they help very well in purchasing goods for the store.
Unfortunately, the search and acquisition of cute antiques, an extremely pleasant activity, was inevitably accompanied by chatter about outrageous nonsense with butt-handlebar persons.
And now the garage sale organizer was complaining about her terrible husband. Why the hell does this lady even live with someone who doesn't suit her, Riana didn't ask — butt-handlebar persons aren't capable of solving such complex issues.
But, as folk wisdom says, if a woman has no worries, then she either quarrels with her husband or buys a piglet. Considering that keeping pigs in such a suburb is prohibited, Riana advised her interlocutor to buy a papillon or a poodle — there are no fewer worries with a long-haired dog.
"But you definitely need to train the dog to participate in the competition for performing tricks," Riana added. "It's called 'agility'. The prize will bring a double benefit: it will decorate your living room and stop quarrels with your husband."
The lady stared at Riana in complete stunnedness, and Riana fixed her with the confident gaze of an expert on the universe, without whose mastery it is impossible to run an antique business. Of course, this lady will quarrel with her husband much less for the simple reason that fussing with a pet will force her to spend a lot of time outside her husband's society.
But since a butt-handlebar master could become a danger to an innocent and defenseless animal, Riana added:
"It's better to start with courses for dog owners. Before buying a puppy. Without preparation, you will ruin everything."
Riana didn't meet this lady for the next year. And in early December, when the Christmas rush of garage sales began and Riana came to this town again, she saw this lady proudly walk in the town square in the company of a charming white Spitz and a handsome companion, who, as Riana knew for sure, was not the same "terrible husband" of this lady.
The lady saw Riana and went straight to her.
"I'm writing a book about the role of dogs in a woman's life," the lady said, barely saying hello. "Will you help with editing? I will definitely give you one copy of the book. No, even three copies, so you can please your friends."
"I'm afraid I have absolutely no time." Riana smiled sweetly. "After all, I am the owner of a very difficult store, always in business. But I can advise you to those who aren't particularly busy and will willingly help you."
And Riana took out her phone and began writing a message to one of the customers: her elderly mother regularly tore the brains of the whole family, demanding from them perfect literary talks. For a break from her mother, the buyer will owe Riana a meeting with a very profitable, unsociable collector who didn't communicate with anyone without recommendations.

I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
*****
Novel, modern urban fantasy, our world.
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.

Fatima already knew the answer, she looked for information about Dave Terence as soon as she read my letter.
And my whereabouts scared me more than the kidnapping.
Aeterna Saltus. Aesa for short. The special territory of the Republic of Alnorria, located on the border of the western and southern districts, has the status of a district, but it is called "special territory". They speak the northern dialect here, I could guess where I am, but I forgot about Aesa because this is one of those places on Earth where I would never want to go.
Aesa at the end of the 17th century was inhabited by religious fanatics, who were kicked out of their homelands by their own neighbors, since the unmoderated moderation didn't please normal people. But the Alnorrianishes have always loved the "golden mean", frantic epicureanism, as well as rabid asceticism, are equally unpleasant for us, therefore the Independents and their brothers in mind from other faiths didn't arouse sympathy from anyone. However, the Alnorrianishes have always been very practical as well, allowing fanatics to settle in the uninhabited lands and live there to their liking in exchange for the fanatics keeping the mountain roads constantly passable.
Alnorria is a small island, only 388'311 km2 (an easy number to remember, our schoolchildren were lucky), it was possible quickly to sail on a ship around it all in a circle even in those days, but at that time there were many battles in the Mediterranean Sea, much more than ever was in this eternally warring watery expanse. Therefore, small merchants, the backbone and driving force of Alnorria, were afraid to swim even along the coast. And no one ever wanted to cross the high mountains and deep gorges in the center of the island, and because the mountain valleys of Aeterna Saltus remained uninhabited for a long time.
Fanatics turned up in time under the arm of the parliament of Alnorria, and an agreement was concluded with them: "We don't ask what happens in the depths of the valleys, you build federal roads, keep them in order and don't interfere in the life of roadside taverns". This agreement is still in force today to a large extent. Aesa respects federal laws, but there are few of them, each district of Alnorria has its own parliament and its own constitution, its own Supreme Court — his verdict can be challenged in the Federal Court, but this is a very long process (although it is not hopeless!).
But I am here. And half of Aesa's land belongs to TGS and Dave.
I will never believe that my grandmother, even in a drunken stupor, could wish me to live in Aesa!
I tell everything for a long time, but in fact, all the memories and thoughts took a few seconds.
I said goodbye to Fatima and called my grandmother. I wake her up and scare her, but otherwise, she will suffer much more.
Granny answered after the third ring, and before I even had time to say hello, she said:
"You should stay in Terr-Court and don't go anywhere. Wait at least a month. This is necessary for your survival. My son is in Alnorria and he wants to kill you."
"What?!" I was taken aback. "But you only had my mother!"
"You already know about Rudlig,” granny said. "Dave couldn't help but tell you."
"I know," I replied. "But…"
I didn't finish, my thoughts were confused. And the granny said:
"I married a well-to-do man at the age of twenty, gave birth to a daughter, and two years later a son was born. I enjoyed the life of a housewoman without even thinking about studying and working. For fourteen years my marriage was quite decent, and my husband behaved adequately. But after that, he began to turn into a religious fanatic, an admirer of the president, and a domestic tyrant. Our lives have deteriorated, entertainment has disappeared, and my husband has stopped buying me fashionable clothes. We fought all the time. But I was afraid to get divorced. I tolerated his transformation into cattle for two years. And I got the inevitable. One day my husband hit me. And I realized that I must immediately save my life. Then Rudlig had not yet completely turned into a medieval dictatorship, and I was able to get a divorce, sue half of what was acquired in marriage, and move to another city, away from my ex-husband and his persecution. I bought a trading warehouse with the help of a good agency, rented it out to a store, and could continue the life of a well-to-do housewoman. The daughter left with me, and the son took the side of the father."
