The crowd of men murmurs for a few moments.

"Which organization? We ain't have no organization, lady," a young man advances towards me. He has dark curly hair and brown eyes.

"The Yamayanii organization, mr-"

"Sylvester, Dixie Sorevic," Sylvester says. "The Yamyam-something yami, though - we know nothing 'bout it. Right, boys?"

Everyone at first shakes their heads. Yet one hand shoots up, along with a voice that sounds like New Year or Octöberfest:

"I know those fellas," a stout man stands up amidst the heads bobbing below. "They're the lil' terrorists with lots o' crim charges o'er the street there," he gestured to his right diagonal side. "Are you a lil' terrorist with lots o' crim charges?"

I struggle in confused silence then make my point.

"No, no," I reply. Apparently this is my point. I have to add something more though.

"I was supposed to go undercover," I explain. The men (and the women, who I just noticed, dressed in flashy colourful clothing) watch me with interest. As if I am an amusing bug which decided to crawl out of nowhere. "But then I broke in to the bank. Hacked the system. And found the "actual base coordinates" which led me here. Now I am... here and I don't know what to do."

"Oh, woman, everyone puts us as their base coordinates!" A burly balding gray-haired 70-year-old vociferates in a home-ish friendly tone. "No one wants to take us down, 'cause they'd lose their jobs, those fellas," he says, chuckling, "some folk even go here e'ry Friday. They don' wanna be snitched on, so they don' sell us out. We can't go 'round openly though."

Sylvester's eyes widen with realization at my words. "Wait a minute... are you saying you stumbled upon our secret hideout by accident?" he asks with interest, his dark eyes as if searching my mind like Val. But Syl's gaze is warmer, friendlier.

I nod, feeling a mix of regret and apprehension as I stand awkwardly in front of these strangers.

"Well, sit with us, then!" The burly gray-haired man pushes a half-brooken wooden chair next to me. "We welcome any guest, even such an unexpected one like you!" He claps me on the shoulder. "Let's welcome her properly, boys and gals!"

As soon as he says that, it seems all the ice melts away. Everyone heartily laughs and chatter is heard from all around the place. The basement instantly becomes quite lively and different people bombard me with questions as to how I have gotten here. I try to answer them as best as I can, avoiding any details about my former boss and spy organization, but it seems to no avail - in 40 minutes they already know my birth year, my favourite toy from my childhood and my habit of drinking a glass of water whenever I eat. They now know all about me - I know next-to-nothing about them. At least I managed to hide anything about Val - and the real reason I got here. Oh, and my real name, as well. Through the night a sense of camaraderie builds between us, as they pester me with questions and shower me with the little food and drinks they have - inflation touched even the black market. For some strange reason, I begin to feel at home (and somewhat drunk), despite my initial fears and hesitation.

I realize I can't leave after most of the chatter has worn off - I am too drunk to normally function, and I wouldn't be able to find my way back. Though it appears as if I have no choice.

That's when Parker (the burly-gray-haired guy) asks me if I want to stay here, at their bar.

"We've a few spare guest rooms, if you want to stay. We always try to have a lot, because, you know - the drunkards and their friends often nod off here. We all clean the rooms after they leave, of course, - so I was wondering if you'd want to."

I don't really believe the rooms are clean, but I have no choice. I am in a zugzwang.

However, one concern lingers in my mind: I am a bit broke.

"I'd love to, but, - I don't know how much it costs-"

"Free of charge to you, Dixie," Parker replies, catching me dumbfounded. "The drunks, they never pay too - at first we demanded money from 'em - then we let it go. They only deserve pity. We can't legally sue them, anyway."

"Oh, that's so kind of you, oh, um," it seems my drunk mind is finally catching onto me. I almost cry because of Parker's kindness - the hormones seem to kill me. I stumble over my words, but it's not my fault - they tried everything to get the booze down my throat!

But Parker, a more-than-middle aged gentleman, seems to understand everything. He nods in approval and calls out to one of the few men left in the darkened basement.

"Lead her to her room, will you, Syl?" and with a last added "good night, Dixie" goes on to help his buddies clean and fold the tables.

"Yes, sir," Sylvester replies and takes me by the hand. "Follow me."

We go on to climb a kind of long windy staircase, the latter resembling the one I came down before), and after around one or two minutes come to a secluded corridor with a few rows of doors either way with a golden on each of their upper parts (or spaces, I don't know whatever the hell they are called), and stop at number nine. Syl opens the door and gives me the keys. I go in.

"There are most o'the essentials inside, and food will be delivered once you sleep up in the morning. Alright?"

"Alright," I answer with a shaky voice, already starting to cry again.

He is too nice.

"Just get some sleep for a few hours, and you'll be as good as new. Hear me?" he asks me. I nod yes a thousand times, in my ruined mascara and half-unbuttoned polo shirt. I touch my hair - it's so oily I can't stand it.

"We'll be waiting for you down in the basement. If you want, call us - the number's 821," he hands me a little Nokia. "Goodnight, for now. Till' tomorrow."

"Till tomorrow," I repeat, and he closes the door and leaves. I run and plop on the bed, instantly feeling nauseous and so tired. I have to keep it in. I would hate to go to the bathroom again.

Before I fall asleep, a last thought passes through my brain.

Sometimes the ones who emit sin on the outside and purer than the ones who pretend to be good on the outside.