VictorPelevin8990
New member
Dear friends, I think I'm not the only one who was upset that not all characters escaped the laboratory, and one heroine only appeared in the leaked build. However, this doesn't mean we should despair and say goodbye to these characters. I believe each of them deserves to be in the game, and who if not us, the ordinary players, can fix this? Let's create a unified universe where every character has their place: with stories, artwork, mods, and clips. I wrote this story when I found out that Raven, Trapper, Fathom, and Wrecker were removed from the game, and I decided to write this tale. I also have an idea to make an "AMV" animation, but I'm not an expert in that, so if anyone feels inspired, please do! And remember: cut heroes don't die—they live on in the Workshop. Be sure to write your own stories, you can suggest ideas. Let's contribute to this universe together.
DEADLOCK: "WRITTEN OFF"
#SaveRaven #SaveFathom #SaveWrecker #SaveTrapper #SaveBoho #AddRatKing
1.
Through the rusty grate of the cell's single window, a ghostly, silvery moonlight seeped in, casting long, trembling shadows on the cracked concrete walls. A man with upturned mustaches and a neat, sharp beard walked towards this cold patch on the floor as if drawn by a magnet. He wore an impeccably tailored white tuxedo, and his right eye was hidden by a black silk eyepatch. This was Anton Pavletsky, head of intelligence for the Soviet Empire, known in shadowy circles as "The Raven" — for his elusiveness and sharp, penetrating gaze capable of extracting secrets from the darkest corners of the soul.
In this brave new world where mysticism intertwined with reality, the Soviet Empire flourished under the spectral rule of Catherine the Great. The Empress, doomed to a non-corporeal existence after a mysterious ritual, ruled from the shadows, her will embodied through loyal servants. But behind the facade of power lay her deep, burning hatred of her own state—bodiless, devoid of warm flesh and a beating heart. Therefore, she had entrusted The Raven with one single, all-consuming task: to find a way to return her body. Years of searching had led him through forgotten ruins of ancient civilizations, through apocryphal scrolls in forbidden libraries, and through the whispers of spirits from beyond the grave. He collected artifacts capable of blurring the line between life and death: shards of mirrors reflecting other worlds, elixirs made from the blood of mythical creatures, and rituals whispering of rebirth. Now, in the heart of New York—a city where magic merged with the neon lights of skyscrapers—he was closer to his goal than ever before. And simultaneously farther: locked in this quantum prison, where the walls pulsed with energy suppressing any paranormal abilities.
For a moment, The Raven froze, staring thoughtfully at the full moon, its light seeming to mock his failure. Then he turned sharply to his three cellmates, his steps echoing off the walls.
One of the beings resembled an anthropomorphic fish: scaly skin the color of the sea depths, webbed feet, and a mouth studded with rows of needle-like teeth. This was the notorious Monster of the Depths, Fathom, once the ruler of the ocean abyss. In times past, he had reveled in an aura of mystery and terror: luring lost sailors into his nets, devouring them with relish, and demanding tribute from sea folk. But then a stronger opponent arrived—rational science, humanity's ruthless enlightenment, with its sonars, submarines, and demystification of legends. How could he, a creature of myth, compete with the horrors of reality, with ruthless evolution? It was unfair, like a betrayal by the ocean itself. In desperation, Fathom had tried to summon the Ancient Patrons—forgotten gods of the depths—to regain his supremacy in the Abyss. But the ritual spiraled out of control, and now he simply sat on one of the bunks, fiercely devouring his meager prison meal, chewing desperately.
Lying on the neighboring bunk, a man in a beat-up jacket—worn, with many pockets for various tools—watched this spectacle with disgust. This was Daniel, known as "The Trapper," a modest employee of the New York municipal coven. His days were spent in routine: crafting urns to trap wandering spirits, luring giant mutant rats from the sewers into traps, and catching invasive species from the Outer Planes—demons, fairies, and other balance-breakers. The work wasn't glamorous: dirty, dangerous, with a constant risk of bites or curses. He especially hated spiders—their webs that clung to everything, and their venom that caused hallucinations. But it came with benefits: subscriptions to the elite "Knickerbocker" club, where one could relax with a cocktail of elixir of oblivion, and free medical insurance.
— Can you chew any quieter?
grumbled Daniel, wincing at the sounds.
— Looking at your scaly mug kills any desire to sleep anyway, and you're making noise like a whole storm!
Fathom looked up from his food and bared his sharp, needle-like teeth.
— Pathetic little human! Had we met in the times when I ruled the seas, you'd be crawling on your knees right now, begging for mercy! I sank entire fleets and devoured heroes from the fairy tales your parents read you!
— Oh really?
smirked Daniel, propping himself up on his elbow.
— And do you have the strength, fish-face? Don't scare me, I've caught uglier things than you — from harpies to golems. Want to bet? I know a boxer from the Bronx, a former paranormal fistfighting champion. He'll clean your fish-face in three counts, and I'll watch with great pleasure. Might even place a couple of coins on him.
— I will tear apart anyone who stands in my way!
hissed Fathom.
— Yeah... yeah... yeah...
Daniel waved him off tiredly, turning over on his other side and tucking the pillow under his head.
— You can tear up a fly that's been buzzing around here all day.
— Laugh, little humans!
growled Fathom, his eyes flashing with a black glow.
— The time will come, and I will regain my former power! Then I will be the one laughing!
Fathom returned to his food with demonstrative fury, chewing even louder, while Daniel pulled the pillow higher, trying to muffle the noise.
From the opposite side of the cell, in the thick shadow by the wall, sat something resembling a gremlin: a lilac, stocky figure with muscular, scar-covered arms and large green oculars that glowed like fog lights. It was slowly and methodically sculpting a figure from clay, softly whistling a tune reminiscent of a military march. This was The Wrecker, an elite mercenary from the world of paranormal conflicts, known for taking on the dirtiest jobs: sabotage, liquidation, and diversions that other PMCs (Paranormal Military Companies) lacked the nerve or conscience for. He was also called the Butcher of Ixia—for bloody deeds on the scorching sands of Northern Ixia, where he fought in an endless war over resources of magical artifacts. His company, "Wrecker," was officially disbanded after a scandal: unauthorized tactical decisions, including the use of forbidden spells of destruction, led to charges of war crimes. But The Wrecker felt no remorse—war was his life, and the sand of Ixia still gritted in his memories.
Without looking up from his sculpting, The Wrecker spoke hoarsely, his voice like the grating of metal on stone:
— You know,scales, what would we have done with you if you'd ended up on our sector of the front near Ixia? First, we'd have skinned you — slowly, layer by layer, so you'd feel every cut. Then chopped you into little pieces and roasted you over a fire. Your head would have proudly adorned my trophy shelf. So be glad you're here, in this cage, and not there, under the scorching sun. I'd give anything to go back to those sands right now. All my guys stayed there—in that cursed desert, under layers of dust and oblivion. It's my fault: I led them into that ambush. But I will return. Whatever it takes. And I will have my revenge.
