Nobody likes to be taken for a fool, so Gromov headed to Luciano's closet, from where he took a wooden box full of brushes, dirty rags, and oil paints.

Unceremoniously, he threw the accessories away, satisfied with the exquisite looks of his loot.

"They say one takes no possession to the other side," Gromov laughed maniacally, returning to his cabin. "But one can always try ... Oh, crap!"

When the brushes had been cast out of the box, they fought back, and one sharp ink pen had stabbed Gromov's palm.

He was in the middle of arranging proprieties for the ongoing drama when he realized the dripping blood had stained the mysterious egg, which he carefully situated in the "treasure" chest.

"Oh mighty ghost of this ship, you won again!" Gromov shouted, smearing the blood over the smooth surface. "But the brave endure!"

Right now, the cabin was a complete mess. Doll's pink handcuffs were lying on the table while the chair was covered by Gromov's finest and only suit, the one in which he used to attend funerals of his fellow soldiers.

Gromov disliked this reminder. Not because of the funerals, but because it reminded him of Samara's wedding: the bittersweet memory he wanted to bury deep down. Still, the suit reappeared again.

With sudden dizziness, Gromov collapsed into the chair, losing all the motivation to continue. "Isn't it stupid? Childish? If I should have punished all imbeciles in the Universe, I'd work nonstop."

Getting sleepy and weary, he started to dig the graveyard of his past, dragged into an unexpected introspection. It was like immersing into murky waters and experiencing deja vu while falling asleep.

TEN YEARS AGO

"Should I marry Peter, Sava?"

On the third day of his vacation, Samara contacted Gromov and invited him to a small, comfy coffee. They were drinking vine while Gromov sourly desired something more substantial. He knew the talk would be a disaster, but he could not help himself.

Samara wore a casual costume, giving away vibes of a successful businesswoman, while her smiles were charming hearts of men, no matter their age.

Gromov was no exception. For the three last months, he dwelt in never-admitted desire, fantasizing about her.

"Of course, you should marry Peter," he replied nonchalantly. "He is handsome, nice, and smart. I wonder what makes you think you shouldn't. Nota bene, when you've already been engaged for a couple of months. By the way, do you mind me having, how do you call that, an aperitive? Hey, waiter, bring me double vodka, please."

"The same here!"

Samara pushed her vine away and observed him. She had green, fox-like eyes with small wrinkles in corners, a gentle nose, and lips with lipstick too red to Gromov's taste.

"Sava," she said. "Jerzinski talked to me, hinting you wouldn't be happy once you learn about Peter's proposal."

Samara always addressed Andrey by his surname. Originally, Gromov thought she did not like Andrey and tried to keep away from him since he was a noisy and unpolished "diamond in raw".

But even so, she always insisted on meeting the both of them, treating Andrey like an old friend - sometimes to such an extent that it made Gromov jealous. She acted more detached during the sparse occasions when she and Gromov were alone.

"Peter is a fine fellow, my favorite buddy," Gromov insisted lightly. He did not lie, though. In his opinion, Peter Grasov possessed qualities a woman should appreciate in a man: reliable, successful, handsome, and kind-hearted. Compared to Peter, Gromov felt unworthy. "I see no reason why I should not be happy."

Samara stayed silent for a while.

"If I am not mistaken, I met you two about a year ago," she sighed, blatantly changing the topic. "Two brave soldiers who wanted to shoot my dog."

"It was not your dog. And Andrey did not shoot it."

"A pity because I would not mind. My aunt's dog is an ugly, pitiful creature."

Gromov remembered this very encounter. Then, a strange thing happened. The stage had changed. The cozy coffee transformed into another place.

ELEVEN YEARS AGO

"Hello? Who? Is it you ... Broken? Hell, I'm not a mechanic... told you I was a gunner. No, no problem... No, I don't mind ... Nothing important ... Come and get me anytime ... The park near the hospital ... OK, bye."

Emerging from blurred shadows, confused Gromov saw Andrey picking up his cellphone, talking to someone in a hushed voice.

In the late spring days, they used to play chess in the park, drinking from a bottle labeled as METHANOL: FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY.

