Travel to a parallel universe
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The car stood quietly by the curb, its dark blue body gleaming under the sunset, as if nature itself had decided to spotlight this moment. Inside, chaos reigned—or rather, the special kind of chaos that erupts when three girls in swimsuits attempt to salvage their hopeless friend's first date.
"You've never been on a date? Like, never-never?" Niya waved a chocolate bar like a conductor's baton, staring at the Prophet through the car window as if he'd just admitted to being raised in a bunker.
The Prophet, standing on the sidewalk, nervously tugged at the hole in his sleeve—a shirt that had clearly seen more battles than he had. The fabric ripped another two centimeters with a sad crunch, and he hastily withdrew his finger, as if afraid to finish off the already pitiful garment.
"Well... unless you count that time I went to a café with the neighbor's dog because she was the only one who didn't laugh at my jokes..."
Adelina snorted, apparently recalling the story.
"Oh my god," Niya rolled her eyes so hard she might've glimpsed her own brain. "You didn't even find real clothes?!"
Adelina, who'd been observing the scene, abruptly stepped out of the car. Her Crocs slapped against the asphalt, and her glare could've sharpened knives. She grabbed the Prophet's sleeve, inspecting the fabric wounds with the solemnity of a coroner declaring fashion dead.
"Prophet, this isn't post-apocalyptic vagabond chic—it's just shameful."
"I like this shirt," he muttered, defending his tattered treasure. "It's comfortable."
"It looks like it was chewed on and then buried for a few years," Niya tilted her head, examining him from a new angle. "Alright, Operation Date is postponed. First, Operation Don't Look Like a Hobo."
"I'm not a hobo!" The Prophet protested, but his voice drowned in the chorus of laughter.
"Then why's there a hole in your shoulder the size of Niya's ego?" Lera piped up from the backseat, where she'd been peacefully chewing gum. She climbed out and poked the offending area.
"It's ventilation!" he defended desperately.
"Ventilation for a trash can," Adelina sighed, yanking the car door open. "Get in. We're going shopping."
"But I don't have enough SCF for new clothes!"
"Adel's paying," Niya grinned, flashing a couple of glittering crystals.
"Niya!" Adelina gasped, grabbing her wrist. "You stole my crystals?!"
"You said real friends help each other!"
"I meant emotionally!"
"Too late," Niya revved the engine, which growled in agreement. "Seatbelts on—we're saving Prophet's date."
"Since when do you do seatbelts?" The Prophet blinked.
"Since today," Niya barked. "Buckle up, dumbass!"
With that, she peeled out so fast everyone was slammed into their seats.
The narrow streets of the old town led them to a boutique that looked plucked from a fairy tale. Its display window, framed by wrought-gold swirls, glowed under warm lighting, showcasing mannequins frozen in elegant poses—like ball guests paused mid-waltz.
The door, with its crystal handle, swung open soundlessly. Inside, the air smelled of vanilla and fresh linen. Ivory walls were adorned with gilded mirrors, and chandeliers scattered light like diamond dust.
"Hard to believe places like this exist in a ruined world," the Prophet murmured, turning in place.
"People rebuild fast," Adelina nodded at his phone. "We lost the tech to make these, and now you've got one in your pocket."
"Okay, fair."
"Enough yapping—let's dress our disaster," Niya declared, rubbing her hands. "Mama Adel's paying, right?"
Adelina took a deep breath. "...Yes."
"Aaaah! Thanks, mom!" Niya squealed.
"Don't call me that."
"I'll consider it," Niya beamed. "Alright, fashion emergency—move out!"
What followed was an hour of sartorial torture:
"No."
"No."
"Oh god, no."
"Are you trying to pick the ugliest thing?"
The Prophet stood before a mirror in his fifth rejected shirt while the girls shook their heads in unison, a tribunal of fashion judges.
"But I like this color," he said, touching the neon-pink "I ♥ Mom" tee.
"That's the color of a soul screaming," Niya snatched the hanger and flung it back.
"How about... a shirt?" Adelina offered a blue striped option through gritted teeth.
"Looks like a waiter's uniform," Lera critiqued.
"At least waiters try to look presentable!"
The Prophet sighed at his old, ripped shirt lying on the fitting room bench like a fallen soldier. "Maybe just sew up the hole?"
"NO," the girls chorused.
Finally, after:
- Three fitting-room meltdowns
- One incident where the Prophet locked himself in a booth (requiring Adelina to pry him out)
- And Lera making him test-walk every pair of shoes
They settled on:
- A dark shirt and blazer with a red tie ("Classic never fails," Adelina insisted)
- Pants without holes (Niya stress-tested each pair)
- Oxfords that didn't squeak (Lera's veto power)
"Now you're only slightly hobo," Niya patted his shoulder like a scientist who'd just revived Frankenstein.
"Thanks... I think?"
"Don't mention it," Adelina turned away, but Lera hissed:
"She's blushing!"
"Lera, I will strangle you."
"Enough!" The Prophet raised his hands in surrender. "I'm dressed sort of like a person, I've got dating instructions... what else could go wrong?"
