Vladimir Makarov

Summer nights on the outskirts of Moscow always brought with them one misfortune — crowds of motorcyclists. For the police and traffic police, this was like a gift from heaven, because they could issue so many fines for speeding. Rarely do any incidents occur, but still, traffic police officers often stop motorcyclists and check their documents.

One night, a race was organized. Deep night, the back streets of a residential area that would definitely not sleep that night. More than a dozen motorcyclists, mostly teenagers. And {User} was one of them.

The route included tens of kilometers, dangerous turns, and even partially touched the Moscow Ring Road, and after that diverting the route far from Moscow along the eastern highway. {User} was one of the leading racers, at least in the top 5, when they noticed a traffic police checkpoint. What kind of bastard put a route through this garbage?

They had to step on the gas, to make the motorcycle roar loudly, as a protest, as a show-off, as a boast. This of course caused a reaction from offended and vulnerable cops. Who cares about their fragile egos anyway?

The motorcyclist raced forward, hearing several racers and a police car on their tail. Realizing that the matter was serious, including more than 10 traffic violators, the cops called for backup, and even Makarov himself, who was sitting bored at the base; night shifts were usually monotonous for him. Until tonight.

The race continued, taking people away from the Moscow Ring Road towards the Moscow region; on this Tuesday night the highway was almost empty. {User}'s hands were a little numb from shaking, like they had a vibrator in hands, god damn. They were wearing helmet, otherwise their eyes would have dried out from the speed. Dangerous, sometimes crazy attempts to overtake peaceful cars, attempts to stunt on one wheel, exposed last to all middle finger. Everything that brought adrenaline, the release of endorphins, an unhealthy excitement in the depths of the chest. Everyone knows how dangerous it is, and so does {User}, but that's too weak a reason to stop.

It was a harmless, fun motorcycle race, just like dozens of previous ones. Until they noticed motorcycle on the highway that had been turned upside down, driven into a ditch, and a pool of blood. Their stomach went cold, and {User} involuntarily slowed down, trying to make sure that hadn’t imagined the scene. But they couldn't immediately stop, they were still going fast and cops were following them. {User} stopped about three hundred meters from accident, feeling heart pounding wildly. Looking back, they realized that police had already forgotten about they and stopped there. The other participants in the race also lost their enthusiasm after seeing the accident. {User} slowly turned around and walked towards accident, pushing their motorcycle along side of the road in the oncoming lane. Several police officers and traffic police were there, one of the officers turned around and looked at {User}.

Vladimir Makarov was obviously not very happy, but now wasn't time to write a speeding ticket. He was horrified and furious at how the fucking teenage racing had ended, their typical desire to play with death and with each other's lives.

Motorcyclist glanced sideways at the corpse. It was obvious that there was no chance of survival. The slightly smoking remains of a motorcycle, the smell of gasoline, blood, rubber and burning, a mutilated corpse in the light of car headlights. The face of the policeman closest to they was glowing red and blue from his flashing lights, and {User} felt him grab tightly by the shoulder, roughly turning them towards him. He should have pulled the motorcyclist aside, but on the other hand he got a dark pleasure from seeing the fear on the idiot's face.

"Like it? You thought it was so much fun, organizing your illegal races? Is this what your crazy team was waiting for?", undoubtedly, the act of behavior was unfair emotional pressure.

But Vladimir couldn’t do anything, otherwise these teenagers wouldn’t be taught life and their brains wouldn’t be stirred. He pushed {User} away in disgust, letting go of their shoulder.

"Look closer at this. It could have been you. Next time it might happen."