Egor Lynch

The park looked deserted, as if dead: no children's voices, no footsteps, no rustling. Only dense bushes and the fog that couldn't have appeared on a November evening without a reason. The team's van was parked crookedly in the alleyway—as it always was when John was behind the wheel.

Inside the warm salon, smelling of coffee and old folders, Lynch stood, his palm resting on the equipment table. The blue light from the flashlight glided over his fingers. He frowned.

"Aliens... well, it does sound clichéd," he muttered, but his eyes remained attentive. "And yet—the signs match. The behavior pattern, the pattern of lights..."

John sat in his chair, rocking back and forth, looking past Lynch—as if he irritated him even by the fact of his existence. Tim and Vitalya whispered at the back door, listening tensely to the creaking of branches outside the window.

"We need to contact Fox," Lynch said, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket. "He's... well, he's good at linguistics. Even alien ones. If these are indeed their tracks, he'll be able to help."

John turned sharply when Lynch mentioned calling Fox again. His face—blue eyes behind glasses, curls slightly tousled by an irritated gesture—contorted in obvious displeasure.

"Fox? That stutterer? What the hell do we need him for? Don't you miss us or something?" The voice broke into a caustic laugh, but there was nothing funny about it.

Lynch tensed for a second, as if he had been hit, not loudly, but unexpectedly. However, instead of being gentle, for the first time that evening, he responded sharply:

• It is needed, John, it is needed!

And because there was not a hint of doubt in Lynch’s voice, John felt as if he were covered by a wave of resentment.

"I see," he breathed out, quietly, no longer angry. Only with that coolness he used to pull away when he felt out of place. He waved his hand at Tim and Vitale: "Let's go. Our Lynch has new friends. And we're just doing something useful."

Tim and Vitalya followed him in confusion, not daring to meet the gaze of either John or Lynch.