3 Bedtime stories

Subconscious is... gloomy. I don't know exactly how I realized that what I see before my eyes is not the real world, but there is a firm confidence in this. And I'm used to always trust my gut, even if this is the first time in my memory when I realize my dream.

By the way, about memory: allow me to introduce myself — Andrey Belov. 24 years old. The owner of a beautiful beer stand in the form of a diploma of a shipbuilding engineer. A contract soldier in reserve with three years of service and two trips to Syria, where Ш had to shoot several times. In addition, there is nothing much to tell, everything is like everyone else. Childhood with the boys in the yard, school, first love at 16. Downhole evenings at the university, which, in addition to the crust, prevented me from taking knowledge from there. Classic. Then the army under contract, where I was assigned to a reconnaissance company, and quite an interesting service. Then demobilization, return home and... an icicle in the dark on a winter evening from the roof of a five-story building.

A curtain. So stupid that it doesn't even hurt. At all. ...well, maybe a little.

…

WHAT THE FUCK?! ICICLE! If there is a special icicle hell for things like you, then I sincerely wish you to spend fucking eternity there! No! Two eternities! And three is better!

…

F-u-u-u-u-h... seems like I'm allright now. Against the background of such a stupid death, my getting into Marvel somehow doesn't even look like unusual. My grandmother told me — not to walk along the houses in winter, because I can kill yourself. But no, we are smart, this can't happen to us in any way. Anyone but us. Sure.

As soon as the memories returned, I recognized chitauri immediately. Like the female version of the Hulk. As well as the unsophisticated spider-girl so far, which, together with what I managed to see, clearly hints at the 11th version(Marvel-11 in Russia are universes where there are many more women than men, not Penny Parker's home), where the matriarchy rules the ball. And if I'm not driving home in an ambulance to the hospital right now, drooling while my mind is hidden inside the skull, life is waiting for me to be fun. Yeah, until Thanos snaps his glove.

As for the subconscious, some kind of shabby basement or barn appeared before the eyes of my clear eyes. Stripped walls, littered with all sorts of junk like bags of cheap grub and empty bottles of beer, the floor and a couple of narrow windows under the ceiling that are not able to let in a normal amount of light. In the corner, there is a mattress, as well-padded as the whole place, on which, huddled into a ball and trembling like an aspen leaf in the wind, lies a half-naked kid. His appearance inspires serious concerns — bruises all over his body mixed with traces that look suspiciously like rough hickeys. A broken nose and chapped lips. And the eyes. Absolutely dead, as if their owner had seen something that you wouldn't wish even on an enemy. Succumbing to some kind of intuition, I carefully approach the boy with small steps, squat down next to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Kid, what happened here?" — But the boy did not react, continuing to stare with lifeless eyes at one point visible only to him on the wall. I look more closely at the kid's face and realize that I recognize him. I didn't have time to be surprised by this, as he jerked, shifting his gaze from the wall to my face, and with his small hands clutching mine that was on his shoulder.

flash

Little Connor stretches his arms to his mother. Behind, with her hands on the shoulders of a boy, there is a girl of about ten years old. Sister Jane. Now it's clear why I recognized him. The kid is a complete copy of me at the age of 5, I remember from family albums. The same dark blond, almost brown hair, the same green eyes. And the girl is also very similar, only her hair is lighter.

flash

Family picnic. Connor looks about 8 years old. His mother and father are sitting on a blanket and watching with smiles as his sister rolls brother on her shoulders. Happy family. Even a little envious, because I didn't have a sister.

flash

School, the first serious successes. Ten-year-old Connor, whose resemblance to me is now even more obvious, wins the boys' ball throwing competition. Doctors and teachers note the perfect eye and amazing dexterity and coordination of movement. The family rejoices and predicts a wonderful future for the boy. Now it's clear how I managed to distribute headshots so beautifully. The guy's natural talent overlapped with my training, and I turned out to be a worthy follower of Deadshot from DC.

flash

11 years. Another day ends with fateful news. Mom's been killed. Unknown persons shot her car at point-blank range right in the parking lot of the office where she worked. The police have not been able to find out to whom a simple middle-level manager in a company engaged in cargo transportation crossed the road. Literally the next day after the funeral, having taken almost all the money from the family budget, the father falls into the sunset. Heartbroken children are left all alone. A young girl and a very young boy, clinging to each other, sobbing at the top of their voices, until their vocal cords break over their mother's tombstone. And there is a frightening uncertainty ahead. A college student simply has nowhere to take enough money to feed both herself and her brother. And yet, after all, they need to pay rent, and for studying, too. Although, what kind of study is there now.