The Raven took a step forward, his shadow, elongated by the moonlight, covering all three like a cloak of intrigue.
— Gentlemen.Comrades.
he said softly.
— What is the point of these fruitless squabbles? They've locked us in this prison, thinking they can forget about us. Erase us from history like an unwanted draft. Burn us like an unread letter. However, they don't anticipate that together we are a force. We can do much. Each of you has a cherished desire you want to fulfill, and you are willing to go to great lengths to achieve these goals, aren't you? I am ready to help you, if you help me. And so you don't think I'm just throwing words around, I will help you escape from this place.
Daniel skeptically poked his head out from under the pillow, his eyes narrowing.
— Escape from a quantum prison?That's like banging your head against a wall! Sheer madness. No one has ever left here alive.
Fathom snorted nasally, wiping his mouth with a fin, leaving trails of slime on his scales.
— Smart thoughts often pursued men,but men were always faster.
The Wrecker finally finished sculpting: in his hands was a perfectly detailed clay skull with empty eye sockets. He slowly raised his bottomless green oculars to The Raven.
— Only one managed to escape from here.And as far as I know, he's no longer among the living.
— Comrades, I assure you, we will be the first to do it quietly and unnoticed.
All three stared at Anton.
— And what's your plan,one-eye?
The Wrecker asked hoarsely, squeezing the clay skull in his fist.
The Raven's face broke into a wide, predatory smile, revealing brilliant white teeth.
— I knew that would interest you.
A phantom entity with blazing bright purple eyes materialized behind The Raven's back.
2.
A young woman sat at a table at a street cafe, enjoying the morning sun. On the table next to a cup of coffee lay her elegant hat, adorned with a large yellow flower. She leisurely flipped through the newspaper until her attention was caught by a notice on the third page: "Unprecedented Escape from Quantum Prison: Fugitives Vanished Without Raising Alarm." A faint, almost invisible smirk flickered across her lips. She took a sip of coffee.
— You're taking a great risk, showing up here, Mr. Pavletsky.
she said without looking up from the newspaper.
Her gaze slid to the man in the white tuxedo who had suddenly taken the seat opposite her. She threw the newspaper onto the table towards him.
— As they say where I'm from,risk is a noble endeavor, Miss Boho. I wanted to personally thank you for helping me and my... comrades in misfortune.
— Don't harbor any illusions, Pavletsky, her voice was cold and even. "I didn't help you out of noble motives."
— I understand.
— Wonderful that you understand. Now tell me, why did you need this motley crew? A hunter of creatures from trash bins, a fishy abomination from the depths, and a disgraced mercenary war criminal. Do you really think they are perfectly suited for your venture?
— I am confident we will work well together, Ms. Boho.
— Mind you, Raven.
she set her cup aside, and the porcelain clinked loudly against the saucer.
— There is no way out of the Quantum Prison. You were very lucky that our interests aligned at this moment. If you care for my opinion, I am categorically against your adventure. However, if it helps achieve our common goal... well, so be it.
— I will not let you down, Ms. Boho, and I will strive to justify your trust. For I am not accustomed to being in debt.
— You officially no longer exist. You will have to operate in the shadows. Here.
Boho passed her hand through the air, and the space in front of her distorted, materializing an old, patina-covered key with an intricate pattern.
— This key is to the mansion on Hope Street.It used to be a workshop, but now the house stands empty...
she averted her gaze for a moment, as if remembering something long forgotten.
— Anyway, it's at your disposal. Just, please, try not to wreck it.
— Thank you. I will ensure its preservation.
— You are a strange man, Pavletsky. I wish you luck. And your newfound... friends too.
She took a thick wad of banknotes from her purse and threw it on the table.
— This should be enough for the first while.And now leave me...
She looked up, but the chair opposite was empty. The money was gone from the table too. Only a slight movement of air betrayed the recent presence of her interlocutor.
— ...alone
she finished in a whisper
Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced her. Bloody images swam before her eyes: the barred walls of the Quantum Prison, flashes of pain, strange hands, her own bloodied face reflected in a mirror. Her body was wracked by convulsions. The chair overturned with a crash, and she collapsed onto the asphalt.
Panic erupted among the cafe patrons. People jumped up in horror, some rushed to her, others shouted, calling for a medic. Convulsions racked her body for several more agonizing minutes, then stopped just as abruptly. She froze, and then rose unnaturally sharply, like a marionette. Her gaze fell on the numbers tattooed on the skin of her left forearm. 113622. They glowed with a dull infernal light and then immediately went out.
— Excuse me, miss, are you alright?
one of the men who had run over asked timidly.
She slowly turned her gaze to him; her eyes were clear and completely calm.
— Don't worry,everything's fine. Sometimes this happens to me. Nerves, probably. In any case, I don't need help, but thank you for your concern."
She picked up her hat from the ground, brushed off the dust, carefully placed it on her head, adjusted the flower, and walked away with a firm step towards the city library, leaving behind a crowd of stunned and bewildered people.
3.
A oppressive desolation reigned in the mansion. The air was stale and thick with dust swirling in the rays of light piercing through the windows. It seemed as if no human foot had stepped here for several centuries. With a creak resembling a groan, the massive front doors swung open, and a quartet of fugitives stepped into the cloud of dust.
— Well, comrades, welcome to our new temporary refuge.
The Raven's voice echoed solemnly in the high ceiling. He walked over to a massive oak table, wiped the dust off it with his finger, and placed his leather briefcase on it. Pulling out a stack of papers, he immediately immersed himself in studying maps and began sketching something with a sharp pencil.
The others began to look around warily. Daniel's gaze slid over the walls lined with shelves of intricate jars and flasks. The contents of many were hidden under a thick layer of time. Approaching closer, he began wiping dust off the glass, trying to make out the creatures preserved inside. His attention was drawn to one particularly large jar. On the label, almost faded with age, the word "Hydra" could be discerned.
Wiping away the thick grime, he froze, impressed. A serpentine creature with a neon turquoise glow floated in the transparent solution. Its skin was semi-transparent, revealing a bizarre intertwining of internal organs glowing from within with a soft, pulsating light.
— Wow... I've seen a lot in my traps, but this... It looks amazing!
whispered The Trapper.
— Hey, fish guts! Creature's clearly from the deep sea. Ever seen anything like it?
Fathom lazily approached the shelf, his bulging eyes narrowing as he studied the specimen. His distorted reflection showed in the jar.
— Hmm...That's a Hydra.
he hissed, and his tone held a mix of respect and distaste.
— Ha, Captain Obvious much! I could read that myself.
snorted Daniel.
— Dangerous creature. I've had... encounters with its kind. A worthy opponent.
— That harmless little snake?
The Trapper doubted.
— I'd hate to see who you consider dangerous then.
Fathom let out a low, gurgling laugh.
— Ahahah!
— What's so funny?
— It's funny how a stupid man in a funny jacket thinks he's seeing a whole creature. But this is just a tiny tendril.