"I understand," I said. Then I figured out the dates, recalled some history lessons from school, and asked: "Shortly after your divorce, Rudlig began to pass those terrible laws that turned it into a dictatorship? And your son is completely..." I hesitated, but told the truth: "Has he lost his mind?"
"Dictatorship in the full sense of the word began later, but your mother was a very smart and active child, she was interested in things that fifteen-year-olds usually don't care about. It was she who insisted that soon everything would get worse, that it was necessary to learn languages and leave for a normal country. I admitted that she was right, but I had no idea how I would look for a job. My property was wealth only for Rudlig, and it is just funds for a few weeks of a good life in Europe or America. But more importantly, I didn't know how to persuade Diongus to leave his father and come to me. I studied English and French because my lover said they were the most beneficial for emigrating, and my daughter wanted more language practice, she needed to speak English and French at home. So three years passed, and the situation became critical. My lover was a good programmer, but he didn't have a diploma and official work experience, because he ran away from his drunker parents at the age of thirteen."
"Was he your kept guy?" I was surprised. "A woman has every right to buy toyboys but this isn't your style. You don't like weaklings."
"Oh no," granny laughed. "He wasn't a whore. At first, Tiasiy lived in gaming clubs, earned money by the exaltation of characters, and at the age of sixteen, as soon as he received a passport and the right to a bank account, he rented an apartment and began working in the creation of indie games. He was twenty by the time we met, he didn't need money, he had his own apartment, car and stable good fees, and therefore he was too lazy to get an education and look for a job under a contract. We met for three years, and our lives suited us, and we would continue to talk about emigration, without doing anything about this, only once every six months we flew on tourist visas for a few days to France and the US. We were afraid of change, afraid to decide. We had our cozy shell, and we did not even dare to stick our noses out of it, although Rudlig was getting worse day by day, the president constantly limited little by little progress and freedom. However, we told ourselves that everything would be fine. But the Day of the Seven Laws happened, after which it became dangerous to stay in Rudlig. A housewoman and an illegal programmer decided they would never find a job and needed a workaround."
Granny sighed.
"There are going to be some very ugly things to come. The current problems are largely generated by our decision."
"Did you forge documents?" I understood.
"Almost. The news was just saying that in one of the southern cities of Alnorria there was a strong earthquake. There was no exact information about who died and who survived. Tiasiy hacked the website of the district registration service and found among the lists of citizens a single guy and a married couple with no relatives who had an eighteen-year-old daughter. All were descendants of Filipino settlers and were of the same age as us, only the birthdays were different. It is easy to find a double in the metropolis. And they all didn't use social media much, so there was no one to point out the difference in our faces. In the confusion, no one can tell a refugee from a volunteer, and the northern dialect of Alnorria is English in practically, archaic compared to British or American, but in the north of Alnorria, no one will be surprised that the southerners speak standard English instead of a dialect."
"Yes," I agreed. "There is such a thing. Northern Alnorrianishes never study English, they switch to it after a couple of hours of training. And no one will ask why a southerner does not know either the southern dialect or Italian. As long as you can talk to social services and your neighbors, no one cares if you know any other language."
"I quickly, at a reduced price, sold the apartment, the warehouse and the car, closed the bank account and bought gold jewelry with all the money, hung them all on myself. Many women are hung with blings like a Christmas tree in Rudlig, that's why no one paid attention to me in the customs of Rudlig. Tiasiy bought the shares and somehow arranged anonymous access for them. We flew as tourists to Turkey, and there the customs officers also didn't pay attention to the gilded savage woman, they see such people every day. Tiasiy and I hired a little yacht that took us illegally to Alnorria. We have become missing for Turkey and Rudlig, and new citizens have appeared in Alnorria. In the chaos that was then going on at the crash site, no one was surprised that the dead were alive. There were many such cases. But…"
Granny sighed bitterly.
"When we saw what was in this city… Woe of people, destruction. The photographs didn't convey even half of the nightmare. We acted disgustingly. We could leave differently. We could spend ninety days as tourists in the same Turkey, find a job using the internet in Europe — this term is more than sufficient, and indie companies and all sorts of chocolate shops are not demanding diplomas, the governments of European countries are not too greedy in the area of their own analogs of the "profession libérale" visa, in other words, talent-without-diploma-and-experience… If you have a good portfolio… However, we were afraid of difficulties and did mean things. Tiasiy two days later gave all the shares to help the victims of the earthquake and committed suicide. I also wanted this all the time, but I had a frightened daughter who should not suffer because of my stupidity and cowardice. And I had a son who I was supposed to drag into a good country as the fetus of my old adultery, which remained in Rudlig. I gave half of the gold to the relief fund and drove north. But due to chance, I found a job in a pastry shop in Weissberg."
Granny sighed heavily again and continued her story:
"I was on duty in the kitchen in the refugee camp and made some sweets for the children. And one of the volunteers immediately took me to her relative, who needed an assistant in a pastry shop. I didn't know a word in the western dialect of Alnorria or German, but that didn't surprise anyone. An ex-housewife had every right to live within her own neighborhood and speak only the language of the diaspora. The owner of the confectionery, a very nice old woman, spoke a fluent northern dialect and did not distinguish the Philippines from Algeria. But she needed a person who was good at making French cakes and Arabic jalebis. I have always loved making sweet pastries and homemade chocolate, I liked using a variety of recipes, and the owner of the candy shop was delighted with my skills. She was a kind woman and helped what she thought was a refugee with finding an apartment and language courses. After a while, she said that she was tired and wanted to retire, but she was depressed at the thought that the new owner would turn the candy shop into a video rental shop or laundry. And I asked her to make a recommendation about me for a bank. So I got a loan and became the owner of a store and an apartment. I spent the gold that I had left on small but useful improvements, and the store became quite successful, I paid off all debts for a year. And just at that moment, my daughter Feonia, who was now Nancy, met Albert Terrent."
Granny muttered a swear word and said:
"I told her that this rich puppy would be of no use, but she imagined herself to be Cinderella and didn't hear a single word."
