The light goes out

      The wrists are pressed to the floor by a strong hand. The iron of the handcuffs makes an unpleasant clink, creaks on the floor, and bites painfully into the skin. Petrov was breathing heavily, trying to keep his composure, not to scream, not to cry out in supplication.       The dog was biting into his throat, and hot blood was running thickly down his chin.       The other hand is on ribs, pressing down hard, not allowing to move. Petrov wouldn't have been able to. For a minute or two, his shoulders slumped, and his body didn't move, nothing moved but his red lips, whispering something incoherent and inaudible. His head lies limply on the floor — the back of his head aching from the sharp impact of the hard stage.       The bloody collar of his turtleneck was torn open by hands and teeth. Petrov could no longer make out what was happening to him — his neck, shoulders — everything turned into a continuous pain. He couldn't make out where the strong teeth were now.       Petrov stared blankly at the high ceiling. Was he trying to distract himself, or had he already accepted it? The glare of the spotlights cut through his wet eyes. The mechanisms stood up, did not creak. Only a broken Natasha chattered. The battle destroyed the arena even more: pieces of walls crumbled from rocket explosions, a chandelier fell directly into the auditorium from the ceiling.       And Petrov thought that would be the end of it. He didn't try to run away then, sitting humbly in the foreground, glaring at the handcuffs on his hands, then at the brutalized Nechayev.       As if on cue, the Major's face appeared in front of him. He was looking at him with his pale eyes full of fog. Slowly chewed on a piece of his flesh, savoring the blood.       A hoarse chuckle came out of Petrov's throat. One more. And now, with the last of his strength, he was laughing out loud right in the face of Nechayev, who was looming over him.       How absurd all this is.       And Nechayev even froze. He studied it, approaching cautiously. As if he really saw and understood something, as if he was thinking about where to hit and how to make it hurt more.       Then he bites into cheek. But froze.       Viktor winces. From the pain, from the smell of his own blood, from the Major's prickly beard. He rubs his cheek against it, as if he's heard all the thoughts right now. He licks the blood from Petrov's lips, which are stretched out in a smile. Doesn't hurry to mutilate up the head, because even in this state, as an obedient dog, executes commands.       "Animal," he says when Nechayev snuggles up to him.       And Nechayev growls, biting Petrov's lips in the semblance of a kiss.       Petrov is still staring blankly at something in front of him. He really thought of meeting his death in the theater, but now he just wanted to die faster. Not to feel the rough touch on his body, the way they were grabbing his chin, the way they were biting into his jaw and neck again. Not to hear the disgusting slurping sounds with each bite, the cracking of skin. Don't feel your own flesh being torn apart. And he froze, raising his hands with an effort and covering his eyes with them. To make the darkness come faster. Pain shot through his throat, and he gasped for air like a fish on dry land. Couldn't breathe.       Tears froze in his eyes, and the smile faded from lips.

***

      Nechayev came to, lying on the corpse. The still-warm blood began to tighten uncomfortably. He propped himself up slowly on his elbows, his jaw and gums prickling.       "Crispy Critters…"       The Major could not immediately report the incident. The corpse grew cold as Nechayev puke with blood. Charles was mockingly silent.