Smiling Mask (Male Voice): Bullshit.
Mustache Mask (Male Voice): I swear.
The argument was taking place in a building similar in design to the Hawa Mahal. Two men: one wearing a bluish mask with a poorly drawn smile and uneven eyes, and another wearing a helmet with metal plates resembling a mustache, no holes, some decorative protrusions, and lights in the eyes. The one with the smiling mask was wearing a spotted green camouflage suit with front pockets, and the second was wearing a blue and white tuxedo and puffing out his chest like a courting pigeon.
Smiling Mask: I'm not going to try pizza with pineapple.
Mustache Mask: Your loss, it'll change your life.
Smiling Mask: Pizza can't have fruit; it's a mixture of salty and sweet. Would you eat strawberries dipped in salt?
I swear he considered trying it before rejecting the offer.
Mustache Mask: No, but I swear it makes up for it. It's okay.
Smiling Mask: (...) How did we end up talking about hawaiian pizza?
A paddle with a ball attached to a string appeared between his palms, a magic trick he played with.
Mustache Mask: I think we started talking about the weather.
Smiling Mask: Yeah, I remember that.
Mustache Mask: Afterwards, we talked about the best pet we've ever had.
Smiling Mask: And Bigotes won.
He quickly grew tired of his trinket, threw it into the distance, and it dissolved into the wind, an illusion.
Mustache Mask: Of course Bigotes won! - He stroked his fake mustache elegantly. - The fish wasn't doing shit, it just stared at you with wide eyes and struggled not to choke.
Smiling Mask: That's why Whiskers ate it. Then you said you were hungry...
Mustache Mask: Yeah, let's eat!
Smiling Mask: Are you feeling hungry now? We have to catch someone, or we won't be able to pay anything for a few days.
They activated a call to Headquarters.
Mustache Mask: General! General! (Jokingly.)
General: What? (Annoyed.)
Mustache Mask: Is there a report of a theft?
Frantic mouse clicks on the other end of the line. Perhaps the microphone wasn't near the receiver's mouth (where it should be), but carelessly left on the desk.
General: None where the criminal should be handed over unharmed. I know you like to play with your prey.
Mustache Mask: Any disappearances?
General: Not today. Good day for the world, bad day for us.
Smiling Mask: Shit... What do we do then?
Mustache Mask: It's getting light, let's go home and think about everything later.
He stretched his body to relieve his back; the epic superhero pose wasn't as satisfying as one might think when looking at the image.
Smiling Mask: And we're not going to eat?
Mustache Mask: We'll have breakfast at dawn.
They held hands, and arms of unknown origin dragged them to an unknown space behind a doorway. In a matter of seconds, they disappeared from the place and reappeared on a floor in sector number three. A small and rather run-down place.
They began to remove their suits. The one with the smiling mask went to a room, while the other left his clothes in the room where they had appeared. The one in the tuxedo took off his suit to reveal a man with medium-length, black hair, pointing backward. He looked stronger in the costume; perhaps it was the padding. Scars all over his body.
Smiling Mask: Nahor!
Nahor (the one with the mustache mask): What now?
Smiling Mask: Where did you leave my clothes?
Nahor: I didn't touch your clothes!
The walls were thin; perhaps their neighbors were savagely stabbing them in their minds at that moment.
Smiling Mask: Didn't you do the laundry yesterday?
Nahor: Yeah, but I left it in his drawer.
Smiling Mask: Damn, it's here.
Nahor: I told you. Hurry, we have an hour to sleep. We have to be at the interviews by ten, set the alarm for nine. (...) Caleb!
The one with the grin came into the room without the mask. He had shorter, brown hair and a few days' worth of stubble. He was wearing an old, torn orange T-shirt that had survived several New Year's Eves. He was stronger than a kick in the mouth.
Nahor: Did you hear me?
Caleb: Yes.
Nahor: You can be at the restaurant in ten minutes. It'll take me twenty to get to the store, so I'll leave first. Set the alarm.
Caleb: Yes.
Caleb threw himself down on the bed, collapsing in mild exhaustion.
Nahor: No way, give me some space.
He obeyed, and the other lay down beside him and covered himself with numerous blankets. Caleb didn't have a layer on.
Nahor: If my calculations are correct, we can change floors if we tighten our belts a little more or...
Caleb: Yeah... I'll apologize to the armory guys, see if we can get back to doing some commercials.
[-.. . ... .--. . -.. .. -.. .- .-.-.]
For my part, let me introduce myself. My name is Luzbel InWhite, and I'm in charge of reconstructing the events from recordings, documents, the obituary, and the logbook to create a novel about the events. Before continuing, I'll answer a question you haven't asked: although this happens in future years, all those named are dead.
You'll understand later. Thanks for reading.
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