— A tendril?
Daniel involunt recoiled from the jar.
— The Hydra is a giant bioluminescent octopus. Strikes its prey with an electric discharge and sucks out its life energy. Sent whole ships to the bottom. And yes, that's what it feeds on. So your 'specimen' is just a souvenir, chopped off by someone bold and lucky enough.
— Alright then, king of the seas, you've convinced me,
Daniel surrendered, taking a step back.
— You can keep it as a prize.
Fathom merely snorted contemptuously, giving the glowing tendril one last glance before moving off to inspect other curiosities of the gloomy mansion.
The Raven set aside his pencil and looked over his unusual companions wandering the dusty hall.
— Comrades,I ask you, find yourselves a seat. We have no time for nostalgia over dusty relics.
his voice, amplified by the hall's acoustics, sounded authoritative and clear.
Fathom, phlegmatically examining a skull on the mantelpiece, reluctantly turned away. Daniel looked at The Raven suspiciously but leaned against a shelf, crossing his arms. The Wrecker, without letting go of the clay figurine he was molding, slowly approached the table.
— I gathered you here not without reason. We are bound not only by prison but by a common goal. And now we have a chance to achieve it legally. Or rather, semi-legally.
The Raven allowed himself a slight smirk.
— We will participate in the Ritual.
A short silence hung in the air.
— What'ritual?
Daniel was the first to break the silence.
— That circus the Oracle shows on TV? Are you kidding? We're not heroes, we're... we're fugitive criminals. They'll eat us alive in five minutes there.
— The Ritual is not a circus.
The Raven retorted coldly.
— It is the only legal, OSIC-sanctioned, Patron-recognized form of warfare. A war where anything goes. Where past sins are erased. And yes, they will indeed eat us alive if we act alone. But together... together we are a team.
— I'm listening.
hissed Fathom, his gills fluttering nervously.
— What can this 'Ritual' give me?
— Everything!
The Raven stated firmly, slapping his palm on the map.
— Precisely everything. The power you lost, Fathom. Dominion over the Abyss you dream of. The Patrons grant any wish of the victorious side.
He turned his gaze to Daniel.
— You — from what I understand,a certain lady troubles you, and you really want to open your own agency. The Patron will give you that opportunity.
His gaze slid to The Wrecker.
— You — a chance to return. To the sands of Ixia. To restore your unit's honor. Clear your name. Find those who set you up and present them with the bill. The power of the Patrons is limitless.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair.
— And me...this will give me the opportunity to fulfill the oath I gave to my Empress. To return her to the world of the living. We will all get what we want. But to do that, we need to win. Just one match. One RITUAL.
He looked them over, assessing their reaction. Doubt, thirst, and cautious hope hung in the air.
— And how do you propose we do that?
The Wrecker's hoarse voice rang out. He finally switched his gaze from his clay statuette to The Raven.
— We're not even a team. We're a bunch of losers thrown into the same cell.
— That's precisely why no one will expect us.
The Raven's face broke into a cunning smile.
— Everyone expects heroes from the OSIC bulletins or mercenaries from Fairfax. No one is prepared for us to come out against them. And that, my dear comrades, is our main advantage. Now, let's get acquainted with the rules.
The Raven spread yellowed blueprints and freshly drawn schematics on the table.
— The Ritual isn't just a battle for survival.It's a whole strategy.
his finger pointed to the center of the map where a complex symbol was depicted.
— Two teams of six participants. Our goal is to destroy the enemy's Summoner, a creature embodying the will of their Patron. To do this, we must advance along four lanes, control the Fonts of Power, and collect souls.
Daniel snorted, pointing at the schematic:
— Looks like a giant checkerboard. And what do you mean 'six'? There are four of us.
— The other two will be here shortly.
The Raven distracted himself, pulling a strange device resembling a compass with rotating gears from his portfolio.
— OSIC watches everything through its 'Oracle,' but the rules allow for substitutions. We will register as an independent guild.
Fathom gloomily gurgled, approaching the map:
— You talk about lanes and souls. Where is my place in this?
— You will be on the bottom lane.
The Raven ran his hand along the route leading to a murky body of water on the map.
— There's a lake there — water is your element. You can use it to pressure the flanks and control the neutral creatures. They will give us an advantage.
The Wrecker suddenly jabbed a finger at an area of the map marked...:
— Here. I'll be here.
His voice brooked no argument.
— Ambushes, sudden attacks, hunting loners... That's my line of work.
— Correct.
nodded The Raven.
— A strike from the darkness, quick elimination of a key target, and—disappearance. Daniel...
The Trapper became alert:
— Just not into the thick of it. I've had my fill of fighting.
— You will be on the top lane.
The Raven smiled.
— Your traps will slow the enemy's advance, and control over the soul urns will give us the necessary boost. You are our engineer. You will turn the lane into a fortress.
He set the maps aside and looked at each of them:
— We will have to play by their rules. But that won't stop us from creating chaos. They expect a fair fight — we'll give it to them, but it will be on our terms.
— And what will you do?
asked Fathom
— And I... I will provide us with information and direct the strike where the enemy is weakest.
A silence fell in the room, broken only by the ticking of the strange device in The Raven's hands.
He looked at their tense faces.
— Well,gentlemen, any questions?
The Trapper spread his arms with a heavy sigh, but a spark of excitement glimmered in his eyes.
— Sheer suicide...Alright, I'm in. So, who else is going to participate with us?
As if in answer to his question, the door creaked. Two figures entered the dusty living room of the mansion.
In front walked a black woman in a stylish coat, her face half-hidden by large round glasses in horn-rimmed frames, reflecting the dim light. Behind her, wrapped around her shoulder, a ghostly cat with bright green eyes studied the room intently—her familiar.
Behind her moved her companion. Tall, lean, he was dressed in the uniform of a death row inmate: a worn striped prison robe, scorched on the back and chest, and torn shackles binding his wrists and ankles which he wore like trophies. A black sack was pulled over his head, from under which a dull, ominous light and sparks of static electricity escaped. On his chest was mounted a complex device resembling a pressure gauge; on his back was secured a massive block; and on his shoulders and head were mounted small Tesla coils. He was armed with a hybrid resembling a Thompson submachine gun and a Gauss rifle.
— And here is the answer to your question, comrades.
The Raven said with a slight theatrical bow.
— Please welcome two more members of our team. Mrs. Calico, our future specialist in magic control and support. And Mister...
— Seven.
a flat, mechanically modulated voice sounded. It held no emotion, no intonation.
— Just Seven.
Fathom gurgled appraisingly, studying the newcomers. Daniel raised a skeptical eyebrow, looking at the cat. The Wrecker only momentarily shifted his yellow, indifferent gaze to Seven, as if assessing his combat potential, his attention drawn to the numbers on his identification tag.
— Hm...
— Miss Calico is one of the best astral cartographers in New York,
The Raven explained.
— She can predict the movements of the enemy team along the lanes and find weak points in their defense.