"I understand," I said. "And it’s not for me to judge whether you acted badly or well. I don't know how I would have acted in such a situation."
"I learned from my mistakes," Granny replied. "You have a profession, you know how to earn money, you rely only on yourself and are not afraid of change."
"Tell me about Diongus," I asked. "Why do you say he wants to kill me?"
"I wrote him letters and emails, and I promised help in escaping from Rudlig and legalization in Alnorria. When he came of age, I began to persuade him to come for family reunification, but he didn't answer. And once he demanded to forget about him, or he would report me to the authorities of Alnorria. I wasn't afraid for myself, but Nancy and you... I couldn't risk it. I didn't know anything about Diongus for a long time. And a year ago, when covid restrictions eased, my grandson Gregor, son of Diongus, sent me my letters. And he asked me to do for him what I promised his father."
"And you didn't tell me anything?" I was outraged.
"It was illegal again. I bought a private flight, flew to the Philippines and paid smugglers to bring Gregor to me. There it is a long-standing and well-established service - to arrange for a Rudligish to escape from the country. And then I illegally brought Gregor to Alnorria on another private flight, placed him with the migrants, then helped him get arrested by the migration police and sent a lawyer. Alnorria deported only adults, and even then not always, but the court could not help but leave a fourteen-year-old child in the country, and the social service placed him in a foster family. Gregor told the police that he himself ran away from home and hid on a cargo ship with migrants, he himself escaped from it in the port and tried to get caught by the police in order to ask them to protect him from his family. They believed him.
"It's like an adventure novel," I said with shock.
Granny chuckled and replied:
"Such a scam cost me dearly, I pawned a confectionery and an apartment, but it was worth it. Gregor quickly received a scholarship to a private boarding school. He was capable and played the violin in the church band. Gregor wanted to learn to play the guitar banned in Rudlig and learn modern rock vocals, he wanted to learn how to dance. He got it all at school. But Diongus tracked him down through social media."
"Oh shit!" I gasped, guessing what happened next. And the granny said:
"Gregor didn't mention me or you anywhere, did not try to communicate with us, and spoke to me only via instant messengers, but Diongus could easily put two and two together. He arrived in Alnorria and killed Gregor. Diongus swore to kill me and you. The police are looking for him, they will soon arrest him. He'll get a life sentence, and then you'll be safe. But right now you need good security. Diongus wouldn't venture into Terr-Court. An expensive hospital and a health resort hotel for those who want to remain anonymous are also too tough for him."
"This is madness," I said.
"Yes," granny agreed. "This is madness. I wanted to save my grandson and granddaughter from him, but there was too much madness."
"What is your real name?" I asked.
"Gregor's and Diongus' surnames are Tinoliadis. And I'm Olivia Kelvin. And only Olivia Kelvin!"
"I understand you."
"Diongus has turned into a maniac," granny said. "I hate to admit it, but it's true. Therefore, stay under guard until he is arrested and watches the press."
"Okay," I replied. "I'll sit in Terr-Court and wait for Diongus to be arrested."
I didn't intend to do this, but I didn't want to worry my granny. Her health is really very bad. She is only sixty, but she has lived too long in Rudlig, and the crappy ecology of an underdeveloped country greatly destroys the body. I want to save granny! It is better to press the police through the media so that the case of Diongus Tinoliadis is transferred to the more prompt Republican Security Service.
There was still some money left on the phone, for one SOS-sms. I set it up to be sent to Fatima.
Now sleep. After all the news, I felt exhausted and overwhelmed.
When the convoyers began pounding on the bedroom door, it seemed to me that I had slept for only one minute. And when I looked at the alarm clock, which was on the nightstand by the bed, I cursed very rudely. Five in the morning! Are they crazy?
I covered my head with a second pillow and tried to fall asleep again. But the convoyers broke into the bedroom through the servants' door.
"Young miss!" James' voice almost made my head explode, he was so nasty. "The lady gets up early to make herself worthy appearance for first breakfast."
"My appearance is always worthy because it is mine!" I snapped. "And you don't dare interfere with me until I call you."
"Herrin…" Helmut began, but I threw the alarm clock at him and a slipper flew at James. I missed both, but James and Helmut escaped at the speed of light.
That is great. I buried myself in the pillow and fell asleep.
I slept until eight in the morning and was not even much late for the first breakfast. To my surprise, there was a light salad and low-fat yogurt on the food table. Dave didn't comment on it in any way, he only said that yesterday's circumstances prevented me from undergoing a medical examination, and today the doctor will come to Joyterr.
I forgot with all the shit that happened to me that there was supposed to be testing. James said "It's scheduled for tomorrow", while I was looking at the catalogs, that is, it was the day before yesterday. But yesterday, Eleanor doused me with paint, and I had to wash for a long time.
"Oh yes," I said. "I necessarily need a doctor. What if the paint is toxic? I asked about a doctor yesterday."
Eleanor tensed up, but Dave continued to pick at the plate as if nothing had happened. But Chris said:
"This is a common interior paint, odorless, and safe for humans."
"The amount of compensation that the TGS should add to the inheritance has doubled," I replied. "Now it's five million six hundred thousand brangs under a pre-trial agreement. Or eleven million two hundred thousand ones the court."
Eleanor twisted with rage, but she said nothing. And Dave replied:
"Things like this are discussed in the office. I will receive you after the second breakfast."
"Ladies sleep during the day," Chris said. And I gasped:
"What does "sleep" mean? Like in "Gone with the Wind"? Do you know what year it is?"
"A lady remains a lady," Dave snapped. "And you should get used to it quickly."
"I'm not a brainless cowardly Melanie Hamilton to live like the sow."
Dave chuckled.
"All women adore Rhett Butler and hate Melanie Wilkes, whom he greatly respected and called the true lady. Is it jealousy?"