Anger rises from the depths of my soul. How did this bastard dare to leave his family at such a moment?! What kind of scum should I be? G-r-r-r-r-r... if there is such an opportunity, I will find it and hang it by my own balls. Like most men of this world, this carrion did not work anywhere, sitting on his wife's neck, it's strange that he had only one. And as soon as the feeder ran out, forgetting about everything, I went to look for a new one. Threw it out and trampled it. An abomination.

But if I thought that this was the end of it, then I was deeply mistaken — the new flash showed much more terrible events.

Night. Jane, having spent the last of her strength, fell into a restless sleep on the sofa in the hallway. But the boy can't sleep. His restless little head alternately visits only two thoughts: [Mommy ... well, how is that?!] and [Daddy! Don't leave us! Come back to us! Please!] But neither mother nor father will come. The first was the victim of a stupid accident, and the second just turned out to be a first-class carrion.

I feel tears welling up in my eyes through the haze. No normal person would remain indifferent. And I. I feel everything that Connor feels, all his feelings, share all thoughts and emotions, as if I live his life myself.

While the sister does not see, the boy got dressed and got out into the street, and went without taking apart the road. New York at night is not the safest place, especially for a home child. Connor was just unlucky to be where he shouldn't have been. The boy accidentally wandered into a remote alley and ran into a group of five stoned street bandits, for whom he turned out to be a tasty morsel. The guy did not have time to understand anything, as he was caught and dragged away to an exact, to the last detail, copy of the bedbugs, where we met with him. Men are protected here, it's true. Even among criminals and supervillains, it is considered lawless to harm men. In the worst case, they will simply be robbed, groped and released without harm to health. But not this time. Brains diluted with substances, multiplied by hunger for the male body, cut off all the brakes for the ladies. Connor was bullied in a variety of ways for more than a day. Without mercy and without respite. For a child who has experienced tremendous stress, this event has become a nail in the coffin of an already damaged psyche.

Jane, having discovered the loss in the morning, called the police, and they got on their ears. But by the time they figured out the route the kid was taking, by the time they walked along it and found the den of drug addicts, it was... too late. The boy was found in a half-dead state on the very mattress surrounded by his abductors, who, having sobered up, began to realize the depth of the ass into which they dived. They were not treated with ceremony. Policewomen took them out, put them against the wall, and fired a couple of bullets into the stomach to torment them longer. They blamed everything on resisting arrest. Things like this happens sometimes.

Waking up in the hospital and seeing his sister, Connor fell into hysterics and almost strangled himself, in a panic tangled in IV tubes and his own pajamas. It is simply impossible to convey in words the whole degree of bitterness and pain that could be seen on the face.

Soon psychologists identified a problem — the panic fear of women is the result of a night walk.

Jane had to completely forget about college and get a second job, and then a third. All in order to cure my brother. But nothing worked. Neither drugs, nor numerous sessions with male psychotherapists. Nothing. The allowance was not enough to cover all expenses, and compensation for moral damage from the state was only enough for a small apartment in the city, where Connor spent the next 6 years. Always. Food only by courier, clothes and other consumable items too. And education. Private lessons of male specialists cost an astronomical amount of money. It's the same story with medicine. But Jane did not give up, giving up on herself and, working hard, she still tried to save her brother.

Connor... understood everything. But he lacked neither the moral strength to cope with his fear, nor the determination to commit suicide to save the girl from having to take care of herself. Despite his fear, he still loved his sister, and he was ashamed and disgusted that he could not even look into her eyes. All those years that Connor spent in seclusion, the guy spent trying to cope with his illness, but he could only achieve that he could talk to Jane for a short time, avoiding eye contact. However, no more than ten minutes, his endurance was not enough for more.

The remaining free time was devoted to physical exercises and drawing. Yes, his talents could be applied in this way. It is ideal to calculate and draw almost anything with a pencil. But even though the guy found an occupation that he liked, the thoughts in his head were increasingly reduced to suicide. On the day the Chitauri were attacked, he left the house not to escape, but to die. If he can't do it himself, then by someone else's hand.

That's when I showed up. It probably just so happened that Connor got hit on the head at the same time with me — his unlucky double from a parallel world. And now we're both here.

The last memory was over, and I realized myself again in the barn, holding a puny, beaten kid by the shoulder. This is how he feels from that very moment to this day. A downtrodden, broken, little boy.

Suddenly the boy's face frowned and became serious. And I felt a strange tingling all over my body and a slight dizziness. Connor, meanwhile, said a single sentence. A phrase that means more to him than his own life:

"Don't leave her." — And disappeared. Turned into dust, the suspension of which was rapidly absorbed into me.

Really… All right, man. I give you my word that I will live this life the way you really deserve it. And you didn't have to ask for a sister. After what I've seen, I'll be the last pig if I let her continue to slowly ruin herself.

Goodbye, friend. No, brother. I will accept your entire legacy. Your past, your present, your name and even your soul. All that you have, I will keep and multiply.

I won't let you down.