Calico nodded silently, and the cat on her shoulder lazily licked its paw.
— And Mister Seven... I'm sorry, but what can you do?
— Kill, is that enough?
Seven didn't move, only the crimson light of his sensor shifted slightly, scanning each of those present.
— Quite, so, the team is assembled.
The Raven surveyed all six with satisfaction.
Seven stopped his emotionless, scanning gaze on The Wrecker, who was studying him intently. The crimson sensor froze, focused on the mercenary's face.
— Something wrong?
Seven's flat, mechanical voice asked.
The Wrecker didn't blink.
— Your number. On the tag. It signifies you were military. And that you were tried for war crimes.
— What makes you think that?
— I had the same, it means you're a soldier too.
— Maybe. What's it to you?
— You didn't happen to fight in Ixia, did you?
The Wrecker's voice held a restrained, burning hope.
— No. Don't even know such a place.
Seven answered, and his voice distorted slightly with static, as if memories caused a glitch.
— To be honest, I still don't remember much. Just the scorched faces of the guards. Sparks. Pain.
The tension eased. The Wrecker nodded grimly, clenching his fist in disappointment.
— My mistake then. Sorry.
— Happens.
Seven replied monotonously and turned away, his coils humming softly.
At that moment, Calico gently touched The Raven's elbow.
— Mr. Pavletsky, could we speak in private?
— Of course.
Anton politely gestured towards the glass door leading to the overgrown garden.
— Let's go. Please.
4.
They stepped out onto the terrace. The air was sweet and heavy with the scent of withering flowers. The cat, Ava, jumped down from her owner's shoulder and vanished into the ivy thickets. They sat on a moss - covered stone bench.
— I thought you had an arrangement with the Rat King.
The Raven began, lowering his voice.
— Alas...
Calico sighed, adjusting her glasses.
— At the last moment, he said he had an 'important deal' in the sewer mains and couldn't make it. However, he asked to be put on the reserve list. But I wouldn't count on him.
— And your new... friend?
The Raven nodded towards the mansion, where Seven's motionless figure was visible through the door.
— Almost nothing is known about him. And he himself isn't very talkative. But for lack of an alternative, I had to take him. Considering that life in the abandoned Court Street subway station isn't very promising, he agreed without any problems.
— Did you ask what he wants from the Patrons?"
— He said just one phrase: 'To remember who I was. And who I am now.'
The Raven nodded thoughtfully.
— Are you worried?
Calico allowed herself a slight, nervous smile.
— Looking at who I have to deal with? A little, yes. To be honest, a sea monster, a failed hunter, and a war criminal are, to put it mildly, dubious candidates. However, given that my options weren't great either, I suppose we can try.
— If you look at it from the side, we're all dubious personalities here.
The Raven said quietly, looking at the setting sun.
You're a hired killer with a ghost cat, I'm a persona non grata in seven empires. That's what unites us. That's why we will succeed.
— You've already met Ms. Boho?
— I had the honor. She is, as usual, skeptical of my latest venture and yet hopes that this time luck will smile upon us.
— Or we face another failure.
— Don't be so pessimistic, Mrs. Calico. Don't forget, it was you specifically that Ms. Boho asked to... state her wish. I'm even curious what you'll come up with.
— To state two wishes in one... you really can't easily trick the Patrons.
— Last time we almost reached our goal, but this time we must definitely take what's ours, even if our team is rather specific this time.
— Let me guess.
Calico looked at him intently, and her eyes held an unkind guess.
— You haven't told your new 'friends' that the Patrons may demand a price for granting a wish. Not just energy. One's own life. Soul.
The Raven fell silent. His face turned to stone.
— You know, if achieving the main goal requires someone to make a sacrifice, I am ready to give myself in exchange for the prosperity of my Empress. Although, she probably wouldn't like it very much.
— And I forgot you are a noble man, Pavletsky, but also a very foolish one.
Calico said sharply.
— Willing to sacrifice yourself so others can make their wishes consequence-free? Look at them! They won't even remember they were once saved by you. Everyone except me. Do you really want that?
— The main thing is that you will remember. That's enough for me.
he smiled with a touch of sadness.
— Better tell me, what did you do to get yourself caught and thrown into the quantum prison? Aside from, of course, planning to recruit new participants.
— I confess, in search of useful artifacts, I had to stop by an Egyptian museum.
— So it was you who stole the "Cantor Jug".
— Also had to take the "First Book of Anubis". With its help, I figured out some things. However, for full use I need two more. They say the third volume recently surfaced on the black market.
— You think to use them to summon Anubis himself?
— What are you... The Patrons wouldn't allow it, and besides, I doubt he'd want to return to the jug voluntarily.
— And still, think carefully, Mr. Pavletsky. Don't be so quick to throw your life away. Especially for the likes of them.
— Well, what about you?
The Raven suddenly asked, looking at Calico.
— What do you want? What will you ask of the Patrons when we win?
Calico averted her gaze.
— With your permission, I will keep my wish undisclosed. So as not to jinx it.
— Very well then...
The Raven rose from the bench, brushing off his tuxedo.
— Our performance will begin soon. We need to prepare properly. And Mrs. Calico... thank you for your concern.
He turned and headed towards the house, leaving her alone in the quiet, dying garden. Ava rubbed against her legs, as if trying to comfort her.
— I know, I know, need to focus on the task.
5.
— Dear comrades, I am sincerely glad that you have all gathered here today.
The Raven's voice sounded solemn and slightly theatrical.
— A truly difficult trial awaits us—to outwit other desperate fortune-seekers like ourselves. Yes, I forgot to mention: for the duration of the game, our Patrons grant us temporary immortality. If you fall in battle — do not fear. You will respawn at our Patron's Font of Power. However, I strongly advise against dying needlessly, for every second of our second, third, and so on chance plays a crucial role.
He paused.
—And one more thing: there is no way back. You must understand this. It's either us or them. Once the protection on our Summoner is removed, we will become vulnerable. And then there will be no room for error.
— Mhm, harsh rules...
muttered Daniel, rubbing the back of his neck.
— If anyone has decided to abstain after all, please speak up now
The Raven swept his heavy, scrutinizing gaze over everyone.
— For if you decide to flee the battlefield mid-process, the entire team will receive a crushing penalty to strength. So if anyone is not ready to risk it all — please step forward.
A tomb-like silence hung in the hall, broken only by the quiet hum of Seven's coils and Fathom's gurgling. No one moved.
— Very well. Then—to business.
— Wait!
Daniel suddenly perked up.
— This is all, of course, cool, pompous... but are we going into battle empty-handed, right? Magic is great, but I, for example, want something more... substantial. Reliable.
— Reasonable, Daniel.
nodded The Raven. He pulled a thick wad of banknotes from the inside pocket of his tuxedo and tossed it onto the table with a flick.
— Three blocks from here, there's the 'The Curiosity Shop' The proprietor... is aware of the Ritual's participants. Say I sent you, and he will gladly give you a discount. He has everything that might interest you.