"Rhett Butler needs to be kicked away from yourself," I said. "And not because he left Scarlet in the middle of the road. Right there, he was completely right. But otherwise, he is a manipulator and abuser with a sadistic streak. That's why he drooled over Melanie as an ideal victim and a doormat. And Melanie wretchedly carried a torch for wacky Scarlett and is beastly dead from childbirth that was obviously dangerous for her, instead of declaring herself an old maid, getting all the independence due to them, and living happily with an adequate companioness or even with two. And there were ways to prevent pregnancy or make early miscarriage in those days, too, so if Melanie Hamilton needed this worthless Ashley Wilkes so much, she could avoid suffering from reproduction."
Dave listened to me with an impenetrable look. And said:
"You're jealous of Mitchell."
"The novel by Mitchell is brilliant and immortal precisely because it perfectly showed how the wind carried away the trash that no one needed. And those who wanted to live among people had to change a lot."
Dave looked at me searchingly.
"Meeting at one o'clock in the afternoon in my office." And he left. Eleanor left her half-eaten omelet and ran after him.
And Helmut told me that a doctor was waiting for me.
"He will wait some more," I replied. "I'll have breakfast first."
They didn't argue with me. The convoyers gradually began to realize that I didn't need all this and that I didn't owe anything to anyone here. And the medical examination was strange. The doctor didn't bring a portable tomograph with him (I saw one in the series about an ambulance) or something like that, and didn't take blood from me. He was not a doctor at all, but some kind of chakra-scanning charlatan. Yes, he directly said that he would scan the chakras, and poked me with something like a microphone connected to a laptop. Dave's mind is completely off.
But I don't give a damn. It is necessary to use big and other people's money for your own benefit, and not waste time thinking about stupid things.
"This mausoleum is full of people," I told my convoyers. "And there's bound to be an Old-Alnorrian language specialist. I want to practice in it."
The convoyers were taken aback. I was surprised: Old-Alnorrian has been in vogue in recent years, in the east of the country they are even trying to revive it as the language of everyday communication and make it the fourth state language. I don't think it's possible to bring back something that fell into disuse three hundred years ago, but clients often want inscriptions on cakes and chocolate cards in Old-Alnorrian, so in the poet's courses we studied a little this language, trained in calligraphy and in ways to connect the letters of the word into a ligature according to canonical rules — residents of medieval Alnorria liked to stuff a word or even a phrase onto rings and buckles, so the art of ligatures was very much appreciated.
An inheritance, a compensation, a court — it isn't known whether this will be successful or not but the ability to write in Old-Alnorrian will be valuable for a long time to come. And this thing is needed not only for a candy shop: any design firm will jump on such an employee since no AI can handle Old-Alnorrian. Because I don't want to forget what I know. In addition, studying Old-Alnorrian is an expensive pleasure, there are few qualified teachers, and the preparation was so-so in the courses, online learning was also not encouraging. And Dave can't have a great specialist.
Helmut started to say that Old-Alnorrian was not a lady's business, but I told him to shut up and follow orders.
"The Chairman won't approve of this," James said. "And you need his support for your grandmother."
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216

I haven't forgotten about Alex, her adventures continue, and there will be a new chapter tonight.
For those who don't know her yet, Alex is waiting for a visit:
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216

Summary: I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-for-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216

The visitor turned out to be Chris, who was either Dave's personal gentleman or his secretary. By the way, why Chris and not Christina? If we take into account some additional options for personal assistants... The thought that someone as handsome as Chris could fuck with Dave made me sick. How is Dave blackmailing him?! Or does Chris have Stockholm syndrome from childhood to the point of complete loss of personality?
But nothing, in the social services of Alnorria there are psychologists to work with victims of domestic violence.
Chris brought a photo album with Terrent family cards.
I don't get it, is this compensation? Dave's going into senile dementia and he thinks I'll forget about the attack for this junk? And there's also kidnapping, forcible detention, deprivation of contact with the world... No, he's definitely sick in the head.
"Take this back where you got it,' I told Chris.
"You don't want to see your father's face?" he was amazed. "Find out who your father was?"
"I already know who my father was. I don't give a damn how a scoundrel, a fool, a lazybones and a coward looked."
Chris almost puffed with indignation.
"Then you are the offspring of a scoundrel, a fool, a lazybones and a coward."
"I've lived with that fact for nineteen years," I snorted, "and I'll try to live at least another eighty. My father's problems don't concern me, I'm on my own."
"Don't you dare talk like that about the one who gave you life!"
"I have a complete and absolute right to this," I answered calmly and explained: "There is nothing wrong with abandoning a pregnant bride because love is a perishable and easily replaceable product. But not taking care of a child is a crime. Moreover, to take care of a child, you do not need to meet personally with him and his mother, it is enough to pay half the costs of food, clothes, medical insurance, a nanny, a housekeeper and school. And nothing prevented Albert from paying at least twenty percent of the child's bills in secret from his daddy!" I gave Chris a few moments to comprehend and I added: "Therefore, the dead biker that my granny invented for me as my father is better than a billionaire. No one expects responsibility from a biker initially, starting with a girl who wanted a child and found a male who that was handsome and didn't interfere afterward."
Chris was about to say something, but I interrupted:
"No one can choose their parents, but anyone and everyone is able to choose themselves and make themselves independently of them."
"You don’t know anything about Master Albert to judge him!"
"What ardor!" I appreciated his emotional outburst. All the icy crust he showed the world was gone. And I guessed: "You slept with him?"
Chris twitched, not in outrage, but as it caught him off guard. I nodded:
"If Albert had not been a scoundrel, a fool, a lazybones and a coward, both of you nineteen years ago could have left Terr Kort for any city in Weisserflussland and got married. You might be to adopting children if you need parenthood. And Albert, with his education and experience in management, could find a job that would make you a househusband."
Chris froze with his mouth open. I explained:
"Weisserflussland was the first among all six districts of Alnorria to legalize same-sex marriage. My granny and mother went to demonstrations to the district parliament, after which my grandmother participated in processions in support of the federal referendum. Mother would do it too, but she had died by then. Granny is very proud that there is their contribution to the Alnorrian law on marital equality. I am also proud that my granny and mother did such a good thing."
