Food is important.
Without food, a person cannot satisfy their basic needs. In fact, if hunger is not satisfied, even the most cultured and civilized person will turn into a wild beast after some time.
Simply put, even the vengeful spirit of Nostramo had to eat.
After all, he wasn't a real ghost, how could he not eat?
A cold wind swept past, whipping Kariel's cloak and black hair. The Ghost squatted at the other end, looking down with a bewildered expression. When he wasn't on a mission, he usually had that look on his face.
However, a year-and-a-half-old child should look like that, shouldn't they?
Usually, a stone gargoyle on the edge of a tall building was an excellent vantage point, offering views of many landscapes below. However, by choosing it, one had to put up with the biting cold.
This is probably what they meant when they said it was lonely and cold at the top.
Kariel took a deep breath and picked up a large lump of black, viscous mass from a plastic tray. It looked like poison or some kind of sewage substance, and it tasted like...
Honestly, sometimes Kariel regretted having taste buds at all.
The Ghost turned his head and saw Kariel's face change from serious to strangely distorted after a torturous swallow.
This made him involuntarily tilt his head.
"Why are you eating that?" the Ghost asked, bewildered. "And you always eat it."
"Because I'm an ordinary human. Besides, I have no way to improve the diet. We have no money, Ghost."
Kariel forced the stuff stuck in his throat down and replied,
"And most importantly, I need to eat, and at least once a day. Not like you; you only need to eat once every three days."
The Ghost pondered and nodded.
He heard no malice in Kariel's words, only a slight mockery, and even that was directed more at Kariel himself.
Besides, the Ghost did indeed eat once every three days.
Kariel closed his eyes and sighed – the disgusting taste of the nutrient paste made him nauseous.
He had just finished six hours of work, and this was his humble reward for a short rest.
He had cleared out that building with air purifiers on the roof. Except for a few innocents, most of the inhabitants were corrupt officials and their hired gang bodyguards.
Kariel killed them but did not distribute their hidden money to the poor. He dispersed it, and all the money was burned.
Such money... ordinary people shouldn't take it, and it was better not to.
"Are you going to eat more?" the Ghost asked.
"Of course... saving food is a virtue," Kariel replied.
His expression remained calm, but that didn't mean he really wanted to eat.
In fact, he was very glad that this nutrient paste turned into a viscous sludge after soaking in water. If it were another variety, he might have had to start a fire.
That yellowish nutrient paste was as hard as brick. A knife wouldn't touch it, and it wouldn't soften in water. To eat it raw, you'd have to be a pit-dweller from outside the city, capable of gnawing steel.
However, pit-dwellers ate people; they wouldn't eat such garbage.
"Why not eat rats?" the Ghost asked, frowning. "If you're afraid of microbes, you can gut them and roast them over a fire until they're charcoal."
Kariel's cheek twitched.
"...Ghost, don't tell me you've been secretly catching and eating rats lately. I bring plenty of nutrient paste every three days!"
"...Nutrient paste is not tasty, but rats are tasty. And big."
The Ghost turned away, trying to change the subject.
"And also, they usually move in packs, so if you catch a few, you can eat your fill..."
"That's no reason to eat rats!"
Kariel said this seriously, scooping up a handful of black viscous mass with his fingers at the same time. The sensation transmitted to his hand caused a spasm in his stomach. Yet, he ate it.
Without hesitation.
No matter how disgusting this food was, it was still food. And in a cursed place like Nostramo, it was relatively clean.
"But, in my opinion, rats are still better than nutrient paste, Kariel," the Ghost objected hesitantly. "You really should consider rats."
"...Remember, Ghost, you are human! And humans don't eat rats!"
"You're lying. I know many ways to cook rats. If people didn't eat them, who would invent so many ways to make them tasty?"
Saying this, the Ghost smacked his lips, as if trying to recreate the taste of those rat dishes in his memory through sheer imagination.
"I'm not lying."
'And also, is the one who created you sane?'
Kariel frowned in disbelief.
'Why would he put recipes for cooking rats into your brain?'
"But these rats look so appetizing," the Ghost said. He squatted and turned his head with some anticipation to look at the landscape below the gargoyle.
Neon lights, as always, cut through the sky. A car roared past nearby. The bronze gargoyle they were sitting on was lucky – it hadn't been corroded by acid rain yet.
The Ghost liked it; he stroked its head, feeling the correctness of its form.
His warmth gradually warmed the stone, and the place he touched stopped being so cold. This positive feedback prompted the Ghost to linger his palm even longer.
Kariel noticed this. Knowing the Ghost's habits, he realized that if nothing changed, he would be watching the city from here for the next few days.
His behavior was naive and childish, like that of a child.
And Kariel knew that behind this naive exterior hid a monster that only needed time to grow and overturn the whole world.
He no longer answered the Ghost's words. Kariel was afraid that his imagination would run wild at the most inopportune moment.
Eating nutrient paste was already torture, and if he also imagined roasted-to-charcoal or skinned-and-steamed rats...
His face twitched.
"...And them?" the Ghost suddenly asked.
His question interrupted Kariel's thoughts, and he sighed with relief.
"Who?" Kariel asked.
"Them, the ones who live in the slums."