While the others eyed the money, The Wrecker, without looking up from molding his clay, asked hoarsely:
— You said we'd create an organization. Organizations, like ships, need a name. Do you have one?
The Raven slowly looked over everyone present: the municipal hunter, the monster from the depths, the convicted butcher, the hired killer, and the cybernetic convict. His face broke into that familiar, cunning grin.
— We are "The Written Off."
DEADLOCK: "WRITTEN OFF"
#SaveRaven #SaveFathom #SaveWrecker #SaveTrapper #SaveBoho #AddRatKing
1.
Through the rusty grate of the cell's single window, a ghostly, silvery moonlight seeped in, casting long, trembling shadows on the cracked concrete walls. A man with upturned mustaches and a neat, sharp beard walked towards this cold patch on the floor as if drawn by a magnet. He wore an impeccably tailored white tuxedo, and his right eye was hidden by a black silk eyepatch. This was Anton Pavletsky, head of intelligence for the Soviet Empire, known in shadowy circles as "The Raven" — for his elusiveness and sharp, penetrating gaze capable of extracting secrets from the darkest corners of the soul.
In this brave new world where mysticism intertwined with reality, the Soviet Empire flourished under the spectral rule of Catherine the Great. The Empress, doomed to a non-corporeal existence after a mysterious ritual, ruled from the shadows, her will embodied through loyal servants. But behind the facade of power lay her deep, burning hatred of her own state—bodiless, devoid of warm flesh and a beating heart. Therefore, she had entrusted The Raven with one single, all-consuming task: to find a way to return her body. Years of searching had led him through forgotten ruins of ancient civilizations, through apocryphal scrolls in forbidden libraries, and through the whispers of spirits from beyond the grave. He collected artifacts capable of blurring the line between life and death: shards of mirrors reflecting other worlds, elixirs made from the blood of mythical creatures, and rituals whispering of rebirth. Now, in the heart of New York—a city where magic merged with the neon lights of skyscrapers—he was closer to his goal than ever before. And simultaneously farther: locked in this quantum prison, where the walls pulsed with energy suppressing any paranormal abilities.
For a moment, The Raven froze, staring thoughtfully at the full moon, its light seeming to mock his failure. Then he turned sharply to his three cellmates, his steps echoing off the walls.
One of the beings resembled an anthropomorphic fish: scaly skin the color of the sea depths, webbed feet, and a mouth studded with rows of needle-like teeth. This was the notorious Monster of the Depths, Fathom, once the ruler of the ocean abyss. In times past, he had reveled in an aura of mystery and terror: luring lost sailors into his nets, devouring them with relish, and demanding tribute from sea folk. But then a stronger opponent arrived—rational science, humanity's ruthless enlightenment, with its sonars, submarines, and demystification of legends. How could he, a creature of myth, compete with the horrors of reality, with ruthless evolution? It was unfair, like a betrayal by the ocean itself. In desperation, Fathom had tried to summon the Ancient Patrons—forgotten gods of the depths—to regain his supremacy in the Abyss. But the ritual spiraled out of control, and now he simply sat on one of the bunks, fiercely devouring his meager prison meal, chewing desperately.
Lying on the neighboring bunk, a man in a beat-up jacket—worn, with many pockets for various tools—watched this spectacle with disgust. This was Daniel, known as "The Trapper," a modest employee of the New York municipal coven. His days were spent in routine: crafting urns to trap wandering spirits, luring giant mutant rats from the sewers into traps, and catching invasive species from the Outer Planes—demons, fairies, and other balance-breakers. The work wasn't glamorous: dirty, dangerous, with a constant risk of bites or curses. He especially hated spiders—their webs that clung to everything, and their venom that caused hallucinations. But it came with benefits: subscriptions to the elite "Knickerbocker" club, where one could relax with a cocktail of elixir of oblivion, and free medical insurance.
— Can you chew any quieter?
grumbled Daniel, wincing at the sounds.
— Looking at your scaly mug kills any desire to sleep anyway, and you're making noise like a whole storm!
Fathom looked up from his food and bared his sharp, needle-like teeth.
— Pathetic little human! Had we met in the times when I ruled the seas, you'd be crawling on your knees right now, begging for mercy! I sank entire fleets and devoured heroes from the fairy tales your parents read you!
— Oh really?
smirked Daniel, propping himself up on his elbow.
— And do you have the strength, fish-face? Don't scare me, I've caught uglier things than you — from harpies to golems. Want to bet? I know a boxer from the Bronx, a former paranormal fistfighting champion. He'll clean your fish-face in three counts, and I'll watch with great pleasure. Might even place a couple of coins on him.
— I will tear apart anyone who stands in my way!
hissed Fathom.
— Yeah... yeah... yeah...
Daniel waved him off tiredly, turning over on his other side and tucking the pillow under his head.
— You can tear up a fly that's been buzzing around here all day.
— Laugh, little humans!
growled Fathom, his eyes flashing with a black glow.
— The time will come, and I will regain my former power! Then I will be the one laughing!
Fathom returned to his food with demonstrative fury, chewing even louder, while Daniel pulled the pillow higher, trying to muffle the noise.
From the opposite side of the cell, in the thick shadow by the wall, sat something resembling a gremlin: a lilac, stocky figure with muscular, scar-covered arms and large green oculars that glowed like fog lights. It was slowly and methodically sculpting a figure from clay, softly whistling a tune reminiscent of a military march. This was The Wrecker, an elite mercenary from the world of paranormal conflicts, known for taking on the dirtiest jobs: sabotage, liquidation, and diversions that other PMCs (Paranormal Military Companies) lacked the nerve or conscience for. He was also called the Butcher of Ixia—for bloody deeds on the scorching sands of Northern Ixia, where he fought in an endless war over resources of magical artifacts. His company, "Wrecker," was officially disbanded after a scandal: unauthorized tactical decisions, including the use of forbidden spells of destruction, led to charges of war crimes. But The Wrecker felt no remorse—war was his life, and the sand of Ixia still gritted in his memories.
Without looking up from his sculpting, The Wrecker spoke hoarsely, his voice like the grating of metal on stone:
— You know,scales, what would we have done with you if you'd ended up on our sector of the front near Ixia? First, we'd have skinned you — slowly, layer by layer, so you'd feel every cut. Then chopped you into little pieces and roasted you over a fire. Your head would have proudly adorned my trophy shelf. So be glad you're here, in this cage, and not there, under the scorching sun. I'd give anything to go back to those sands right now. All my guys stayed there—in that cursed desert, under layers of dust and oblivion. It's my fault: I led them into that ambush. But I will return. Whatever it takes. And I will have my revenge.
The Raven took a step forward, his shadow, elongated by the moonlight, covering all three like a cloak of intrigue.
— Gentlemen.Comrades.
he said softly.
