Time: 04:48 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – Revolutionary Club Headquarters, Meeting Room.
The meeting goes on far longer than any sane schedule can justify—but eventually, finally, it ends.
At some point—likely after Irina's seventh unsolicited sketch of the flaming pigeon painting—Svetlana's slogans have devolved into furious loops.
Mariya quietly begins recording them in a sub-document titled Verbal Manifestos – Derivative, Not Approved.
Liliya opens a small, black, ominous notebook. It is impossible to tell what its contents are, because her expression remains unreadable.
And Natasha. She has already given up correcting anyone out loud.
She is now two pages deep into the actual submission draft, cross-referencing club requirements, formatting the budget appendix, and drafting contingency footnotes for every absurd suggestion made in the last twenty minutes.
Someone has to be responsible. And, as usual, no one had voted, but everyone simply agreed it would be her.
Now the room is quieter. The wall chart still flutters from Svetlana's earlier fist-point, and the stacks of paper remain chaotic. But the tension has softened into fatigue.
Svetlana stands once more at the front of the room, her hands folded behind her back.
"Comrades," she declares, "we will reconvene tomorrow to further discuss our strategy."
Everyone stills.
"You are each expected to return with progress on your assigned preparations. Phase One must be solidified by the end of the week. That includes propaganda, logistics, supply requisitions, and any authorized outreach."
Mariya nods, already typing that part.
Irina gives a two-finger salute, still clutching the red paint she should never have been trusted with.
Liliya does not move, not even raising her head.
Natasha straightens the stack of documents she has been working on.
The Chairwoman's eyes sweep across the room.
"You are all to report here at precisely 08:00 AM. Not 08:01. Not 08:03. Punctuality is revolutionary discipline."
Then she glances briefly at their recent recruit.
"And of course… that includes our meeting, Comrade Recruit."
Sergei blinks. "You have not assigned me anything yet."
"I assigned you presence," Svetlana replies. "Presence is the foundation of all labor."
"Failure to uphold your duty will be subject to disciplinary reeducation," she adds, ominously.
He opens his mouth again—then shuts it.
Liliya turns toward the male student, her crimson eyes unwavering.
"If you do not return tomorrow, I will consider it a logistical discrepancy. One I will personally correct."
The room falls silent… again.
"I— I'll be here," Sergei says quickly. "No need to hunt. I'll come willingly."
She nods.
He gulps.
Satisfied, Liliya resumes her silent vigil near the table. Sergei is not sure she sits down at all during the day.
Irina resumes humming a revolutionary jingle from a banner campaign that was banned mid-semester. Mariya saves her files three times in rapid succession. Svetlana closes her folder with a thud that sounds like a verdict.
One by one, they pack their things.
Irina slings a bag of stencils over her shoulder and waves a brush like a saber. Mariya closes her laptop as though sealing classified intelligence, then takes a small bow before stepping out, clutching the device to her chest like a lifeline. Liliya does not pack anything. She simply steps back into the shadows.
Svetlana is the last to move—she raises her fist in the air, in what resembles a salute or possibly an abstract pose meant to symbolize fortitude—before marching out without a single glance back.
Time: 04:56 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – Revolutionary Club Headquarters, Meeting Room.
Sergei remains.
His body hunches over the table like a collapsed bridge. His head lowers—not slammed, simply surrendered—with a dull thud.
Time blurs. A minute passes, perhaps two.
Eventually, his body stirs. Spine aching, vision slow to return, his fingers tighten on the edge of the table as the stool wobbles beneath him. A long, unfocused breath slips from his lips.
This is not how the first day is meant to end. Confusion, perhaps. A few awkward forms and possibly a passive-aggressive tour of the campus. Not… whatever this is.
Across the room, paper stacks have loomed like forgotten monoliths. A campaign banner has slumped from its tack, as if it, too, has surrendered. The uneven red of the walls has begun to blur, the pigment bleeding together in weary saturation.
Then comes a sound—soft. Almost polite.
The slide of porcelain on wood. A teacup comes to a stop beside him.
The exhausted boy turns.