"Everything," the girls said in unison.
"Great. Then I'm ready."
"Good luck," Adelina muttered, just a hair too quiet, and pretended to check her phone.
"And don't get drunk!" Niya called after him.
"Or mention ventilation!" Lera added.
The Prophet laughed, adjusted his tie (which immediately slipped sideways), and strode toward the café—transformed.
Adelina watched him go, while Lera giggled into Niya's ear:
"She looooves him..."
"Shut up," Adelina grumbled, stomping back to the car.
And so began the strangest first date in human history. And probably not the last.
---
Date
---
The Moonlight Café welcomed them with warm amber lighting and the quiet chime of bells above the entrance. Angelina nervously adjusted the folds of her pink dress with lace inserts as the door swung open, revealing a tall male figure stepping inside.
"Seventeen minutes late," she blurted out unexpectedly, immediately regretting it.
The Prophet stopped in front of the table, slowly pulling his hand from his pocket to check his watch. "Sixteen minutes and forty-three seconds," he corrected with lethal precision before tucking his hand away again. "Habit—showing up when everyone's already settled. Just don't tell anyone about the injections." His voice was soft, accompanied by a faint smile.
She felt warmth spreading across her cheeks. "H-hey... is that... professional?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled.
"The tardiness."
"Hm. More like... necessary." He sank into the chair opposite her, his movements fluid and economical, as if every action had been precalculated. "You look... different today."
"How do I usually look?" Angelina instinctively touched her hair, tied in an elegant yet slightly messy updo.
"In a white coat. Dark circles under your eyes. Coffee stain on the sleeve." He listed them off, and for the first time, something resembling warmth tinged his voice. "Today, you look like..."
"Like what?" She froze, waiting.
"Someone worth protecting." His eyes flickered with something unreadable.
The waiter's timely arrival spared her from having to respond. The Prophet ordered a rare steak with bourbon; she opted for a vegetable salad and white wine.
"You always eat this... sparingly?" he asked once the waiter left.
"Occupational hazard." Angelina smiled. "After eight years in a hospital, you start seeing cholesterol plaques even in a Caesar salad."
"And after six years in my line of work, I stopped seeing the difference between steak and human flesh." He said it so calmly she couldn't tell if he was joking.
The conversation flowed slowly, like thick syrup. She talked about a difficult patient; he listened, occasionally asking unexpectedly precise questions that betrayed a deep understanding of anatomy.
"How do you know arterial topography so well?" She blinked in surprise.
"Professional," he replied, and his eyes darkened—impenetrable, hiding far more than he was willing to share.
"Stay cool, stay cool, stay cool," the Prophet muttered to himself.
...
"Fuck... what was it Nina kept drilling into me? 'Memorize this like your life depends on it'... shit, how did it go again? Gone. Completely blank. Should've written it down. Or put it in my phone. Now I'm sitting here like a dumbass, staring at her tits. Goddamn memory, useless as a grave. Okay, calm down... if Nina said 'memorize,' it's gotta be important. Gotta remember, dammit..."
"Prophet?" Angelina snapped her fingers in front of his face, tilting her head. "Are you... even here right now?"
He blinked sharply, as if resurfacing from deep thought.
"Huh? Yeah, of course." He bit his lip briefly before softening his tone. "Just thinking about... your question. About the arteries. You ask surprisingly precise questions for..."
"For just a regular doctor?" She smiled, rising from the table. "Maybe we should take a walk?" The way she moved suggested she was hiding something.
"Yeah, sure." He agreed, though he clearly hadn't expected the suggestion.
Outside, a light drizzle had begun.
"Ugh. We just stepped out and now it's raining..." Angelina sighed, disappointed.
Without warning, the Prophet shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
"Ah!" She gasped. "But you'll get wet!"
"It's fine. I like the feeling of raindrops on my skin." His voice carried that strange note again—something she couldn't quite decipher.
They walked under the streetlights, and Angelina suddenly realized she felt... safe. It was bizarre—walking beside a Genome whose entire profession revolved around permanently stripping others of safety.
"Wait—" The Prophet stepped sharply in front of her, shielding her as a passing car sent a spray of filthy water arcing toward them. He didn't even raise his arm—the dark droplets splattered across his back, leaving jagged stains on his black shirt.
The thin fabric soaked through instantly: brown streaks spreading from shoulder to waist, forming murky patterns. The wet shirt clung to his back, outlining the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades, while the sleeve hung heavily, dripping muddy water.
His hair—usually stark white—was now speckled with grime at the tips, as if dipped in dirty water. A few droplets clung to the silver strands, rolling slowly downward, but he just shook it off, carelessly tossing the damp locks over his shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked Angelina, his voice free of irritation—just a faint smile, as if the ruined shirt and dirty hair meant nothing.
"Prophet!" Her eyes widened. Her lips parted slightly in shock, something between amazement and gratitude flashing in her gaze. She hadn't even flinched—and now he stood there, filthy but utterly unbothered.
