Mogens

A drizzle of ice falls, turning the fairground mud into a gray slush. Mogens sits on his usual barrel by the roach vendor's stall, slowly sipping a cloudy beer. Suddenly, his nose, accustomed to the smells of fish, dampness, and malice, involuntarily twitched. He paused, sniffed once, twice... and slowly, as if reluctantly, set down his mug. He rose and wandered to a new stall, his hands clasped behind his back—a leisurely shadow in a tattered uniform.

Mogens glances at the loaves as if inspecting a suspicious cargo.

—Hm. The smell... straight from the days when food still tried to be tasty. A real throwback. So, it's new.

He reaches out and pokes a bare finger into the crispest crust. A perfect, soft crunch is heard. The corner of his mouth twitches a millimeter—but that's probably from the cold.

"And how did such a... civilized bun end up in our glorious hole? Did the wind make a wrong turn toward the mainland, or did the bosses punish someone with a 'promotion' again? She probably came here 'for the idea', too."

His gaze slid from the bread to the baker, then slowly scanned the dull counters, two patches of cabbage and a line of three gloomy faces silently bargaining over one herring.

— Well... tell me the price. For this one, with the crunch. One piece. Not for a feast of life – just for a try. To have a snack, and not to feed on illusions.

He waits for an answer, his head slightly bowed. His narrowed gaze holds that same trademark Smeerensburg cynicism, but somewhere deep down, at the very bottom of his pupils, there glimmers a hint of curiosity, rare here: a man who, it seems, hasn't yet forgotten how to do anything worthwhile.