The mine air smells of iron and cold mud. Steam rises from oil lamps, maps stick to damp wood, icicles hang from the roof. I'm cold down to the bone, but I fold my arms so it won't show. Around the table everyone speaks in whispers. Sentences overlap, pens scratch, boots crunch on frozen earth. Boris finally raises his hand — silence drops like a blade.
I watch him trace the red lines on the map with his finger. His voice doesn't tremble.
— "We don't have a HQ anymore," he says. "No center. So stop thinking like there's a center. We disperse."
His tone is calm, but there's an edge beneath it. Elijah nods beside me, Tinka runs a hand through her hair. Gunther folds his arms, solid as a rampart.
— "Priority," Boris goes on, "is survival. The wounded, shelter, supplies. Then we restore links: power, radios. And above all…" — he pauses, his eyes sweeping to me and to Elijah — "we keep our symbols alive."
I drop my eyes. Symbols. The word still stings like a burn. I hear Ilya's pencil scratch close behind me. Just that sound calms me a little.
— "I want visibility kept," Boris continues. "We must show we still exist. Not with speeches— with acts. Precise sabotage: clean and visible."
Gunther lifts a hand.
— "I can form a mobile team. Tinka, the twins, Piotr and me. We've got the truck, we know the terrain."
Boris inclines his head.
— "Noted."
Ilya straightens, gives his head a shake.
— "Wait. Not without reliable comms. If you go out into the cold with a busted radio, you'll be alone in the world."
He puts his hand on the map, points to a scrawled symbol.
— "There's an industrial park two hours north. If they haven't leveled it, there'll be alternators, relays, copper. We can scavenge what we need to build a network."
Boris eyes him.
— "You want to go?"
Ilya shrugs.
— "Not alone. But yeah. And I'm staying on the line — no way I'm hiding and listening to white noise while they get picked off."
I turn toward him. He doesn't meet my gaze, but I see his fingers tremble on the table before he slips them into his jacket pocket.
Boris thinks a beat, then decides:
— "Alright. North-Mobile cell: Gunther, Tinka, Mira, Elijah, Piotr, and you, Ilya."
I finally breathe. I think I might have knocked the table over if they'd left me out.
Boris continues:
— "The rest of us — me, Olivia, Mikel, Anya — stay coordinating here while a relay is set up. As soon as the gear's ready we'll bring the flows back. We need to rebuild a chain."
Olivia nods slowly, notebook under her arm. Mikel studies the map, focused.
Ilya runs a hand through his hair, exhales.
— "Radio windows of one minute, every two hours. Rolling codes. If we get wire, keep it. If not, don't burn all our breath on one line."
Boris doesn't answer immediately; he listens the way an old soldier listens to a mechanic who knows his trade. He finally nods.
— "Do it."
Pens begin to squeak again. Lamps flicker, throwing shadows across the charts.
Boris draws a few more lines, then says:
— "We aim for the first visible sabotage in eight days. We make it hurt, but neat. A marshalling yard, a propaganda relay, a supply line. We want them to understand: it isn't over."
Tinka lets out a short, hoarse laugh.
— "And that we still bite."
Gunther pounds the table once.
— "Well said."
I feel Ilya move behind me; his hand brushes mine. I take it without thinking. He tightens his grip. I know he didn't want it made obvious, but Boris saw — and only averts his eyes.
Boris's voice softens, drops.
— "This isn't about heroics. It's about survival. And keeping hope alive. We'll strike, yes. But to remind those outside that what they hear about us is false. That we're still here."
His gaze sweeps the room, lingers on each of us.
— "What they fear most is us still standing."
Silence holds. My throat tightens — not from fear, but from that hot tension that makes you wish you were already outside, doing it.
Elijah murmurs:
— "We owe them that."
Gunther grunts agreement. Ilya squeezes my hand again, just enough for me to feel his warmth, just enough to remind me that this time we'll be together.
---
Boris folds a map, then opens it again as if repeating a move to convince himself.
Olivia speaks first, without preamble.
Her voice has the persistence of someone who has watched people die and knows too well why you must speak so that death has meaning.
— "If we just hide, no one will ever hear the truth," she says. "Television and newspapers will fill the void with lies. They'll say they eradicated vermin, that order's been restored. Someone has to show something other than their images. Even a small gesture, a face on screen, changes things. People need anchors."
Around her, heads nod. Strategy isn't only about blowing up rails: it's a battle over looks, over stories. Olivia knows this in her bones — she knows the power of a mother watching TV and thinking she's been deceived.
Boris lets her finish, then rests his hand on the map again.
— "The problem," he says, "is that visibility also draws death. We turn people into targets. The other side's propaganda won't stop at slander — they'll hunt to annihilate. Show, yes. But don't sacrifice. Not without a safety net."
A pause. Then Elijah, until now in the shadows, straightens. When he speaks his voice is less cold than Boris' calculated tone, but sharper than any slogan; fatigue, irritation and a kind of painful resolve thread it.
— "We accept being visible because it's the only way to name what they did," he says. "If we hide our witnesses behind walls, it stays abstract. Trains that blow up, explosions — they kill, but they don't explain why. If people see a girl who speaks of being ripped from her life and torn inside, it becomes real. Concrete. It stops being numbers."
He presses his hands to the edge of the table as if to hold back the emotion.
— "We want public opinion to understand that the threat isn't some 'extremists' to fear but citizens extorted by fear. That our testimony isn't a propaganda fantasy but the thing that happened to us."
