The ride back to the so-called motel, in a car humming with unspoken secrets, was a tableau of stillness. Bugsy Moon, his mind a jazz symphony of thoughts and theories, couldn’t resist prodding the driver, suited up like a character straight out of a Men In Black film. “You were the receptionist at the motel, were you not?” he asked, his tone light but trolling. The driver, a paragon of professionalism, remained silent, his dark glasses a shield against any attempt at connection. Bugsy knew the score – every motel staff member, from the cook to the gardeners, was a placeholder in this intricate game of sinister shadows.
In the motel lobby, a vortex of covert operations, Bugsy caught sight of Ilya. A nod, a subtle gesture towards the motel’s humble cafeteria, and they were moving again, drawn together in the dance of clandestine brotherhood. “The cheapest vodka, comrade, but please, make it rye this once” Ilya quipped, borrowing Bugsy’s usual line. It was a small moment, but in the vast complexities of their lives, it was a touchstone of normalcy.
Perched on the stools, two veterans of soft-spoken secrets, they ordered shots of the house’s cheapest rye. This was their Zen moment – a time to cherish the friendship that had weathered countless storms, the bond that transcended their murky world.
“To your honor, as I have none,” Bugsy toasted, raising his glass in a salute that held more truth than jest. Ilya’s smile was a glimmer of shared understanding in the dim light of the cafeteria. “You never had any” he said.
“So, everyone has a different path through the ‘venture’, eh?” Ilya mused, his voice a blend of curiosity and resignation. “Yes, and we are to venture and report back. They think the multitude of experiences will shed light on… whatever this is,” Bugsy replied, his words trailing off into the uncharted territory of their mission.
“There may not be an end – what makes you think these ventures would turn on the light?” Ilya pondered aloud. Bugsy, philosophical and slightly amused, retorted, “For one thing, druže, this will be a mission where we jointly do completely different things.”
Raising his shot, Ilya declared, “I’ll drink to that – to a new experience, always to a new experience.” Bugsy’s smile was a rare show of warmth. “You will always drink, Ilya, forget the ‘new’ part.”
Their conversation never veered towards whether they would accept the mission. It was an unspoken agreement, a given. In their world, the concept of free will was a lie, overpowered by the thrill of the unknown, the Dutch courage born from having little left to lose. They were the lucky few, chosen to experience the extraordinary, to dance on the edge of the abyss, to linger on the fringes of reality. And that curiosity, that insatiable drive to know, to explore, to understand, was both their greatest gift and their most perilous curse.
As they sat there, in the dim light of the cafeteria, sipping on cheap rye, Bugsy and Ilya were more than operatives, more than shadows – they were adventurers on the precipice of the unknown, ready to leap into the void, driven by the irresistible pull of the unexplored. In the grand cosmic play of existence, they were but fleeting characters, yet their stories, their experiences, were the threads weaving the fabric of a reality far stranger than any fiction. Now would be a time for rest, a good night’s sleep. But that too was a luxury — only a hypothetical.