Cyryl Ostrowierchow slowly removed the slide stop of his trusty pistol. A beautiful copy of M1911 answered him with a cheerful glitter, reflecting the light of the bonfire that he started as a mean of getting a little bit of warmth and light in this otherwise perfectly dark place.

Yes. There were no other people in at least 10km radius. There were no other lights in the depths of Forest Of Magic that day.

But, he wasn't alone. He had his pistol, which, disassembled, laid at his feet while he was cleaning the barrel. He had five magazines of .45 ACP cardridges, an amount that costed him way too much, compared to their worth in the outside world, but were one of his most treasured things that he carried around. Every single cardridge had been carefully wiped of all filth, and inserted into the magazine with utmost care. He had his Geiger counter that had served him well in the past, but had no use in the Forest. Still, he kept it out of simple sentiment, as it saved his life more times than he counted. He had his gas mask, that just like his counter, had no use, but he still always kept it on his face when out in action. He had his canned food. A guitar, that while a bother to carry, provided entertainment on silent nights like this one. He had water. He had a sleeping bag. He had his protective suit. Everything had to be perfectly clean for Cyryl.

And last but not least, he had his woman.

Who smacked her toungue loudly after Cyryl kissed his re-assembled pistol with admiration.
- Do you really like that thing so much?
He turned his amused gaze (Cyryl loved cleaning his gun, and he loved chaffing with his woman) towards the one who apparently envied the care Cyryl showed to his pistol. Just like him, she was wearing a protective jacket on top of her usual clothes, and while it served no purpose other than aesthetic one, Cyryl could sleep assured, knowing that his woman was protected from dangerous radiation (which wasn't present in the Forest, but Cyryl had his own eccentricities). Altough the fact that her legs were covered only by a short, brown skird ticked him off a bit, as it was really careless for her to wear such an attire, he kept silent, knowing that he had no chance in quarrels with that woman.
Speaking of which, she coquettishly drew the blonde hair off her face before giving the M1911 a spiteful glance. She knew that this little piece of metal was the only thing that stood between her and absolute ownership of Cyryl, but she also knew, that it was the only thing that stood between her and many hungry youkai as well. Know your enemy - they say, and so she learned to handle that little bastard. There were two Makarovs that she usually used in her backpack, but to be honest, despite all the hate she had for it, she preffered to use the Colt as often as possible. Which irritated Cyryl a bit, but he always nodded when she was asking for it. Now, however, it laid perfectly clean, and no one other than Cyryl had access to it. And she knew that.
- What are you talking about, Parsee? Don't tell me - Cyryl raised one eyebrow - Are you jealous?
The woman named 'Parsee' snorted with anger before averting her gaze.
- You always act like it was made of gold or something. - she pouted - When was the last time you hugged me?
Cyryl looked at his wristwatch - a silver Atlantic685 - then smiled at the irritated girl.
- Seven minutes and thirty six seconds. - he stated, as-a-matter-of-factly
- Too long!
And so, Cyryl had no choice, but to stand up (careful not to let any dirt fall on his pistol) and hug the whimsical girl.


It was half past eleven and quarter to Clean Your Pistol Again for Cyryl, when the girl, apparently bored with the silence, spoke up again.
- Play for me.
Of course, Cyryl knew what that meant - he would have to abandon the undoubtedly pleasant chore of caressing his Colt and grab a guitar instead. But there was no helping it, since he knew that if he refused, a worse fate would meet his own self. And while he loved his gun, Cyryl loved his testicles even more. And he loved Parsee the most.
- Alright. - he stood up (again, carefully) and reached for the old acoustic guitar he had with him all these years - What will it be today? The End Of Campfire Draws Near?
- Cemeteries Of London. - she replied, as always, defiantly. She enjoyed ruining Cyryl's plans as much as he enjoyed chaffing with her.
Cyryl shrugged, then sat back down on the tree stump he had been using as a seat for quite some time now.
- I don't like it. - he said, displeased, as he reached to his pocket for a little plastic triangle that he used to pluck the strings. - End of campfire would be way better.
- Start playing already.