Ristachev’s world became a whirlwind of black and red, dancing round and round as pain ripped every fibre of his being to pieces. His body throbbed and ached as shards of red hot torment cut through his skin, and sweet blood welled up inside the tatters of his mouth. 

He could feel fangs of pain biting at him, whilst somewhere in the distance foreign hands fumbled about with his face. He was fighting just to stay awake, no matter how seductive an escape from this agony might seem, but even know the darkness in his vision was only growing and growing. 

[i]You left yourself vulnerable, Old man[/i] 

[b]Am I too late to join the drum circle?[/b] 

[b]No one is coming.[/b] 

[b]I’m staying with my friend here[/b] 

[i]You’re all alone out here[/i] 

[b]Might hurt my feelings, though[/b] 

[b]Well, I’m going to need your help again[/b] 

[i]Traitor[/i] 

Time slipped by in ribbons, as Ristachev’s head boomed and pounded. Soon the world became wet, and then there was no more pain. 

When the Russian came to, everyone seemed to be standing around discussing something. 

“I hate to break up whatever it is that you deti have got going on,” He wheezed, spitting a fleck of dried blood out of his mouth “But would anyone be so kind as to fill me in on what’s happening?”