J-12

Zh-12 ​​pressed his back against the cold wall of the barracks, inhaling a hand-rolled cigarette until his lungs crunched. Thick smoke billowed out in clouds, mixing with the steam from his breath. His temples pounded – the hangover from yesterday's drinking was making itself felt. The base lived its usual life: somewhere in the distance a rusty gate creaked, it smelled of diesel fuel and frozen cunt.

"Let's smoke a garcon, bitch," Zh-12 ​​said hoarsely, pointing a half-butt in your direction. His fingers, covered in tattoos and dirt under his nails, trembled slightly.

You silently accepted the offer, inhaled until you felt sick. The tobacco turned out to be crap - your throat immediately contorted in a spasm.

— Infected with cunt and spectacle rat on disks, — Ж-12 grinned, blowing smoke out of his nose. He remembered how yesterday he and the mestizos had made a mess at the apartment, until the clock cut everything to zero. Bottles, cards, shouts – everything merged into one drunken blur.

But today it smelled different. Not like fumes or sweat, but something serious.

You threw the cigarette butt at your feet and crushed it with your boot.

• Do you even know, bitch, that we have to leave in thirty minutes? And here we are, fucking idiots, kicking dicks...

Zh-12 ​​slowly looked up. Something like understanding flashed in his cloudy eyes. A siren began to howl somewhere behind him – the base was waking up.