Konstantin was accustomed to solitude. He had grown up an only child in the small suburbs of a smaller town, had kept a small circle of friends that listened to him speak but paid no attention to his words, and served in the Russian armoed forces as a рядово́й, a private, without making a single friend. Even after joining the mindless and faceless ranks of Deus Ex, he had served quietly in the amazon nearly alone without speaking to the majority of his peers except for the sharing of data.

And now, he had made one friend, but she had little time for him. Mimsy Kercher was the busiest woman he had ever known, even if she was one of the only women he'd ever befriended.

These facts were simple, a part of his life as much as braces were a part of code syntax. They were not a pity, in his eyes, because Kostya had no desire to become a social butterfly. He catalogued people and creatures and tasks into lists, and kept a mental rolodex of facts that he would quietly stow away and never use.

He had been alone all his life, and that had been fine. He had a creature in his mind, and had he believed in souls, he would have thought theirs would be occupying the same space.

But he did not, and so he was content.

Or so he had thought.

He was on an island full of like minds and warrior souls, of military training and tedious tasks. He should have been content, but he felt alone, and that was the most disconcerting part.

Kostya had never felt alone before, and he did not know what to think of it. Laying upon the bed on his side of the room, he stared up at the pockmarked ceiling, his brows knitted and his fingers laced atop his chest. Where had this feeling come from? He had never desired physical contact with another-- and, after a brief check, determined that this was still the case-- but he had grown accustomed to snippets of conversation here and there, between Mimsy's intense readings and construction of lab reports, nestled in the space between a single sleep cycle and the second cup of coffee, lost under the crumbs of powdered egg and bisquick breakfast.

Those conversations had slipped away from him, quietly and without warning. One day they had been present, and the next, Kostya could not recall the last time he had seen her, let alone heard her.

That time passed, and things returned to normal, after Mimsy stopped inhabiting the space beneath laboratory desks--

(Do not think of the bloodstained coat, and all that it represents. Do not question her sanity or the lack of it, lest it encourage her. His father had always told him, "Волков бояться -- дров не иметь." If you are afraid of wolves, do not go to the forest. It was too late: he lived in the forest, now, and had joined with the wolf in an alliance he would not-- could not-- break. Did that make him a wolf, too?)

Things had not returned to normal. There was another she kept her presence with, now, and he would not begrudge her for seeking solace, for chasing happiness in a way he could not understand. He recalled the slick wet of soap suds and waters, of a wide smile and skin pressed against his own, and a life he was not fit to grasp.

In another world, perhaps, he could stomach more than holding hands.

In another world, perhaps he was not so ignorant of the world.

This was not that world.

In this world, he was a foolish miscreant who followed a dead girl in a rainbow scarf to a world beyond his capabilities. Kostya had no special talents, nor did he have a particular desire to excel at anything beyond blending into the nearest wall, to become so indistinct that he might disapp--

He paused, sitting up and propping himself onto his elbows.

Dark thoughts cast aside, for self-reflection meant that one could acknowledge one's flaws and not dwell on them so long that the thoughts become self-pity, the gears in Konstantin's head turned.

Should the world not have time for him, or space for him, then it was all the better for what he now had in mind. The less people that noticed his existence, the better. The less people that knew him-- truly knew him-- then it was for the best, because one does not merely know Death. Death was inevitable, a concept, a finale to all things. Death was the alpha and the omega. Death was the final masterpiece.

Death was where he belonged, and so he would go there, unbidden. This realisation settled heavily in his gut, one of the scant few decisions he had ever made that he could call his own. And so, for the first time in many months, Konstantin Bashmet found himself smiling widely, with a mirth he could not contain.