LIMBO

Chapter 4: Two Symbols of Infinity

I woke up on a bench near the dorm. Sitting up, I adjusted my skirt and looked around. No one was there. It was seven o'clock, and the students were still sleeping in before the first day of classes. Hopefully, nobody saw me lying here drunk with my backside exposed.

My right hand hurt. Opening my palm and bringing it to my face, I noticed a deep cut right in the middle that hadn't healed yet. No, not unnaturally round like that musician's one, but quite ordinary – just a line an inch long, still oozing blood.

Strange. I don't remember where I got hurt so badly. Maybe while fainting, I tried to grab onto something sharp or cut my palm on the asphalt?

And the violinist? And the junkies with knives and a bat? Was all of that… a dream?!

Touching my temple with trembling fingers, I groaned aloud:

"What nonsense…"

And immediately interrupted myself. It's not nonsense at all, I need to drink less! Of course, it was just a dream. And even the plot is familiar. Again a gathering of criminals, again a flash of red matter that I took for the "morning star", again a sharp black wing…

Maybe I shouldn't have left the camel thread at home after all?

Come on, Niki, pull yourself together. You'll think about it later, but now you need to go to the dorm. Look in the bathroom. Dress in something decent and official. Put a bandage on your hand – it should be somewhere in the suitcase. You can also write to your parents that everything is fine with you, but without details…

The second bed in my room was still empty. I unhurriedly unpacked my things, hanging some in the closet, folding some in the drawer. Then I went to take a shower to wash off the remnants of the nasty dream, washed and dried my hair. Typed a message to Dad, then to Mom, received congratulations on the first day of autumn, and started packing my bag for classes.

When I remembered about the cut and found a bandage in the first aid kit, it was already too late. The strange wound had healed, leaving only a deep white scar.

"Why do you look so stunned?" Lizzy's coquettishly lined eyes studied me attentively from behind contact lenses – this time green ones. "Headache?"

"What?.. Oh, yes. Headache."

What I don't like about the institute is the entrance. First, there's the rude copy of Aunt Betty at security, and second – this strange, dark tunnel. Every time I emerge from it into the bright hall, I feel terrible. My head feels pressured, my ears ring, cold shivers run down my spine, and my arms and legs go numb…

On the way to the assembly hall on the third floor, I almost got lost. The corridors branched and meandered, and it was all too easy to miss the right turn, especially if you were in a hurry. I only sighed with relief when I saw the main landmark – a large portrait gallery. As I scurried along the red carpet, past and present leaders and teachers looked at me appraisingly, first from portraits, then from old black-and-white photographs. One of the first rectors, it turns out, held a count's title, and in the forties many professors took part in the Great Patriotic War and were captured in military uniform with medals.

The wide and tall panoramic windows of the assembly hall let in a lot of light. It streamed across the stage, flowed down the steps onto the old parquet floor, and jumped with sunbeams onto the backs of plastic chairs painted in three different colors: red, blue, and white – matching the Russian flag.

The teachers were seated in the front row. Most had already taken their places, but two elderly professors remained standing, talking animatedly. I couldn't help but stare at this pair, who were complete opposites of each other. One of the old men – balding, in a rumpled sweater, with a disheveled beard – was vividly and energetically proving something to his companion. A textbook character, a classic mad scientist. The other – a short, silver-haired grandpa with a pleasant smile – looked more like an aristocrat. Neat haircut, clean, ironed white suit, and the same white, elegant cane. He listened to his comrade so attentively that he even closed his eyes and only occasionally nodded slightly in time with the conversation.

At first, we took seats in the back, but one of the amusing pair – the one with the cane – seemed to catch my gaze and waved for us to move closer. I got a red chair, Jake got a blue one, and Liz sat on my other side on a white one.

The podium with the microphone was empty. The person who was supposed to give the ceremonial speech was running late. Students were chattering happily, discussing something probably very important. Only the first-year students modestly huddled together and kept silent.

"Oh, there he comes," Jake elbowed me in the side, "John Doe. Our rector. It's about to begin."

Stroking a wrought copper key hanging on his chest over his jacket, a middle-aged man was solemnly approaching the stage. For several moments I examined him, alternately averting my eyes and focusing again – and each time I experienced a strange feeling that I initially couldn't describe.

