Why “Kite”? Where did this stupid name come from? Who came up with the idea to call a special police detachment like that? Although why not? Let them call if they want. I don’t care anymore. I just got killed. For a while after that, I waved my arms in front of me by momentum, still trying to peel off the mask from the man who hit me on the head with a hammer. But then I heard Petro yelling at the top of his lungs to my right that Mikha had been killed. Actually, Micha is me.
Leaving the face in the mask alone and turning around to Peter, I began to shake him by the shoulders with force, at the same time shouting in his face, what is he talking about?! But he seemed to have gone crazy from the fight - he bent over someone in our uniform and continues to yell, as if he himself was being killed: “Mikha was killed! Mikha was killed!” “What an idiot,” - I thought, helping him turn over his comrade, who was lying motionless. And when we turned it over, I tensed up a lot myself: it seems that I am still an idiot. I did not foolishly understand that they killed me. However, in such a mess, not everyone will immediately understand this. This is me ... making excuses. To tell you the truth, it’s embarrassing to be so screwed up. I read a lot in my lifetime on this subject. Baptized. Only a couple of days ago on Christmas day I went to church. And, after all that I’ve missed my own death!
Basically, I’m dead. Although it is still not clear. My body is lying right in front of me. Blood gushing still warm from a hole in his head. The girl leaned over. For some reason, she brought the mirror to my lips. To mine?! Yes, I kind of look at all this from above. Why did they start bandaging my head? Or rather, to him. My body. Body? And then who am I? Fools, why are you pulling up my sleeve, an injection, what are you going to do? Petro, wake up, I’m dead. You’re deaf, aren’t you? Don’t listen, I’m telling you this myself. Sa-am. I’m Micha! Do you hear? You can trust me, I won’t lie. Well, certainly not in this matter. Do you hear, dead. Fool! An injection! Broke the new uniform for no reason. They could have taken it to the Museum of Military Glory. Okay, looks like they’re really all nuts here. It is useless to explain anything. I’ll go and see what’s going on...
Where do people get so much anger from? Where is he running so angrily with armature? Seems like towards us. Exactly, towards us. Now someone else is going to be killed. What for? Why are they killing us? We seem to be putting things in order. We are protecting them. We also had an order. Order. And who gives orders? Whose order was it? Someone gave. But we were unarmed, and they kill us. Someone gave the order for me to die... They will definitely kill someone else!!! How much anger he has on his face. Does he have orders too?
By the way, I wanted to know about snipers. Is that where they were shooting from? How can I move now, maybe just fly? Bliss! It is thought controlled. And the bullet looks like it just went through me. Hot. But I didn’t feel it. How do I know it is hot? Maybe it wasn’t a bullet? No, it’s definitely a bullet. From “Saiga”, and red-hot. What difference does it make, how do I know. I know everything. And there is no need to fly to the snipers. These are mercenaries. Nine people are there. They shoot people for money. They have an agreement. One cop - four civilians.
Damn, they’ve been racking their brains over this for a week now. We need to tell Peter everything. “Petro!!! Hear, the snipers are in that building over there! Nine people, fully equipped, like special forces. They knock people down for money. Like chickens, indiscriminately. Urgently run to our guys. Urgently! Do you hear? This is an order!” - I furiously shake the spotted jacket of the junior lieutenant, who at the same time desperately shouts something unintelligible to the platoon retreating in disorder from the completely distraught crowd ... He does not hear seems like. Mess. The commander does not hear. And these bastards are killing people.
Interesting, why is this? That’s where I need to fly. See where it’s all coming from. And stop! Now I can find out everything. Seems like I can read thoughts too now. What? Take the president’s palace today at any cost because tomorrow might be too late? And who can ask why? Why is no one talking about this here? There are enough weapons, enough attackers too. The assault must begin today. And that’s all. What about people dying there? Does it sound interesting to anyone here, at the headquarters of the revolution? I’ve already been killed. People have relatives, parents, children. Wives... Vika!!! Vika needs to know! She just called me half an hour ago! She said that she was waiting, and the children were very stressed about me! Vika, honey, I’m...
Vika, Vika, dear, they all lie... I’m alive. Don’t believe them.. A moment later, I spoke directly to my wife’s face. Trying to shake her by the shoulders. Vika did not hear me, same as Petro and everyone else. And with a stone face she continued to look at the TV right through me. As luck would have it, at that very moment there was a close-up of my mutilated and bloodied face.
A correspondent standing on the cobbled square next to me reported anxiously that just 15 minutes ago, angry protesters had killed another “Korshunovist”. It happened right in the center of the city, in front of the presidential palace. Hearing this, Vika pressed her hands to her face, trembled all over, and, trying to utter something, croaked.
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