"You want to ask what they usually eat, right?"
The Ghost nodded.
Kariel looked at him, then shoved the last piece – or rather, lump – of nutrient paste into his mouth. Having done so, he didn't forget to tuck the plastic tray into his inner pocket.
He wouldn't litter anywhere, and besides, throwing objects from a height was very dangerous.
Thus, trying to swallow this garbage that numbed his taste buds, Kariel indistinctly answered the Ghost's question.
"Most eat the same thing I do. This stuff started being promoted on Nostramo about ten years ago. They say some aristocrat from the upper levels decided that workers didn't need to eat well."
Having said this, Kariel coughed, trying to get rid of the unpleasant sensation in his throat so that the viscosity wouldn't bother him anymore.
Of course, his attempt failed.
Meeting the Ghost's gaze, he added, "And as for whether they get enough to eat... it depends on how hard they work. If they're willing to work 18 hours a day, they'll be able to eat their fill that day."
The Ghost's eyes widened. His knowledge of the world was limited, but what he knew was enough to understand what this meant.
"Is that why there are so many suicides?..." the Ghost asked quietly.
Kariel chuckled. 'You haven't seen the whole truth about this cursed place yet,' he thought. People commit suicide not only because they have nothing to eat and nothing to wear, but also because they see no hope whatsoever.
And the aristocrats didn't care – the death of workers was even a benefit to them, as they stopped consuming resources.
"No, not only for that reason," Kariel said. "It's only part of the reason."
"Then because of the gangs?"
"They are merely accomplices."
"So... the aristocrats are to blame?"
"In a way, yes," Kariel shook his head.
"But the root cause is still not them, Ghost. You once said that you thought this world was sick... but you don't even know what a normal world should be like."
The Ghost was silent for a moment, then objected:
"...I've seen fragments; those worlds are not like Nostramo."
'Not just not like it,' Kariel thought.
"What makes them unlike Nostramo?" the Ghost asked, bewildered. "Kariel, do you have an answer?"
'I do. Of course, I do.'
'I can give you a thousand answers. I can even write a book about what needs to be done.'
'I've had too much time to think about this question. Over the years I've wandered this world, I've seen too much...'
'And all of it was enough to turn a ghost who only wanted to die into a philosopher.'
'But I can't, Ghost.'
Looking at him, Kariel said softly,
"The answers to some questions you must find yourself, Ghost. I cannot tell you them. Everyone has their own attitude towards the world, and I don't want to influence you..."
'Although I already have. Forgive me.'
"And now – the break is over."
Kariel stood up, and his face instantly changed. He tightened the ties of his cloak, waved his hand, and a dangerous silver glint flashed on his wrist.
"Who is it today?" the Ghost asked.
"'Crimson Finale'... don't forget to say hello to them, Ghost. Last time they generously lent us two motorcycles."
Kariel laughed loudly and jumped off the gargoyle. The Ghost followed him.
The gargoyle coldly watched it all. The warmth left by the Ghost on its head was rapidly disappearing.
...
An elderly woman, stooped, entered a dark corridor. She was gray-haired, a little plump, and her legs didn't obey her well.
In her hands, the woman held a large silver tray with a gold rim, laden with food. Three huge, perfectly roasted steaks, soft white bread, thick soup, and an entire exquisite pie.
The aroma was delightful.
In the Underhive, thousands of people would be willing to kill each other for such a meal. They would pay a great price just to take a bite.
From the woman's back, from a black metal base embedded in her flesh, a delicate black mechanical arm extended. On its three sharp mechanical fingers, a candle burned slowly.
She walked down the corridor, and the faint flame of the candle gradually dispelled the darkness. The woman walked slowly, but not because of her age or bad legs. She did it intentionally.
The walls of the corridor were hung with portraits of men and women in luxurious clothes, with pale, powdered faces. The deceased were encased in exquisite frames, the edges of which, adorned with lush carvings, reflected the candlelight.
They all looked at the woman with empty eyes. She, in turn, bowed respectfully to each one.
Fifteen minutes later, she finally left the corridor. Holding the tray, the woman stopped before two heavy gilded doors with relief carvings and struck them three times with her forehead.
A dull thud echoed. After the third strike, the doors opened automatically. She entered a new, enormous room.
A heavy dark red carpet, eighteen crystal chandeliers, and a lot of massive furniture and decorations made the place look like a small palace.
"My honorable Count."
The woman bowed low. Her gray hair fell onto her already reddened forehead. Her voice was filled with reverence.
"Your lunch is served."
"Put it on the table."
From the far end of the room, a voice sounded, carrying notes of indifference and the authority inherent in those who had long been in power. It should be noted that, in addition to this, his voice was hoarse.
The woman, lowering her head, slowly moved forward, approaching the long mahogany table from memory. She placed the tray down and then headed for the doors, intending to leave.
But at that moment, the same voice sounded again:
"In twenty minutes, call Gian, Laina, and Irene... Their playtime is over. House Scryvok has a task for them."
"Yes, my Count," the woman turned, bowed respectfully, and then struck the doors three more times with her forehead. Only when they opened did she respectfully withdraw.
Her forehead was already bleeding, but no one cared, not even herself.
***
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