What is wrong with this man? He seems quite ordinary: a simple fellow, of average height, neither thin nor fat, soft unremarkable facial features, stylish but inconspicuous suit, confident gait… ah, got it! He's somehow too ordinary. Probably, if you needed to draw a portrait of an absolutely typical, average man, it would be him. Not a single memorable characteristic – no matter how much you look, nothing remains in memory. Except maybe for that strange key…

Meanwhile, Mr. Doe stepped up to the podium and clicked his finger on the microphone several times, checking the sound:

"Kids! May I have your attention. I'm glad to welcome all of you within the walls of our institute! And especially the freshmen. This year we have a very interesting and promising intake. All the newcomers are exceptionally capable children. I'm sure that here they will receive everything needed to reveal their talents, and in the future will please us many times with their successes," the rector made a small pause, scanning the hall with colorless eyes. "So, I wish you a productive academic year. You will succeed. And now I am pleased to give the floor to our esteemed colleague, who from today will be, so to speak, bringing the light of reason to your unformed minds. Let's welcome him! Latecomers, please don't make noise, come in quickly, take your seats! Professor Bartholomew Wordsworth really doesn't like it when students are late!"

"Wordsworth… who?!" I whispered.

"Bartholomew," Jake whispered back, pointing furtively at that very nice old man who had immediately appealed to me. "Our Philosophy professor. The strangest of them all. I don't know why he's giving us guidance this year…"

Mr. Doe left the stage and headed somewhere to the back rows, while the silver-haired grandpa, barely noticeably bowing in response to our ragged applause, was slowly climbing up the stairs. Mr. Wordsworth stepped softly and unhurriedly, measuring each step like a stalking cat. Halfway up he even stopped, as if tired. Smiled. Cast an absent gaze over the hall – and that's when I understood why he was walking so slowly and strangely. And why he had listened to his colleague with his eyelids lowered, not looking at him at all. The professor's light gray eyes were covered with a cloudy white film in which the pupils were lost, as if in snow. The old philosopher turned out to be blind.

Just think, he's climbing onto the stage alone, without an assistant, feeling for each new step with the toe of his shoe!

I jumped up from my seat and flew to him:

"There are three more steps here. Take my arm!"

"Students from group 'P' can be spotted right away!" the old man smiled again, placing his shriveled wrinkled palm on my shoulder. "But don't trouble yourself, girl. Sit down. I'm quite independent."

Something in my chest tightened and ached with sadness. I immediately felt even twice as sorry for him.

Approaching the podium, the old man turned off the microphone. His slightly lisping voice carried quite distinctly through the hall without any speakers:

"As you know, I'm a philosopher. And I could philosophize to you for a long time about the dualism of this world, about light and darkness, about immortal angels and demons… but I won't. I won't. I'm too lazy. And you wouldn't believe me anyway. It's easier to just show…"

He unbuttoned his jacket and reached into the inner pocket. There's a projector hanging from the ceiling, and a large white screen behind the stage. Maybe grandpa is looking for a flash drive with a presentation? Or has he forgotten his speech, and there's a cheat sheet written in Braille? But what is he going to show then?

The gun in his hands appeared unexpectedly for everyone. The muzzle, aimed at us, flashed in the air with a tiny black hole. The bolt clicked nimbly, the trigger clanged, and a loud shot echoed off the walls of the assembly hall.

He could have missed, of course. That's what I was hoping for, as I opened my eyes, squeezed shut with fear – he's blind, after all, so he couldn't have aimed. And yet he did not miss. Jake jerked and grabbed his chest with a hand cramped with pain. A bright scarlet stain flared up and began to spread on my new friend's white shirt. The guy quietly wheezed, curled up and fell forward, hitting his head on the next row of seats.

Jumping up, I recoiled. Stumbled over Lizzy's legs, stepped back and pressed my spine against the wall between two windows. Someone from the freshmen screamed, someone dove down under the chairs in panic, hiding from the crazy professor, someone tried to run out into the corridor, but the hall door turned out to be locked, and they only helplessly pulled the handle, shouting "Help!". Only some of the newcomers remained in their seats and for some reason started laughing. Especially Lizzy, who laughed the loudest of all, to the point of tears. But the senior students weren't affected at all. They neither panicked nor laughed hysterically. It seems one of them even yawned.

A barely noticeable bluish smoke and the smell of gunpowder was floating through the hall. I was shaking. I'd heard about crazy students who shoot up institutes, but for a teacher himself to do such a thing… And why isn't anyone stopping him? Why aren't they taking the weapon away?!

"Ah, damn it!.."

It was Jake who suddenly took a halting breath and groaned in annoyance. Putting his hands on his knees, he rose. The strands of his hair, stained with blood, left long red streaks on the white back of the chair in front of him.

Coughing, he spat out the lead bullet into his hand and clenched it in his fist, hiding it from surprised eyes. Then he exclaimed resentfully:

"Mr. Wordsworth, why is it always me when something happens?! You could have at least warned me!"

"Didn't I warn you, Jacob Brittlegill, that the one who got the lowest score in my subject during the preparatory courses would be severely shot? Did you think I was joking? Philosophy, young man, is a serious science. It doesn't tolerate humor!"