By the way, where is Terr-Court? I was taken by plane for forty minutes from Weissberg, this is the capital of Weisserflussland. Our country is small, but you can fly over it in only an hour and a half. They flew, judging by the fact that the port was visible from the window of the aircraft, moreover it was docks and other auxiliary parts, to the southeast. Forty minutes flight... Is it somewhere in Montagne Aguzze? But the customs of Joyterr are northern, everyone here speaks only the northern dialect. And Marco said that he grew up in the southern villa, and only after that he got a job in the central one. James started out in the north villa, this is in contrast of Terr-Court. So the central residence is not in the north and not in the south? But I did not hear a Western accent from anyone except Helmut. Although I did not talk to anyone except Dave, his managers, Eleanor, my convoyers and Irma. In the east, they speak the northern and southern dialects, but in a very peculiar way, there the two dialects mix and change, but here everyone has the canonical northern speech.
My granny and mother came to Weissberg from the south after the earthquake, but my mother met Albert in Weissberg. Dave, apparently, didn't allow his son to live far from him. And there is nothing special about studying in the Western dialect at school, and speaking only in the Northern dialect at home.
Can an airplane turn around in flight so that passengers do not feel anything?
But it isn't important. I'm more afraid of the inaction of friends. After all, I sent them letters yesterday. I was unable to send messages through the book reader (I only heard from nerds in the confectionery how to do it, but I didn’t practice, I could mix something up) or did my friends decide that I was fooling around and I don't understand my happiness? Or did they stop being my friends out of envy?
All I have to do is wait for the night, call and find out everything.
These thoughts raced through my head in a second.
And Chris said:
"There is a photograph in your grandmother's apartment, on the mantelpiece. She found on a biker forum the one whom she wrote down as your father. Don't you wonder if he looks like Albert Terrent?"
I thought for a bit and decided it was interesting to know. Chris opened the album to the correct page and handed it to me.
Biker and Albert were very similar. Granny and mother did a great job of finding in the squalor that the Internet was nineteen years old, the right person with the right biography: an orphan from a foster family, where there are many other children and they often change, the biker lived like a tumbleweed, rode out all over the European Union, including our little island, had many friends, but no one who would remember him for more than one day. And he was an Austrian, not an Alnorrian — convenient if you need to cut off all ties, even if the two countries are on the same team.
Granny said that when my father left my mother, out of anger, she destroyed all his photos and deleted the contacts of his friends. This is almost true: there were no photos of Albert Dave Nicholas Terrent and contacts of his acquaintances anywhere, and although my mother and grandmother deleted everything against their will, they were very angry with my father and grandfather.
"The biker is a little prettier," I remarked. Chris pouted, and I flipped through the album from the beginning to Albert's photo, then further. Purely mechanical action, I didn't give a damn what it was, my hands did it and I thought about how my mother and grandmother were looking for a photo so that I could do this vile, sneaky and abusive school task about the family tree. For thirty years now, parents have been demanding a legislative ban on this invasion of privacy, but so far the task remains at the discretion of the school.
Yes, stop. Something is wrong with the album. I went back to the first page and began to read the captions to the photos more carefully. Here it is! Photos from the funeral with dates of life. All the Terrents and related people from other old families died young, rarely lived to be fifty, most of the deaths were between forty and forty-five. Many women died in childbirth or shortly thereafter. What was supposed to happen to the health of these women and why did their deaths not cause a scandal throughout the country? Even if an illegal migrant does not receive full-fledged assistance during childbirth in a free clinic, the press, feminists and human rights activists bury the Ministry of Health three meters underground, and the rich themselves well can sue. But there was no such news. Or I don't know? I never followed the news about the life of the rich and famous. And this is after WWII in Europe, and even more so at the beginning of the 21st century!
And Dave among this legion of early deaths reached eighty-two years. Еhis isn't old age by modern standards, even my neighbors are full of those who are cheerful and active people at ninety-six, and here are people with big money, who, all the more, should live a very long time and in good health. Blood marriages over many generations do not contribute to longevity, but modern medicine is no joke either. So why did only Dave survive?
I wanted to look in the album for photos of related families, to check the dates of life, but Chris took the album from me. Well, okay. I don't give a damn. All this is none of my business. All I need is to cross my fingers for my own long life and quickly return my inheritance.
My stomach growled. Because of this laundering hassle, I missed lunch, or, as they say here, second breakfast.
"We'll bring you sandwiches and tea," James said.
"No," I replied. "Let your Eleanor, Dave and other scums not expect me to hide. Bring meat soup and green salad to the dining room."
"There is no soup now. Everything prepared for the second breakfast was over, and dinner was not yet prepared. It will be served only after two hours, so they will start cooking in an hour."
"We'll bring you sandwiches and tea," James said.
"No," I replied. "Let your Eleanor, Dave and other scums don't expect me to hide. Bring meat soup and green salad to the dining room."
"There is no soup now. Everything prepared for the second breakfast was over, and dinner was not yet prepared. It will not be served until six o'clock in the afternoon, so they will start cooking after evening tea. If you want to go to the dining room, wait for half past three."
"Well, order Tom Kha Gai at a Thai cafe," I said.
James stared at me as if I had demanded that Joyterr be blown up. And Raoul said:
"Ladies don’t eat common people's foods. And they don't all the more so order takeout."
"Then go to the kitchen and make crayfish soup in twenty minutes. This is the delivery time from the cafe. And then explain the fundamental difference between Soupe Aux Écrevisses and Tom Yum. Time spent in the kitchen doesn't count."
It was a hard blow. French zealots of traditions are furious that Thai and Chinese cuisine in France has greatly supplanted French cuisine precisely due to the speed and ease of preparation in the presence of the taste familiar to the French. Raul burned me with an angry look. I smiled sweetly in response and advised to hurry. Raul answered stubbornly:
"A meal in the dining room without the Chairman is impossible."
"Did I ask you to cook soup with him?" I asked mockingly.
"Gerrin…" Helmut began, but I interrupted.