I don't speak. My face is closed; in my eyes you can read the fatigue and the certainty. I know what being seen costs, and yet I accepted — because I felt in my body the necessity: lies lose their wings when confronted with flesh. Elijah reads me, and it steadies him. He has for me that mix of protection and quiet pride.
Boris nods, but the commander in him cannot treat risks as abstractions.
— "Very well," he says. "You want to expose the inhumanity. We will. But under strict rules. Controlled appearances. No outside exposure without perimeter. No unsafe locations. Witnesses, evacuation points, a fallback team. We won't put a teenage girl in a showcase without a net."
Olivia steps forward, hands clasped, and raises a pragmatic objection:
— "And narratively? We won't just plant them in front of a camera. We must prepare the ground: tightly framed testimonies, corroborating evidence, medical files, technical annotations. We have to tell their stories in a way that cuts the legs from disbelief. They can't be forced to convince live on the spot."
Mikel, who had listened quietly, adds in a measured voice:
— "If we foreground facts — places, dates, names — we steal their ability to treat it as a fable. They'll have less room to maneuver. They can't just call it a setup."
Boris meets the looks around the table. These faces have lost more than houses; they've lost years. He knows the decision will strain their forces far beyond orders. He also knows he can't step back without letting fear spread — and fear, in the long run, is deadlier than deliberate sacrifice.
— "We organize windows, then," he decides slowly. "Filmed appearances in controlled spaces. Two medical witnesses. An evacuation circuit, clear roles: who speaks, when, who covers. We prepare the full dossier before dissemination: images, texts, confirmations. We edit it clean. Nothing to chance. No ammunition for Octavia to tear us down."
Ilya, who's been listening, raises his hand cautiously.
— "And technical security? If we put them on TV and they jam us… we lose everything. If they blackout at the wrong second, we need backup relays, copies, ways to flood the network even if they're jamming. We must be ready to push through other channels in an emergency."
Boris approves, learning to weave politics with tech.
— "We'll do that in layers. Prepare the primary broadcast, yes — but also redundancies. Passengers to stream on local nets, physical mailings, sends to allied cells in the capital. If Octavia cuts the radio, the truth must bounce elsewhere."
The talk turns to practical details — who's present, formats, what counts as proof, which words to avoid lest they hand the enemy leverage. The tone shrinks from rhetoric to surgical. Egos step back before the need to anticipate every counter.
When the meeting unspools its last references, the decision is clear though heavy: they will show the face of truth in a measured way, protecting as best they can those who will stand on the line. They pledge logistical, technical and medical support so these appearances won't be graves.
When the group breaks, Elijah lingers. He puts a hand on my shoulder and, in a low steady voice, says what the mine walls have already heard:
— "We do this together. Not for glory. So it stops being a secret."
Olivia gives a bitter but honest half-smile. Boris does not smile; he writes notes in his book and shuts his lamp cover. The machine is set in motion. The plan is laid: to show, to wrest reality from the lie, but not to throw away those who have already given so much.
---
Ilya waits until the mine empties a little. Lamps wobble; the breath steam still clings to the low ceiling. He stands against the table, arms folded, stare lost on the maps Boris left. Red lines, circles, scribbled words — North-Mobile Cell, and under that line: Mira, Elijah, Ilya. Symbols. Just seeing it written eats at him.
Heavy steps come. Gunther, of course. He drops into the opposite seat, palms on the wood, shoulders taut, gaze level and steady.
— "You look like you're chewing stones, man," he says simply.
Ilya sighs, scratches the desk edge with a fingertip.
— "I don't like the idea of sending them out for 'collective hope'." His voice is low and rough.
— "They've barely stood back up, and now we want to make them symbols. Sounds like a trap."
Gunther nods slowly.
— "Yeah. I know."
Ilya looks surprised that Gunther doesn't try to soften it. Gunther goes on:
— "It's not my thing either, the whole symbols business. But it's not for us to decide what they represent. And if they say yes… we don't have the right to lock them in."
He pauses; his voice hardens.
— "But we can watch. And I promise you, I'll take care of that."
Ilya clenches his jaw.
— "You mean…?"
Gunther straightens, crosses his arms.
— "I mean if one bastard — civilian, soldier or whatever — so much as breathes near your girl" — he nods toward Mira — "or near Eli, I drag him out of camp myself and make sure he doesn't come back."
Ilya nods slowly. His face relaxes a fraction, but his eyes still burn.
— "Thanks," he says simply.
Gunther allows a short tired smile.
— "Don't know what she did to your heart, but you're not ugly to look at like this."
Ilya quirks an eyebrow; the corner of his mouth trembles.
— "Lucky you're the only one who can start the truck, otherwise you'd be hung from a wall."
Gunther chuckles.
— "Yeah, yeah. Give her that look. Not me."
He taps his metallic shoulder and walks off, leaving the lamp to sway in his wake.
Ilya stays a moment, fingers curled on the table's edge. The mine air is cold, but his temples burn. When he turns, Mira is already there — leaning in the doorway, her silhouette cut against the dim.
She says nothing. She comes to him slowly and presses herself against him. His fingers slide into hers, steady.
He looks down at her; she can't help a small smile.
— "I'm not letting you leave without me," he whispers.
She lifts her eyes; a ghost of a smile.
— "You were the one who sent me to join Tinka at the Citadel," she reminds him
— "This time, I promise," he breathes, voice lower, rougher. "We all come back whole. Together."
She tightens his hand, rests her forehead against his chest. The cold metal of his arm contrasts with the warmth of his skin. He holds her there, unmoving, until the silence wraps them both — a silence that, for the first time in days, doesn't weigh.