"Why the shirt though!" Jake hissed, poking his fingers into the torn hole. "It is… it was brand new!.."

"Jacob Brittlegill's shirt took the enemy bullet for a reason," the old man said ironically, addressing the hall. He smiled again, but I no longer liked his smile. "The ability of each of you, my dears, is both a gift and a curse. And here I'm not just saying pretty words! Truly, he who heals others from mortal wounds will one day be mortally wounded himself. He who is surrounded by blue orgone inevitably encounters not only miraculous recovery but also incurable injuries. The healer and the sick are intertwined as one between the spirals of his DNA. Do not seek human logic here! It is present in what was said, but your current split, dual mind cannot comprehend it. However, do not worry. Everything will be fine. We will deal with your mind a little later – in my classes."

With these words, the teacher suddenly shifted his clouded gaze to me. His white eyes didn't see me and, at the same time, he saw me:

"And who are you, my dear?"

"My… my surname is Antipova," I squeezed out with difficulty. "Nicole Antipova."

"Remarkable composure, Nicole!" the professor exclaimed. "But why, pray tell, are you looking at me like that?.. Sit down, little bird. Hey, and you, lazybones and truants, have you fallen asleep down there on the floor? Stop lounging around, get out of the trenches. Open your notebooks and write down the schedule for today – today you'll have five classes: Biology, Chemistry, Law, Geography and Art History."

"E-excuse me," a voice came from under the chairs, "what did you mean by all this? That our Jake… is like an angel? That's why he's immortal?"

"If we express it in the generally accepted – I mean, among humans – paradigm," the professor pedantically corrected, "then he's more of a demon than an angel. But these are all conventions, young man. In fact, there are no angels and demons, and never were. But there are phoenixes – winged creatures that command fire and air, and ouroboroses13 – the serpents who rule over water and earth. Yes, yes, these are the two divine creations depicted on your student cards."

I collapsed back into my chair, stunned. I barely made it – my legs gave out.

"Two eternal entities!" the philosopher continued to proclaim pathetically. "Two symbols of infinity, of boundlessness, which we will discuss more than once! The crawling ones were later dubbed demons, and the flying ones angels, but this isn't quite correct. In reality, the two immortal races simply divided the world in half. Without war, without disputes – and from then on each carries out their own service. There is no and should be no confrontation between them. And in our age it is even absolutely normal if a phoenix and a serpent become friends – like these two – and even sit together at the same desk!"

He waved his hand in our direction. Jake turned to me and measured me with an appraising look. My classmate's eyes had become serpentine again – thin and elongated. I shuddered.

"Some of you have already learned the truth about yourselves," the professor, clasping his hands behind his back, was now pacing back and forth across the stage. "From your parents or from your benefactors – it's not so important. And of course, I also contributed my bit – those who attended my preparatory lessons were laughing the loudest just now. Others were less fortunate. They have yet to meet their hidden 'self' and go through the stages of denial, anger and bargaining. I suppose it won't come to depression. Yes, dear students of groups 'P' and 'S' – that is, those who were given colored passes – at this moment I'm addressing you. I hope you believed me and won't conduct experiments on yourself, testing your ability to be reborn from dust and ashes. If not – I suggest not delaying and doing it right now in front of the whole audience. So to speak, to consolidate the material covered. There are still bullets left in the gun."

The first-years, blinking fearfully, looked at the podium where the matte-black Makarov14 gun with a brown plastic grip lay.

"No volunteers. Wonderful. You are much more perceptive than the previous intake."

"And those with white passes," asked Lizzy's neighbor, the guy who a minute ago had screamed the loudest, "group 'M'. Who are they?"

"In order to help you, the imperishable ones, cope with your uncontrollable, difficult-to-subdue nature, our institute – LIMBO – was formed. Here you study shoulder to shoulder, in the same cohort, with mages – that is, essentially, with ordinary, mortal people who pass on secret, metaphysical knowledge from mouth to mouth as a family heirloom. You will recognize them by their unique, telling surnames, which they have inherited from father to son and mother to daughter since time immemorial. Remember them! Unlike you, whose immortality is, so to speak, an accidental mistake of nature, it is the hereditary mages who will later head, following their ancestors, a special FSB department, in which the best of the eternal ones will work in service to the Fatherland!.."

"And what will happen to the worst?" squeaked a short girl from the back row.

"You don't need to know this at all, young lady. Your business is to study diligently and listen to your teachers. We, unlike phoenixes and serpents, are not immortal, which means we're spending our precious time with you slackers. Please be so kind as to value it."

"Could you tell us what the letters 'BO' mean?" another pressing question came from a freshman.