After his second backup in a row, Andrey was under observation period, daily visiting the nearby hospital and out of duty. His mental state suffered because the deterioration caused by the backup became more prominent.

With their chess game less balanced, Andrey complained that evaluating five moves ahead made his head hurt - which had never been an issue before. Due to his internal struggle with growing migraines, he tended to get irritated over small things.

Before his inevitable defeat, Andrey jumped up with an angry expression and said to someone behind Gromov's back: "Hey beauty, the dog of yours seems to be my compatriot in pain. Do you mind if I kill it to shorten its suffering?"

When Gromov turned around, he spotted a dark-haired lady with green eyes, thin lips, and well-defined cheekbones, clad in a black skirt and snow-white shirt.

On a long leash, she was walking a grayish French bulldog. The animal bravely trod the gravel path, wheezing and coughing, with huge eyes almost popping out of shallow sockets. Every day in the flat-faced dog's life had to be a constant purgatory.

Evaluating both men and their SF uniforms, the woman appeared taken aback for a while.

Finally, as she came to a conclusion they do not pose any threat, she stopped and retorted calmly: "I do not mind at all, dear sir. Make a short work with this pitiful creature of mine. But once you do that, please be sure to collect his dead body and accompany me back to my aunt, who believes that the dog is the only pleasure of her existence."

With slightly curved lips, she approached Andrey and inspected his uniform: "Sergeant Jerzinski, is it?"

"That's right, madame. At your full disposal."

Since Andrey did not waver either, Gromov considered the option of jumping out and bursting into apologies. On the other hand, he thought, why should I be sorry for that moron?

The staring contest between Andrey and the young lady took about one long minute, during which Gromov experienced amusement and embarrassment simultaneously.

Sardonically, the woman continued: "Since you are so fond of mercy killing, Sergeant Jerzinski, I wonder if you can do me a favor."

"With pleasure. Do you own more abused animals that need extermination?"

"Sort of. As I said before, the dog belongs to my auntie, who is terminally ill. I am afraid that the very moment she realizes that the doggie left her side forever, she may get a bit upset. This will likely result in prolonged agony that should not leave you undisturbed, given how caring human you appear to be. My request is simple. Come with me and send the doggie and my poor aunt on their last journey together."

"Only this?" Andrey sneered. "Have you a preferable order of how to perform these executions?"

"Most certainly," the woman nodded in satisfaction. "If you do not mind, my auntie first. She should depart with her beloved pet in arms, quitting the world without necessary pain and sadness. I hope you can manage this selfish request of mine, sergeant."

"No problem."

After the exchange, Gromov wished he could have disappeared. However, Andrey calmly packed up the chessboard, put chess pieces into the case, and gestured towards her.

"Lead the way, milady," he said. "Nobody can blame SF officers for abandoning their duty. May I introduce my colleague to you? This is Captain Gromov. I can imagine that seeing the upcoming scene will negatively affect your psyche, so you may want to seek a safe haven in his manly disposition."

Gromov made himself smaller. "I am a completely unrelated party."

At least, he wanted to clarify as much. But the moment she came closer and examined him carefully, the same way she had done it with Andrey, he got captivated by her looks.

"So pleased to meet you, captain."

The offered hand had sensitive, slender fingers with long nails. From shoes to a pearl necklace, she emanated an air of cultivated, fashion-aware woman, situated in the upper class. But she lacked the predatory aura often found (at least in Gromov's opinion) among wealthy people.

Even though he did not intend to get involved in Andrey's mess, he hardly resisted the attraction caused by her natural charm.

"Nice to meet you," he answered indifferently, too stiff to smile back.

"Are you a pilot?"

"Right now, I feel more like a warden of a mental asylum," replied Gromov, angrily staring at Andrey. "Please, do excuse him. My friend lives through a harsh period, so he deems himself entitled to unforgivable rudeness. But rest assured, we are both harmless."

"Is it so?" She got closer to him and whispered. "With regards to national security, I wonder if I should not be petrified if an SF officer admitted he was harmless. Aren't you suppose to be, you know, dangerous or threatening? Like a hyena?"

Hyena? Why hyena?

Gromov did not remember Samara ever talking about hyenas. Moreover, the scene he happened to be in felt somewhat unrealistic. Where the coffee went? Why was Andrey alive? Am I dying while clips of my life wander before my eyes?