"Soup and green vegetable salad in the dining room. And make a list of my father's assets: chattels, immovables, trust funds, stocks."
"It needs permission from the President, little Miss," said James. "And there are rules a lady follows. If you are late for a family meal, you can eat in your apartment, but don't require a separate meal for you in the dining room. And you, little Miss, need to learn how to walk, dress, talk and smile like a lady. You must have a meaningful and ladylike judgment on all the social events of the last two months. Miss Eleanor is a recognized leader among the wives and daughters of Alnorria's business elite, and it will be very difficult to outshine her. And you only have a week to prepare."
"What for delirium?!" I was outraged. "I am the heir to a financial empire, and at the ball, I have to make judgments about the stock price in business people's society, and not discuss movie stars with bad tools. Or at least it is necessary to show the business world that I see the directions of development of the TGS and delve into its problems and achievements."
"Signorina, you are too young and inexperienced for such conversations," said Marco. "You need…"
"I need to show how quickly I learn everything, since I have homeschooled, and not at business school. By the way, why is Eleanor studying here, and not in the Ivy League or Raison Hall?"
This is an Allnorrian business college, very intelligent, and is in demand and authority throughout the European Union.
"She didn't do well at the boarding school," Marco replied. "And she didn't go to college."
"And I didn't even go to high school, although I tried to pass the exams. How will Dave explain this by declaring me the heiress of a conglomerate?"
"You still have time to learn how to evaluate the decisions of top managers who have earned honors degrees from Raison Hall and the Ivy League."
"Exactly!" I said. "I need training with top managers, or at least with an accountant, and not any crap."
"But…"
"If Dave doesn’t like it, let him give me back my father’s property, and we will forget about each other. And you remember that he came to me. I didn't know my father was Albert Dave Nicholas Terrent and not Ernie Otto Blum. But now I have reason to sue Dave for inheritance fraud."
It's a pity I didn't think to say it at that meeting with the lawyer that turned my whole life upside down. I forgot, I didn't figure out. Still, the lack of education (and brains!) greatly complicates life.
"Guerrina," said Helmut, "management has its own language, and it isn't impossible to understand it in a week."
"I studied the language of finance, advertising and law for a year at school, then two years in one professional course, then another. Not as deep and good as at the university, but enough to understand when a lawyer, an investment adviser and an ad agency are working effectively, and when they are just trying to squeeze money out of me. I understand something in matters of divorce, alimony and inheritance too."
My convoyers and Chris, who had been educated in Dave's beloved domain, stared at me in amazement. The results of real learning came as a surprise to them. And I said:
"However, to the point. Serve lunch in the dining room and bring a list of my father's possessions."
"That's impossible…" James began, but Chris cut him off.
"You’ll be served beef broth with ham, cottage cheese, egg, and toast if you don't mind. This is the only thing that can be cooked in fifteen minutes. The rest will take time. And, of course, the green vegetable salad will also be, like tea."
"Good," I nodded, noting that this soup is popular in the western districts, name is Mittagaufdemfeld or, for simplicity, Mitfe, which Chris for some reason described by composition, and did not name it. I don't know what that means, but in enemy territory, any little thing can be useful.
My convoyers wanted to say something, almost seething with anger, but didn't dare to object to Chris. And he said to me:
"You'd better talk to the Chairman about your father's affairs. I will make an appointment with you shortly. It's about tomorrow after lunch."
"Okay," I was a little surprised that Chris suddenly began to help me, but what do reasons matter? The main thing is to quickly get out of here and take my things.
And now I need to eat. And I should talk to Eleanor. Chris sent a message to someone and invited me to the dining room. On the way, I asked him where Eleanor's room was.
"She can't accept you. And this cannot be changed. I'm sorry. But don't worry about that, Mx, she's anyway not capable of communicating."
[She got drunk or something?] I thought in surprise.
However, in the dining room, Eleanor sat at the head of the table, and her lackeys stood behind her. And, judging by the muffled exclamations of Chris and the convoyers, this event was more than non-trivial. I remembered that in the morning Dave forbade her to leave her room. Did they all seriously think that she would do such an absurdity?
And also Eleanor has supporters in Joyterr. They told her about the dining room.
But I don't care about all that. I sat down at the opposite end of the table and said:
"You have supporters on the board of directors too. The sooner I take my father's property and leave here, the sooner you will be the only heir to TGS. Get the board to put pressure on Dave."
"The bastard spawn of a plebeian slut will never become the mistress of noble possessions. She will not touch the jewelry of lawful wives."
I just snorted. Eleanor can shove a cheap trap up her ass. And I answered:
"I'll take the cost of the villa, blings and paintings in money. It's even easier for me. Dave and I will call independent appraisers and get everything done quickly."
"I won't let the dirt take the money my future son will inherit."
Wow, is she pregnant? And the exemplary virtuous lady made a child without a husband? And my convoyers and Chris are not at all surprised. But that's not my problem. There is more important news.
"The TGS conglomerate is on the verge of ruin if a stinking thirty six million brangs are a problem for it?" They stared at me like I was a ghost. It seems that I estimated the amount of the inheritance accurately. But this task is not the discovery of the law of universal gravitation, a lot of intelligence is not needed for it, why are they surprised? However, it doesn't matter, and I asked about the really important:
"How many years has TGS ended the year with losses? And why hasn't a more successful corporation bought it yet?"
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.

https://aliynraven.substack.com

My new home for making books.
How the hell does this all work?! I got lost in settings like a forest.

Summary: I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-for-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216

As many as four men pushed me into the car. Of course, I fought back, but the result was zero. I couldn't even bite the hand that was covering my mouth: it was wearing a thick leather glove.
"You don't need to shout, Fräulein Alex," said one of the men, who was sitting next to the driver. The third and fourth were in the back seat on either side of me. The third held my hands, the fourth clamped my mouth. The first added: "Your grandfather wants to see you, Fräulein."