"You—you're covered in mud!" she stammered, reaching out instinctively before hesitating, unsure whether to touch him.
He smirked, tilting his head back slightly. The wind caught his damp hair, and he flicked it back with a careless motion.
"So what?" His voice was calm, almost lazy, but threaded with steel. "Looking perfect isn't the goal. Keeping you clean is."
He glanced at his stained shirt, then back at her—his eyes glinting with faint amusement.
"Though if you're that worried about my appearance... you could always help wash it."
She flushed but couldn't suppress a smile.
"Jerk..." she muttered, though there was no bite to it.
He laughed, turning slightly so the wind could dry his hair.
"But honest."
"Do I look cool or not?" he wondered.
She took a step toward him—then a sharp click as her heel betrayed her. She gasped, feeling herself pitch forward, but before she could grab anything, his hands were already at her waist, pulling her firmly against him.
"Seems like an unlucky night," he mused, not letting go. "Two mishaps in a minute."
She tried to regain her balance, but the broken heel had done its job—her shoe dangled uselessly. The Prophet sighed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, and knelt before her.
"Here."
His fingers deftly freed her ankle from the ruined shoe, then—without hesitation—he slipped off his own Oxfords, already dirtied from earlier. Gently, he helped her into them, his hands warm and steady despite the unexpected tenderness.
"Now at least you won't fall."
She stared at him, flustered, feeling the warmth of his shoes seep into her feet.
"But what about you...?"
He just waved her off, standing barefoot on the wet pavement as if it didn't matter at all.
"I've been through worse."
"Fucking freezing."
Before she could reply, he was already walking ahead—barefoot, shirt stained, hair damp—with the same unshakable confidence as if this were completely normal.
"Well? Coming?" He glanced back, his eyes challenging.
And she, unable to hold back a laugh, followed, feeling her heart squeeze strangely in her chest.
They walked on—her shuffling awkwardly in his oversized shoes, him barefoot on the wet asphalt—but somehow, in that moment, Angelina felt an invisible thread between them.
When they reached her building, she hesitated at the door.
"Thanks for... everything. Maybe... come up for tea? Or coffee?" Her voice wavered, betraying her nerves.
The Prophet stilled. His smile under the streetlight was the most beautiful thing Angelina had ever seen. "No." Flat. Final.
"Oh." Something inside her clenched. "W-why?"
He exhaled heavily. His voice, usually firm, now sounded rough, almost cracked. He turned away so he wouldn't see her eyes tremble—but even without looking, he knew. He always knew.
"You're... a good woman," he began, each word like glass in his throat. "Kind. Smarter than you think. You look at the world like there's still something bright in it... and there is—in you."
His fists clenched. His hands knew only violence—only fists, only the crunch of bone under brass knuckles. What right did he have to touch her?
"But I..." His voice broke. He dragged a hand over his face, as if wiping away a mask. "I'm not the man you need. I'm the Prophet—not of salvation, but chaos. My sermons are lead and screams. My miracles are broken jaws and shattered teeth. I don't know how to..."
He stopped. The word love lodged in his chest, jagged and foreign.
"I don't know how to be soft. I don't know how to talk about feelings without turning it into a battlefield. You deserve someone who'll bring you flowers, not bloodied knuckles. Someone who'll hold your hand, not an enemy's spine."
Finally, he looked at her—and immediately regretted it. Because her eyes held no anger, no fear. Only understanding. And that was a thousand times worse.
"I'm just a thug who beats up Genomes. Who lives in dirt and blood. And if one day..." He cut himself off, unwilling to finish. "If one day I don't get back up in time—you shouldn't be there when the wreckage comes down."
"So understand..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't want you to become another one of my scars."
And he turned to leave. Because if he didn't—he'd waver. Because if he didn't—he'd stay. And he had no right.
No right.
"You... you're a liar. The biggest, nastiest liar I've ever met..." With that, she turned and ran into her building.
The Prophet stood frozen for a moment, watching her go. Then his gaze fell on the statue in the nearby park—a towering figure of a woman with a greatsword, carved from dark stone. Her face, stern yet infinitely gentle, faced the horizon as if she still guarded this city, even as cold, unfeeling stone.
He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, placed one between his teeth, and flicked the lighter. The orange flame briefly illuminated his sharp features, accentuating the exhaustion in his eyes.
"If I hadn't promised you I wouldn't cry, Mother..." His voice, usually steady, now came out hoarse. "I might've bawled like a damn bitch right about now."
Smoke curled in the frosty air, mingling with the steam of his breath. He stood before the statue, hunched as if under an invisible weight, his fingers trembling slightly as he flicked the ash away.
"But a promise is a promise. And like it or not... I'm still your son."
A bitter smirk touched his lips. Somewhere deep down, he hoped that beyond the veil, she could still see him. Maybe even felt pride.
Or, more likely, was facepalming in exasperation.
He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, crushed it under his heel, and cast one last glance at the statue's stone eyes before turning into the wind.
"Alright... enough whining."
And he walked away, leaving behind only the whisper of leaves and the silent gaze of his mother—frozen in eternity.