But he did not mind. There were two people he ever cared about. He obediently followed suit, inquiring about Samara's circumstances.

"I am a new kid on the block," she chatted jovially. "My auntie left me to walk her dog to get acquainted with new people. She explicitly said that men who care about animals could not be bad. Furthermore, she explained to me I should contact SF officers if I get into trouble. She is sooo fond of SF officers. My uncle was one of them. I am pretty sure she will be very happy to meet you before ..."

She made a quick cutting movement around her neck. " ... you execute the poor thing."

"This..."

Uncomfortable to the bones, Gromov could not get rid of the impression she was doing it on purpose. Meanwhile, Andrey, walking few steps behind, wore a cruel expression of a serial killer.

About ten minutes later, they stopped at an ornamental gate of a villa located in an expensive neighborhood. Samara invited them inside and led their party into the exquisite hall where an old lady sat on a wheelchair, accompanied by a nurse.

"Auntie, I'm home," Samara said and kissed the lady on the forehead. "These gentlemen agreed to help us with the small problem of yours."

"Oh, so nice of them," the lady greeted them enthusiastically. "My hubby always told me that the SF officers were the best. Samara has no friends here, and frankly, I would never expect anyone to take care of me at a moment's notice. Splendid! I begged the company to come as soon as possible, but they decided to neglect my worsening conditions altogether."

"The company?"

Gromov wondered if she was referring to some shady business involved in euthanasia. Suddenly, he spotted how Andrey was rolling up his sleeves.

"Do you want to make it here?" Andrey asked grimly.

The old lady patted his hand thankfully.

"That would be lovely, sergeant," she chirped. "Currently, I am not able to move elsewhere. It is so cumbersome that I prefer to stay downstairs. I had to ask Samara to walk my sweetheart because I was stuck in the lounge. A quite disturbing situation, I'm afraid. But with you here, I'm sure that all my trouble will vanish at once."

"Count on us!"

To Gromov's horror, Andrey came closer and observed the lady from all possible angles.

"No problem," he said to Samara afterward. "Can I have some tools? Do you know where your aunt stores knives? Paper towels can be handy as well. It may be dirty work."

Samara nodded and brought a toolbox, from which Andrey took out a huge hammer.

"What are you going to do?"

Gromov could not take it anymore. After approaching Andrey, he took the hammer from his hands. "Seriously, even in your current state, you should know better."

"Oh, should I?" Andrey grinned. "So, will Your Majesty repair the bloody wheelchair? Because I saw you with a screwdriver before, and I wanted to save you from embarrassment. Don't forget these beautiful ladies are watching you."

"Repair the wheelchair?"

Confused, Gromov realized that Andrey and Samara started to laugh as if they were sharing some private joke.

"You guys know each other?"

"Well, sort of." Samara wiped off tears out of her cheeks. "Excuse me, captain. I am sooo sorry."

"You don't seem too sorry to me. May I know what's happening here?"

"This is a secret," retorted Andrey. "You treated me like a mental, Sava."

"If you act like a lunatic, what can you expect?"

"Now it's my turn for a little revenge. You will never know what happened between this fine lady and me. No one will ever tell you. Mystery of the Universe stays closed before your very eyes, which will haunt you to the last breath."

Gromov sighed, turning to Samara. "If I understand correctly, the wheelchair of your aunt was broken, so you called Andrey. Have you met him before?"

Even though Andrey tried to hush Samara vehemently, she disregarded him and led Gromov outside to a garden.

The place did not match Gromov's memories, having been replaced by a more vivid, picturesque corner of a fairyland.

"Am I dreaming?" he pondered. But in ordinary dreams, such a realization was foreplay for waking up, while now, he only felt a tad hazy with his brain-altering between his old and current self.

"Dreaming?" she went on softly. "Should I explain where I met Jerzinsky?"

"No need."

Since he had lived through this once, he was already aware of that part. Having arrived in the city a week ago, Samara got stuck at the airport with a load of baggage.

Coincidentally, Andrey, who had been wandering around, offered her a helping hand, so they became acquaintances. When the wheelchair had broken down, she called Andrey, mistaking him for an SF mechanic.