I was so dumbfounded by the word "Fräulein" said by a young guy that I missed "grandfather" past my ears. It's been about fifty years since no one calls a girl "Fräulein". "Frau" also no one ever says. A woman from birth to old age is only "Fru" in modern Alnorria, and no one dares to get into her intimate life. I only saw "Fräulen" and "Frau" in the old novels.
"Your grandfather, Signorina," said the second guy who was driving in the Southern Alnorrian dialect, "is waiting for you at his summer residence."
So. Grandfather, it is. This asshole came into my life yesterday around noon. And before that, I didn’t even suspect his existence all my nineteen years.
And, judging by the kidnapping, and even by the "Signorina", which has been out of use even earlier than the "Fräulein", nothing good awaits me in the company of my grandfather.
+++
More precisely, it was not grandfathered himself, but his lawyer, who showed up at granny's candy shop and informed me that Mr. Terrent ordered me to immediately come to the east wing of his summer house and begin training as the heiress of the TGS conglomerate.
It turned out that the guy who knocked up my mom out twenty years ago, cloud her mind before the end of all abortion terms and fled — this was the son of Dave Terrent, president of the TGS concern.
And my granny told me that he was a biker, very handsome and just as stupid, who at first promised to get married, settle down and deliver orders, but escaped and died in an accident even before I was born.
"And how did old Terrent intimidate my mother," I asked the lawyer, "that she didn't file for alimony? Besides, my mother died seventeen years ago, and my grandmother became my guardian. Alimony is paid only to the child, so both the guardian and the shelter can collect it. How did Terrent threaten my granny?"
We — my granny and I — were not beggars, the candy shop provided a more or less decent life, but a man is obliged to bear the responsibility for the production of children on an equal footing with a woman. If he doesn't want himself to change diapers and do homework with the kids, let him pay for a babysitter and a good school.
The lawyer — a man in his fifties, smartly dressed and colorless — said with surprise: "You just found out that you have a grandfather, but all you want to say is «alimony»?"
"Not only. Within a month I want to receive two million eight hundred thousand brangs, or I'll demand through the court's five million six hundred thousand ones. And since the court is a scandal, and commerce only succeeds in silence, it makes more sense for Terrent to pay."
The lawyer all tensed up, his face became predatory.
"Why did you decide that Mr. Terrent would pay you?"
"Because something always belongs to children in big business, and I'm my father's only heir. And if he was alive or had other children, you wouldn't be sitting here."
"And you don't care about your father's death?" The lawyer didn't particularly diligently portray indignation.
"My father left me before I was born," I reminded him. "But we don't live in the Middle Ages, and bastards have equal rights with marriage-children."
"Why such strange amounts? And why are they different?"
"A simple person can only shake the minimum out of the ruler of the world," I explained. "If for concerns and conglomerates the minimum is one million, then for an ordinary person it is a kilogram of average-quality potatoes. Now this kilogram is worth two brang eighty tungs. Probate and divorce lawyers, according to the newspapers, always take half of what the client will receive in court. All that's easy."
"But why potatoes?" The lawyer was puzzled.
"A kilogram of potatoes per day… or rice, it depends on the region… It means that a person will not die of hunger. This isn't enough for a healthy diet, it will not clothe, will not shelter from the weather, will not warm the house, but a kilogram of potatoes or rice is the ultimate minimum, below which life is impossible. Therefore, if you want to understand and appreciate everything that is connected with money, property, world stock price and all that, count through kilоgrams of medium-quality potatoes."
"Just don't say such nonsense in front of Mr. Terrent," the lawyer said squeamishly.
"I don't need to talk with him at all," I replied. "There are you for this kind of thing. And you will clarify to the old goat that for me his conglomerate is more of a burden than a profit. TGS has a lot of hemorrhoids, but zero pleasure. Therefore, I choose my share of the inheritance, and I do not want to know anything further about either my father or his family."
"No one," said the lawyer with icy malice, "dares to refuse Mr. Terrent. And no one dares to talk about him in such a tone."
I snorted and took out my smartphone.
"I'll repeat it all on social networks. The tabloids will be delighted. And Mr. Terrent will shit himself reading what they have to say about him."
The lawyer was not a fool, he assessed the situation instantly, and the most amiable smile bloomed on his face.
"Don't rush, Miss. The tabloids will make you uncomfortable too."
I, not yet suspecting where I had gotten myself into, grunted at the word "Miss" — the lawyer seems to have jumped out of the pre-hippie era, and does not know that if he speaks the northern dialect of Alnorrian, then he must use "Ms" or "Mx" — and I explained mockingly: "The tabloids will make a great ad for a candy shop. And for free!"
"But silence and advertising in quarterly forums are more useful for a family-oriented and nerd-oriented establishment." The lawyer's smile got even sweeter.
I shrugged. In general, he is right. Candy shops are only of interest to parents and quiet, solitude-loving enthusiasts of all sorts of individualistic hobbies — even when people order sweets for parties and weddings, they still choose the family-singleton shop, it's verified.
"Revenge tastes better than money," I replied. "In addition, the profit lost on the noise can be compensated by interview fees. And when the noise subsides, the candy shop will work as before. It will be even better than before: the scandal will be quickly forgotten, and the name of the place where there are sweets will settle in the subconscious of people. But a large enterprise will only have losses, and people will remember that it was involved in some kind of dirty scandal, so it’s better to look for products from other companies. Everyone hates super-rich people and only remembers bad things about them."
The lawyer's face twisted.
"You are very practical for a young girl," he hissed.
"Practicality is the most important thing for a girl," I was a little surprised at his remark. "So the granny said to me, and her granny told her. Fools can run conglomerates and concerns because for them the board of directors and a crowd of managers work. But a simple pastry woman or a lawyeress can only rely on herself."
The lawyer grimaced even more. Recently lost the process to some young, but zealous rivaless? It looks like it. But I don't give a damn. I said I had a job waiting for me and kicked the lawyer out.
+++
And now I'm going to my grandfather, accompanied by four scumbags.