— What is the point of these fruitless squabbles? They've locked us in this prison, thinking they can forget about us. Erase us from history like an unwanted draft. Burn us like an unread letter. However, they don't anticipate that together we are a force. We can do much. Each of you has a cherished desire you want to fulfill, and you are willing to go to great lengths to achieve these goals, aren't you? I am ready to help you, if you help me. And so you don't think I'm just throwing words around, I will help you escape from this place.
Daniel skeptically poked his head out from under the pillow, his eyes narrowing.
— Escape from a quantum prison?That's like banging your head against a wall! Sheer madness. No one has ever left here alive.
Fathom snorted nasally, wiping his mouth with a fin, leaving trails of slime on his scales.
— Smart thoughts often pursued men,but men were always faster.
The Wrecker finally finished sculpting: in his hands was a perfectly detailed clay skull with empty eye sockets. He slowly raised his bottomless green oculars to The Raven.
— Only one managed to escape from here.And as far as I know, he's no longer among the living.
— Comrades, I assure you, we will be the first to do it quietly and unnoticed.
All three stared at Anton.
— And what's your plan,one-eye?
The Wrecker asked hoarsely, squeezing the clay skull in his fist.
The Raven's face broke into a wide, predatory smile, revealing brilliant white teeth.
— I knew that would interest you.
A phantom entity with blazing bright purple eyes materialized behind The Raven's back.
2.
A young woman sat at a table at a street cafe, enjoying the morning sun. On the table next to a cup of coffee lay her elegant hat, adorned with a large yellow flower. She leisurely flipped through the newspaper until her attention was caught by a notice on the third page: "Unprecedented Escape from Quantum Prison: Fugitives Vanished Without Raising Alarm." A faint, almost invisible smirk flickered across her lips. She took a sip of coffee.
— You're taking a great risk, showing up here, Mr. Pavletsky.
she said without looking up from the newspaper.
Her gaze slid to the man in the white tuxedo who had suddenly taken the seat opposite her. She threw the newspaper onto the table towards him.
— As they say where I'm from,risk is a noble endeavor, Miss Boho. I wanted to personally thank you for helping me and my... comrades in misfortune.
— Don't harbor any illusions, Pavletsky, her voice was cold and even. "I didn't help you out of noble motives."
— I understand.
— Wonderful that you understand. Now tell me, why did you need this motley crew? A hunter of creatures from trash bins, a fishy abomination from the depths, and a disgraced mercenary war criminal. Do you really think they are perfectly suited for your venture?
— I am confident we will work well together, Ms. Boho.
— Mind you, Raven.
she set her cup aside, and the porcelain clinked loudly against the saucer.
— There is no way out of the Quantum Prison. You were very lucky that our interests aligned at this moment. If you care for my opinion, I am categorically against your adventure. However, if it helps achieve our common goal... well, so be it.
— I will not let you down, Ms. Boho, and I will strive to justify your trust. For I am not accustomed to being in debt.
— You officially no longer exist. You will have to operate in the shadows. Here.
Boho passed her hand through the air, and the space in front of her distorted, materializing an old, patina-covered key with an intricate pattern.
— This key is to the mansion on Hope Street.It used to be a workshop, but now the house stands empty...
she averted her gaze for a moment, as if remembering something long forgotten.
— Anyway, it's at your disposal. Just, please, try not to wreck it.
— Thank you. I will ensure its preservation.
— You are a strange man, Pavletsky. I wish you luck. And your newfound... friends too.
She took a thick wad of banknotes from her purse and threw it on the table.
— This should be enough for the first while.And now leave me...
She looked up, but the chair opposite was empty. The money was gone from the table too. Only a slight movement of air betrayed the recent presence of her interlocutor.
— ...alone
she finished in a whisper
Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced her. Bloody images swam before her eyes: the barred walls of the Quantum Prison, flashes of pain, strange hands, her own bloodied face reflected in a mirror. Her body was wracked by convulsions. The chair overturned with a crash, and she collapsed onto the asphalt.
Panic erupted among the cafe patrons. People jumped up in horror, some rushed to her, others shouted, calling for a medic. Convulsions racked her body for several more agonizing minutes, then stopped just as abruptly. She froze, and then rose unnaturally sharply, like a marionette. Her gaze fell on the numbers tattooed on the skin of her left forearm. 113622. They glowed with a dull infernal light and then immediately went out.
— Excuse me, miss, are you alright?
one of the men who had run over asked timidly.
She slowly turned her gaze to him; her eyes were clear and completely calm.
— Don't worry,everything's fine. Sometimes this happens to me. Nerves, probably. In any case, I don't need help, but thank you for your concern."
She picked up her hat from the ground, brushed off the dust, carefully placed it on her head, adjusted the flower, and walked away with a firm step towards the city library, leaving behind a crowd of stunned and bewildered people.
3.
A oppressive desolation reigned in the mansion. The air was stale and thick with dust swirling in the rays of light piercing through the windows. It seemed as if no human foot had stepped here for several centuries. With a creak resembling a groan, the massive front doors swung open, and a quartet of fugitives stepped into the cloud of dust.
— Well, comrades, welcome to our new temporary refuge.
The Raven's voice echoed solemnly in the high ceiling. He walked over to a massive oak table, wiped the dust off it with his finger, and placed his leather briefcase on it. Pulling out a stack of papers, he immediately immersed himself in studying maps and began sketching something with a sharp pencil.
The others began to look around warily. Daniel's gaze slid over the walls lined with shelves of intricate jars and flasks. The contents of many were hidden under a thick layer of time. Approaching closer, he began wiping dust off the glass, trying to make out the creatures preserved inside. His attention was drawn to one particularly large jar. On the label, almost faded with age, the word "Hydra" could be discerned.
Wiping away the thick grime, he froze, impressed. A serpentine creature with a neon turquoise glow floated in the transparent solution. Its skin was semi-transparent, revealing a bizarre intertwining of internal organs glowing from within with a soft, pulsating light.
— Wow... I've seen a lot in my traps, but this... It looks amazing!
whispered The Trapper.
— Hey, fish guts! Creature's clearly from the deep sea. Ever seen anything like it?
Fathom lazily approached the shelf, his bulging eyes narrowing as he studied the specimen. His distorted reflection showed in the jar.
— Hmm...That's a Hydra.
he hissed, and his tone held a mix of respect and distaste.
— Ha, Captain Obvious much! I could read that myself.
snorted Daniel.
— Dangerous creature. I've had... encounters with its kind. A worthy opponent.
— That harmless little snake?
The Trapper doubted.
— I'd hate to see who you consider dangerous then.
Fathom let out a low, gurgling laugh.
— Ahahah!
— What's so funny?
— It's funny how a stupid man in a funny jacket thinks he's seeing a whole creature. But this is just a tiny tendril.
— A tendril?
Daniel involunt recoiled from the jar.
— The Hydra is a giant bioluminescent octopus. Strikes its prey with an electric discharge and sucks out its life energy. Sent whole ships to the bottom. And yes, that's what it feeds on. So your 'specimen' is just a souvenir, chopped off by someone bold and lucky enough.
— Alright then, king of the seas, you've convinced me,
Daniel surrendered, taking a step back.