Mr. Wordsworth, as if in passing, rubbed the face of his wristwatch with his fingertip:

"I would like to chat with you more, ladies and gentlemen, but I cannot. The show is over. See you tomorrow at the lecture."

He descended from the stage much more nimbly than he had climbed it. Hobbled between the rows. Opened the window frame wide, as if it were a door, and fearlessly stepped outside.

The first-year students started shouting again. What is he doing! It's good that our third floor is actually the first above ground, otherwise such a reckless act could have ended badly.

"He'll get himself killed one day," Jake muttered, shooting a glance toward the open, tapping against the wall, wooden frame.

I couldn't tell whether the guy was worried about the philosopher or, on the contrary, wished for him to get himself killed sooner. Taking off the copper key from his chest, the rector unlocked the assembly hall door, and the freshmen, making noise and jostling, ran away.

Well, at least now it's clear that 'BO' doesn't stand for Business Objectives.

I walked down the corridor between Jake and Liz, hugging my briefcase to my chest. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to put it on my back right now. It seemed like I really had wings there. More precisely, just one – but sharp as a thousand knives.

"BO is for Bonkers," the guy grumbled irritably, as if reading my thoughts.

Or for Boundlessness?.. Wait a minute, what does this mean… If the baldy had stabbed me yesterday in the alley, nothing would have happened to me?!

No way, that's nonsense. The crazy old man must be raving. Or maybe it's just a prank? Some kind of theatrical performance for freshmen before initiation? And my dreams about flying are just a coincidence?..

"Guys, what do you think about all this?" I spoke up, emerging from my thoughts.

"I think that today after classes we need to get wasted again," Liz blurted out.

"I'm in," sighed Jake 'the Snake' still rubbing his fingers on his chest where the bullet had recently hit. The blood stopped flowing surprisingly quickly. Although, what am I talking about. There must have been some kind of capsule with red liquid hidden under his shirt. All the liquid leaked out, and the show was over.

"What did he promise you?" I was itching with curiosity. "An automatic pass? Ha, or rather, a pistol pass?!.."

I laughed, releasing the tension:

"By the way, about the pistol. You put the bullet in your mouth beforehand to spit out later, that's clear. But if the weapon is a mock-up, how did such a loud shot sound happen and where did the smell of gunpowder come from?"

They both stopped and looked at me synchronously.

"Niki," Jake finally said, starting to unbutton his shirt. "This isn't a prank."

"Okay, Gill, wait," Liz hastily interrupted him. "That's not a sight for the fainthearted, and our phoenix doesn't need it. You understand? Let her just get drunk with us one last time on the first of September. Like a normal person! You'll have plenty of time to scare her later…"

Chapter 5: Straight to HELL

"Niki," Liz poked me in the back with a pencil, "have you heard that girls are disappearing around here?"

The Biology classroom was dark – the light from the windows was blocked by the branches and leaves of plants. The teacher – an unremarkable quiet middle-aged woman in a beige sweater and thick glasses – was especially fond of monstera and palm trees. On the windowsills, like in a dense tropical forest, real thickets towered. And there were also many cats of various colors freely walking around the classroom, jumping on chairs and desks, rubbing against students. Ginger, gray, tortoiseshell, tabby, black with white paws, and of course, pure black.

One cat looked plumper than the others and walked slowly – she seemed to be pregnant. When she jumped, not without difficulty, onto the teacher's desk and lay down right on the gradebook, Ms. Alexis, smiling modestly, didn't chase her away to take attendance. She only mentioned, for some reason, while gently stroking the fluffy cat, that soon second-year students who received C grades on their summer exam would face a retake. It turns out that in LIMBO you get immediately expelled for an F, but C-s are allowed to be retaken if you don't accumulate more than five of them during your entire studies. I didn't listen to the rest.

"What do you mean 'disappearing'?" I turned to Liz. "From where? And to where?!"

"From the dorm. And where to – nobody can tell you that. None of them have been found yet…"

Interrupted by our chatter, the Biology teacher sighed. She was silent for a bit, trying to regain her lost train of thought, then adjusted her ponytail of dull blonde hair – for which I privately nicknamed her "Gray Mouse" – and continued speaking. Something about that for "S" group students her subject is one of the core ones, and at the exam, unlike others, they will have to complete not a theory test, but a complex practical task. This did not apply to Liz and me, so after being quiet for half a minute, we got back to our conversation.

"The dorm, as you know, is just two steps from the institute!" the redhead whispered. "But they leave their evening extra classes, swipe their passes at the turnstiles, and that's it."

"When did this start?"

"Since March they disappeared once a month. On the new moon. On the twenty-ninth day! Do you understand what that means?"