Very beautiful and stylish ones, by the way. All of them are about twenty-eight years old and they have exteriors for every taste: brunet, blond, brown-haired and red. All have the stamp of education on their snouts. Ones are not at all like the riffraff that are hired for kidnappings. The only strange thing is that they are dressed in tuxedos during the day.
"Young Miss," said the one who was covering my mouth, "I will remove my hand if you promise not to scream."
I nodded as best I could. What's the point of yelling? Now I need to free my hands and show the sign of the victim to passing cars: it's a fist in which the thumb is clamped by the rest. And I hope these people have watched the social advertisements.
Red removed his hand. A brown-haired person also let me go. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand. Both guys here handed me disposable sanitary doilies. It was in sync, like they were rehearsing.
I didn't refuse, I took both, wiped both my hands and my face, and threw doilies into a small box, which was set up by the blond sitting in the front passenger seat.
"My name is Helmut," he said. "At your service, Fräulein."
"I'm Marco," the brunette driver introduced himself. "At your service, Signorina."
"I'm Raoul." It's a brown-haired one. He spoke with a slight French accent. "At your service, Mademoiselle."
"I'm James," the red said. "At your service, young Miss."
[Let me introduce myself: Alex,] I mentally said in the tone of this mediocre operetta. [And I really want to punch you in the snouts.]
But as enraging as the derogatory treatment and lousy behavior (you'll be sued for a sickly sum for "Mademoiselle" in France and the French-speaking regions of Switzerland and Canada), now is not the time to be outraged. I'd better put it on the bill which I'll issue my grandfather.
Unfortunately, the car had dark windows, and no one would see my SOS gesture. And these four kidnapped me in the back place of a candy shop, and there can't be any witnesses. They also took away my phone. It remains to be hoped that one of my friends will get worried that I have not been on social networks for a long time. Beyond that, the candy shop is closed.
Oh, my granny! She's in the hospital, and when the news of the kidnapping reaches her, it's going to be a nightmare.
"If my granny dies because of Terrent and your gang," I began, hissing like a snake with rage, "I…"
"It's all right, young Miss," James interrupted me. "Your grandmother gave you a blessing."
Helmut immediately showed me the screen of the phone, which showed the grandmother in her hospital room.
"I'm glad, dear, that you accepted the invitation of grandf…"
"I have changed my mind!" I screamed. "I don't like him, and I'm going to you right now!"
"This is a recording, Mademoiselle," said Raoul. "Your grandmother is on her way to the Noddar clinic now, and if you will be a smart girl, she will stay there for the full course of treatment."
Chills ran through me. The old sneaky goat knew where to hit. Clinic Noddar is the best in the country, and very expensive. And the chance of getting free treatment from my granny is zero, she doesn't live on a pension with benefits.
And at that moment I realized one very important and insidious thing.
"And where is the guarantee that this isn't photoshop? Let me talk to my grandmother in person."
"If your grandfather, Fräulein," said Helmut, "will be pleased with you, we will take you to a meeting with your grandmother."
I kept silent. And mentally added zero to the amount that my grandfather owed me.
The car stopped. And James said: "Now we will go up to the roof, where the plane is waiting. Behave yourself, young Miss. You have yet to learn how to be a Lady, but even you know the minimum ideas of decency."
[Oh yes! The amount of compensation will be so decent that even a mega-billionaire will have a blow!]
I didn't say anything out loud, just bared my teeth in a parody of an amiable smile.
"A little more noble restraint," Raoul said, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
There was nothing more interesting. I was conveyed to the elevator, which took us to the roof, where a small light vertical take-off aircraft was waiting.
"The stupid showing off," I could not resist. "Why didn't the helicopter please him?"
"Herr Terrent is the head of a significant enterprise, not a policeman or a paramedic, Fräulein," Helmut replied haughtily. "Neither he nor his heiress can't use a helicopter."
Snobbery greatly limits the possibilities of a snob. I didn't say it out loud, but I mentally noted to myself that the household staff probably hated Terrent, and this should be used to collect compromising evidence. The more arguments I have for the trial and the scandal in the media, the better.
In the meantime, we're flying from the TGS office to Terrent's summer residence. And on the way, we fly over one of the factories and that part of the city's seaport, which belongs to TGS. It's another forty minutes flight from the estate, and I'm watching a movie. The convoyers seem to be unhappy. They hoped that I would get lost in ecstasy from the contemplation of other person's riches? Yeah, I need this headache like shit! How can I have fun with such a property?!
However, we are flying. The country house is quite drawn to the rival of Versailles. The convoyers seem to be waiting for some kind of reaction from me. But I don't give a damn.
"Don't you want to say anything, Fräulein?" Helmut asked. His voice sounded a little unsure. Did I break some of his calculations? Excellent! And I didn't deny myself one more pleasure.
"Someone has compensation for the insufficiency of sizes elsewhere," I said with an amiable smile. I waited a couple of moments for the convoyers to realize, and added before they could open their mouths: "I'm talking about the brain, not what you think. Although with that, too, probably not brilliant."
The convoyers are embarrassed! Here are really grown men, each in their thirties, blushed like Victorian young ladies.
I smiled quite. And Marco replied: "Sinor Terrent even hosts royalty in his residence!"
"What hell might they be needed for?" I was surprised. "They are all worth as much as a rattle. Monarchs are just a show for tourists."
"Not everywhere, Mademoiselle," said Raoul dryly. "The world is not limited to Europe, and there are still many places where the monarchy is omnipotent. And there is a lot of oil, neon, silicon, diamonds, and other things in all these places, without which it is impossible to produce chips, processors, and what else is needed for modern technology."
I just grinned. For me, this is another argument to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, the convoyers were leading me along a huge hall to a gilded marble staircase. And stucco molding everywhere. And paintings. And mirrors. And crystal chandeliers. And the frames are sparkling.
I have nothing against luxury, but only if it isn't so motley that my eyes fall into my ass.
The convoyers seemed to understand that I wasn't thrilled because they stopped in the middle of the stairs to the second floor.
"Fräulein," said Helmut, "now you will appear before your grandfather. You must not forget that your grandmother's life depends on his favor for you."
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.