— You can keep it as a prize.
Fathom merely snorted contemptuously, giving the glowing tendril one last glance before moving off to inspect other curiosities of the gloomy mansion.
The Raven set aside his pencil and looked over his unusual companions wandering the dusty hall.
— Comrades,I ask you, find yourselves a seat. We have no time for nostalgia over dusty relics.
his voice, amplified by the hall's acoustics, sounded authoritative and clear.
Fathom, phlegmatically examining a skull on the mantelpiece, reluctantly turned away. Daniel looked at The Raven suspiciously but leaned against a shelf, crossing his arms. The Wrecker, without letting go of the clay figurine he was molding, slowly approached the table.
— I gathered you here not without reason. We are bound not only by prison but by a common goal. And now we have a chance to achieve it legally. Or rather, semi-legally.
The Raven allowed himself a slight smirk.
— We will participate in the Ritual.
A short silence hung in the air.
— What'ritual?
Daniel was the first to break the silence.
— That circus the Oracle shows on TV? Are you kidding? We're not heroes, we're... we're fugitive criminals. They'll eat us alive in five minutes there.
— The Ritual is not a circus.
The Raven retorted coldly.
— It is the only legal, OSIC-sanctioned, Patron-recognized form of warfare. A war where anything goes. Where past sins are erased. And yes, they will indeed eat us alive if we act alone. But together... together we are a team.
— I'm listening.
hissed Fathom, his gills fluttering nervously.
— What can this 'Ritual' give me?
— Everything!
The Raven stated firmly, slapping his palm on the map.
— Precisely everything. The power you lost, Fathom. Dominion over the Abyss you dream of. The Patrons grant any wish of the victorious side.
He turned his gaze to Daniel.
— You — from what I understand,a certain lady troubles you, and you really want to open your own agency. The Patron will give you that opportunity.
His gaze slid to The Wrecker.
— You — a chance to return. To the sands of Ixia. To restore your unit's honor. Clear your name. Find those who set you up and present them with the bill. The power of the Patrons is limitless.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair.
— And me...this will give me the opportunity to fulfill the oath I gave to my Empress. To return her to the world of the living. We will all get what we want. But to do that, we need to win. Just one match. One RITUAL.
He looked them over, assessing their reaction. Doubt, thirst, and cautious hope hung in the air.
— And how do you propose we do that?
The Wrecker's hoarse voice rang out. He finally switched his gaze from his clay statuette to The Raven.
— We're not even a team. We're a bunch of losers thrown into the same cell.
— That's precisely why no one will expect us.
The Raven's face broke into a cunning smile.
— Everyone expects heroes from the OSIC bulletins or mercenaries from Fairfax. No one is prepared for us to come out against them. And that, my dear comrades, is our main advantage. Now, let's get acquainted with the rules.
The Raven spread yellowed blueprints and freshly drawn schematics on the table.
— The Ritual isn't just a battle for survival.It's a whole strategy.
his finger pointed to the center of the map where a complex symbol was depicted.
— Two teams of six participants. Our goal is to destroy the enemy's Summoner, a creature embodying the will of their Patron. To do this, we must advance along four lanes, control the Fonts of Power, and collect souls.
Daniel snorted, pointing at the schematic:
— Looks like a giant checkerboard. And what do you mean 'six'? There are four of us.
— The other two will be here shortly.
The Raven distracted himself, pulling a strange device resembling a compass with rotating gears from his portfolio.
— OSIC watches everything through its 'Oracle,' but the rules allow for substitutions. We will register as an independent guild.
Fathom gloomily gurgled, approaching the map:
— You talk about lanes and souls. Where is my place in this?
— You will be on the bottom lane.
The Raven ran his hand along the route leading to a murky body of water on the map.
— There's a lake there — water is your element. You can use it to pressure the flanks and control the neutral creatures. They will give us an advantage.
The Wrecker suddenly jabbed a finger at an area of the map marked...:
— Here. I'll be here.
His voice brooked no argument.
— Ambushes, sudden attacks, hunting loners... That's my line of work.
— Correct.
nodded The Raven.
— A strike from the darkness, quick elimination of a key target, and—disappearance. Daniel...
The Trapper became alert:
— Just not into the thick of it. I've had my fill of fighting.
— You will be on the top lane.
The Raven smiled.
— Your traps will slow the enemy's advance, and control over the soul urns will give us the necessary boost. You are our engineer. You will turn the lane into a fortress.
He set the maps aside and looked at each of them:
— We will have to play by their rules. But that won't stop us from creating chaos. They expect a fair fight — we'll give it to them, but it will be on our terms.
— And what will you do?
asked Fathom
— And I... I will provide us with information and direct the strike where the enemy is weakest.
A silence fell in the room, broken only by the ticking of the strange device in The Raven's hands.
He looked at their tense faces.
— Well,gentlemen, any questions?
The Trapper spread his arms with a heavy sigh, but a spark of excitement glimmered in his eyes.
— Sheer suicide...Alright, I'm in. So, who else is going to participate with us?
As if in answer to his question, the door creaked. Two figures entered the dusty living room of the mansion.
In front walked a black woman in a stylish coat, her face half-hidden by large round glasses in horn-rimmed frames, reflecting the dim light. Behind her, wrapped around her shoulder, a ghostly cat with bright green eyes studied the room intently—her familiar.
Behind her moved her companion. Tall, lean, he was dressed in the uniform of a death row inmate: a worn striped prison robe, scorched on the back and chest, and torn shackles binding his wrists and ankles which he wore like trophies. A black sack was pulled over his head, from under which a dull, ominous light and sparks of static electricity escaped. On his chest was mounted a complex device resembling a pressure gauge; on his back was secured a massive block; and on his shoulders and head were mounted small Tesla coils. He was armed with a hybrid resembling a Thompson submachine gun and a Gauss rifle.
— And here is the answer to your question, comrades.
The Raven said with a slight theatrical bow.
— Please welcome two more members of our team. Mrs. Calico, our future specialist in magic control and support. And Mister...
— Seven.
a flat, mechanically modulated voice sounded. It held no emotion, no intonation.
— Just Seven.
Fathom gurgled appraisingly, studying the newcomers. Daniel raised a skeptical eyebrow, looking at the cat. The Wrecker only momentarily shifted his yellow, indifferent gaze to Seven, as if assessing his combat potential, his attention drawn to the numbers on his identification tag.
— Hm...
— Miss Calico is one of the best astral cartographers in New York,
The Raven explained.
— She can predict the movements of the enemy team along the lanes and find weak points in their defense.
Calico nodded silently, and the cat on her shoulder lazily licked its paw.
— And Mister Seven... I'm sorry, but what can you do?
— Kill, is that enough?
Seven didn't move, only the crimson light of his sensor shifted slightly, scanning each of those present.
— Quite, so, the team is assembled.
The Raven surveyed all six with satisfaction.