"A girl would think you didn't need to rush things. We have met again after so many years, Sava. Cherish it!"

With a cold, calculating expression, Samara did not look too disappointed.

"What if I let you kill my auntie and her dog today?" she suggested contemplatively. "Was it a mistake to keep the history unaltered? What about you, Sava? Am I not the only love of your life?"

"The only love? Sounds so noble and haughty," Gromov grinned, even though he did not find it funny at all. "I've never admitted anything like this."

"Neither has she," Samara replied. "I repeat, we have both a rare opportunity. So I ask once again. Should've she married Peter?"

Gromov did not miss how she switched pronouns.

"The answer stays the same, my beautiful imposter. She should've married him. She's already done so."

Back then, when Gromov had refused to confess to her, the real Samara did not insist any further. They pretended the conversation had never happened.

"So be it!"

Lacking the gentle confusion of the original, this dreamland Samara showed no signs of being broken-hearted. There was something inhuman in her motionless gaze, almost as if she was a sister to Doll, a robot sent from a distant past.

"Now for something completely different."

Without warning, her skin changed color, turning into dark blue. Certain sharpness, always present in Samara's features, became more prominent, and the whites of her green eyes blackened.

"Do you recognize me? Sava, look at me and say if you recognize me."

"Recognize you? Why would I ... No, wait ... The demoness?"

THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

When Gromov was about fifteen, he bought a comic book, attracted to the devil-like female protagonist on its cover. With a romance between a superhero and villainess, the book was by no means special, but it managed to impress the teenage boy greatly.

In its final scene, the hero refuses to lead an invasion to the mortal world.

Young Gromov disagreed vehemently.

"If I were him, I would never leave you," he kept promising his idol with all sincerity of a fifteen-year-old vessel of roaring hormones.

Infatuated, he became a fan of the series, only to realize she would never appear again, having only once served the author's purpose.

Now, almost thirty years later, he had long forgotten about the paperback. The only soul aware of his "secret love" was Andrey. Since the very day Gromov had shared the torn-out picture with that jerk, Andrey kept calling him His Majesty.

"So you are the Queen of Darkness now?" Gromov inquired, chuckling.

Samara stayed unmoved. "The system is trying to find you an appropriate match," she informed him. "The compatibility rate has reached eighty percent. Motivation sufficient."

"You can say so," Gromov mumbled. With infernal yet attractive features, the demonized Samara aroused him wildly. "Surprisingly enough, I'm into blue-skinned monsters with sharp teeth and claws-like nails. No wonder poor Akane has never stood a chance with me."

There was meaningful silence.

"I guess I should confess to you now?" Gromov asked in a hoarse voice. In such a precious dream, he wanted to enjoy himself. "After all," he ridiculed himself, "men usually buy sports cars to fulfill their teenage wishes. Marrying a demon woman is a rare occurrence everywhere."

Falling on his right knee, Gromov proclaimed solemnly: "Would you marry me, Samara the Demoness? For inexplicable reasons, you seem to be my femme fatale. By the way, do you prefer roses or fresh blood of mortals?"

Even though the confession was far from ideal, especially lacking in the romance department, Samara did not mind it, her piercing eyes burning with green flames.

"Sava Gromov," she said gravely. " Do you promise to become my sovereign? Do you promise to give our sons and daughters the inhabited worlds? Do you promise to antagonize the human race for them?"

With her fading voice, the psychedelic experience became weaker.

Hastily, Gromov grabbed her hand and kissed it.

"Yes, I do. I was ready to do so since I was fifteen."

The bizarre journey in the wonderland was abruptly over, with the shapes of the captain's cabin replacing the mysterious garden. The scenery changed once again.

Finally, Gromov woke up.

"This was the finest dream I've ever had," he declared, stretching out. "Welcome to reality, Mr. Sovereign. It's the time to show puny humans how terrible you are. And why not start with an annoying specimen? Even though it is questionable if torturing dear Profesor Zhutra counts as antagonizing the human race. I would call it a charity."

Putting up the suit and taking all prepared proprieties, including the ad-hoc made treasure box, egg-shaped artifact, and Dolls' handcuffs, Gromov left the cabin.