Seven stopped his emotionless, scanning gaze on The Wrecker, who was studying him intently. The crimson sensor froze, focused on the mercenary's face.
— Something wrong?
Seven's flat, mechanical voice asked.
The Wrecker didn't blink.
— Your number. On the tag. It signifies you were military. And that you were tried for war crimes.
— What makes you think that?
— I had the same, it means you're a soldier too.
— Maybe. What's it to you?
— You didn't happen to fight in Ixia, did you?
The Wrecker's voice held a restrained, burning hope.
— No. Don't even know such a place.
Seven answered, and his voice distorted slightly with static, as if memories caused a glitch.
— To be honest, I still don't remember much. Just the scorched faces of the guards. Sparks. Pain.
The tension eased. The Wrecker nodded grimly, clenching his fist in disappointment.
— My mistake then. Sorry.
— Happens.
Seven replied monotonously and turned away, his coils humming softly.
At that moment, Calico gently touched The Raven's elbow.
— Mr. Pavletsky, could we speak in private?
— Of course.
Anton politely gestured towards the glass door leading to the overgrown garden.
— Let's go. Please.
4.
They stepped out onto the terrace. The air was sweet and heavy with the scent of withering flowers. The cat, Ava, jumped down from her owner's shoulder and vanished into the ivy thickets. They sat on a moss - covered stone bench.
— I thought you had an arrangement with the Rat King.
The Raven began, lowering his voice.
— Alas...
Calico sighed, adjusting her glasses.
— At the last moment, he said he had an 'important deal' in the sewer mains and couldn't make it. However, he asked to be put on the reserve list. But I wouldn't count on him.
— And your new... friend?
The Raven nodded towards the mansion, where Seven's motionless figure was visible through the door.
— Almost nothing is known about him. And he himself isn't very talkative. But for lack of an alternative, I had to take him. Considering that life in the abandoned Court Street subway station isn't very promising, he agreed without any problems.
— Did you ask what he wants from the Patrons?"
— He said just one phrase: 'To remember who I was. And who I am now.'
The Raven nodded thoughtfully.
— Are you worried?
Calico allowed herself a slight, nervous smile.
— Looking at who I have to deal with? A little, yes. To be honest, a sea monster, a failed hunter, and a war criminal are, to put it mildly, dubious candidates. However, given that my options weren't great either, I suppose we can try.
— If you look at it from the side, we're all dubious personalities here.
The Raven said quietly, looking at the setting sun.
You're a hired killer with a ghost cat, I'm a persona non grata in seven empires. That's what unites us. That's why we will succeed.
— You've already met Ms. Boho?
— I had the honor. She is, as usual, skeptical of my latest venture and yet hopes that this time luck will smile upon us.
— Or we face another failure.
— Don't be so pessimistic, Mrs. Calico. Don't forget, it was you specifically that Ms. Boho asked to... state her wish. I'm even curious what you'll come up with.
— To state two wishes in one... you really can't easily trick the Patrons.
— Last time we almost reached our goal, but this time we must definitely take what's ours, even if our team is rather specific this time.
— Let me guess.
Calico looked at him intently, and her eyes held an unkind guess.
— You haven't told your new 'friends' that the Patrons may demand a price for granting a wish. Not just energy. One's own life. Soul.
The Raven fell silent. His face turned to stone.
— You know, if achieving the main goal requires someone to make a sacrifice, I am ready to give myself in exchange for the prosperity of my Empress. Although, she probably wouldn't like it very much.
— And I forgot you are a noble man, Pavletsky, but also a very foolish one.
Calico said sharply.
— Willing to sacrifice yourself so others can make their wishes consequence-free? Look at them! They won't even remember they were once saved by you. Everyone except me. Do you really want that?
— The main thing is that you will remember. That's enough for me.
he smiled with a touch of sadness.
— Better tell me, what did you do to get yourself caught and thrown into the quantum prison? Aside from, of course, planning to recruit new participants.
— I confess, in search of useful artifacts, I had to stop by an Egyptian museum.
— So it was you who stole the "Cantor Jug".
— Also had to take the "First Book of Anubis". With its help, I figured out some things. However, for full use I need two more. They say the third volume recently surfaced on the black market.
— You think to use them to summon Anubis himself?
— What are you... The Patrons wouldn't allow it, and besides, I doubt he'd want to return to the jug voluntarily.
— And still, think carefully, Mr. Pavletsky. Don't be so quick to throw your life away. Especially for the likes of them.
— Well, what about you?
The Raven suddenly asked, looking at Calico.
— What do you want? What will you ask of the Patrons when we win?
Calico averted her gaze.
— With your permission, I will keep my wish undisclosed. So as not to jinx it.
— Very well then...
The Raven rose from the bench, brushing off his tuxedo.
— Our performance will begin soon. We need to prepare properly. And Mrs. Calico... thank you for your concern.
He turned and headed towards the house, leaving her alone in the quiet, dying garden. Ava rubbed against her legs, as if trying to comfort her.
— I know, I know, need to focus on the task.
5.
— Dear comrades, I am sincerely glad that you have all gathered here today.
The Raven's voice sounded solemn and slightly theatrical.
— A truly difficult trial awaits us—to outwit other desperate fortune-seekers like ourselves. Yes, I forgot to mention: for the duration of the game, our Patrons grant us temporary immortality. If you fall in battle — do not fear. You will respawn at our Patron's Font of Power. However, I strongly advise against dying needlessly, for every second of our second, third, and so on chance plays a crucial role.
He paused.
—And one more thing: there is no way back. You must understand this. It's either us or them. Once the protection on our Summoner is removed, we will become vulnerable. And then there will be no room for error.
— Mhm, harsh rules...
muttered Daniel, rubbing the back of his neck.
— If anyone has decided to abstain after all, please speak up now
The Raven swept his heavy, scrutinizing gaze over everyone.
— For if you decide to flee the battlefield mid-process, the entire team will receive a crushing penalty to strength. So if anyone is not ready to risk it all — please step forward.
A tomb-like silence hung in the hall, broken only by the quiet hum of Seven's coils and Fathom's gurgling. No one moved.
— Very well. Then—to business.
— Wait!
Daniel suddenly perked up.
— This is all, of course, cool, pompous... but are we going into battle empty-handed, right? Magic is great, but I, for example, want something more... substantial. Reliable.
— Reasonable, Daniel.
nodded The Raven. He pulled a thick wad of banknotes from the inside pocket of his tuxedo and tossed it onto the table with a flick.
— Three blocks from here, there's the 'The Curiosity Shop' The proprietor... is aware of the Ritual's participants. Say I sent you, and he will gladly give you a discount. He has everything that might interest you.
While the others eyed the money, The Wrecker, without looking up from molding his clay, asked hoarsely:
— You said we'd create an organization. Organizations, like ships, need a name. Do you have one?
The Raven slowly looked over everyone present: the municipal hunter, the monster from the depths, the convicted butcher, the hired killer, and the cybernetic convict. His face broke into that familiar, cunning grin.
— We are "The Written Off."