He sees Natasha standing near him while he slouches. She had not left with the others. She has simply remained. Her posture stays unchanged. Her gaze is serene—just as it had been the first moment she spoke to him.
She smiles—subtle, almost imperceptible.
"You lasted the entire meeting," she says quietly. "That's rare."
For a moment, Sergei sits up straight and looks at Natasha, then at the cup, then back to the serene young woman once more.
"Is this… reward tea or recovery tea?"
"Both," she answers. "Mostly recovery. You looked like you were about to fuse with the table."
He blinks. "I was."
She gestures toward the cup. "Kudin. Bitter. Grounding. Good for clearing the mind—after chaos."
Then Natasha moves again, returning to her side of the table, facing Sergei. Her movement is slow but graceful—like an aristocrat performing a ritual at court rather than a routine.
"You did well," Natasha says before sitting down. "Most recruits are gone within thirty minutes. Some within ten. You lasted nearly two hours."
"You're congratulating me for surviving?"
Natasha nods once.
"At this club? Yes."
He slowly wraps both hands around the cup. It is warm, but not burning. Grounding, even. He takes a mild sip. Unflavored and earthy, the kind of tea that makes one feel as though time itself has stepped back. The taste is not remarkable, but it reminds him that he is still present.
"Thanks," he mutters.
Natasha does not reply. She simply nods and lets the silence settle again—but this time, the silence does not feel like a judgment. It feels like permission to breathe.
He takes another sip. At this moment, he does not feel cornered.
His shoulders ease. The stool now feels less like a seat of judgment, more like… just a chair. It even stops creaking.
Then, softly—without formality—Natasha speaks again.
"So," she asks, "how was your first day, Sergei?"
His expression was bone-dry. Exhaustion and bewilderment competing for dominance.
"I… survived," he answers. "Mostly."
His words feel as though something inside him is slowly returning.
She tilts her head slightly, and a faint flicker of amusement traces the edge of her expression.
The exhausted transfer student sits up a little straighter. His back aches. His eyes are sore. But for once, he is not bracing for a committee hearing or a sudden ideological ambush.
Now it is just a quiet late afternoon. A cooling cup of tea. And someone who, for now, asks nothing more of him than honesty.
"Honestly? I think I blacked out somewhere between the flaming pigeons and the propaganda bake sale. Everything after Irina suggested lighting things with her soul is a blur."
Natasha giggles—a soft, composed sound. Unlike anything he has heard all day.
"Normalcy isn't normally part of Kalin High's operating procedure. Whether or not you joined us."
"I thought I would spend today looking for the student lounge," Sergei mutters, "maybe a vending machine. Instead, I pledged ideological allegiance to five emotionally unstable demigods of political theater."
"I would argue only four are unstable," the young woman says gently. "But I see your point."
He pauses, his brow slightly furrowed.
"You're the most rational person I've seen here. No offense, but… why are you in this club?"
A beat.
"Also—just checking—is this room bugged?"
Natasha smiles. "No. Liliya always leaves posters if she compromises a space."
He stares flatly. "That… doesn't help."
"No," she agrees calmly. "But it's her version of transparency."
She lets the moment settle before answering his real question.
"I stay because, in spite of everything, this place still matters."
Natasha glances toward the front of the room—where Sergei had first stood, and where Svetlana had delivered her address.
"This club is exhausting. Loud. Dramatic. But it is also loyal. Sincere, even. It is one of the few things in this school that doesn't ask you to fit in before it listens."
Her gaze returns to the transfer student.
"I was told I could have joined another club. Easier ones. But here, I'm needed. Not just as a voice of reason, but as someone who remembers what we're actually trying to protect."
She folds her hands again.
"Svetlana lives in the future. Irina lives in fire. Mariya, in numbers. And Liliya… she lives wherever threats are stored."
Her voice softens.
"And you? You live in the present."
He blinks.
"And we need that. We really do."
He looks down at the cup again.
"You're putting a lot of trust in someone who nearly passed out."
"And you're still here," Natasha replies gently. "You're still asking questions."
"That's… more than most."
He stares at her. The room is still. No noises, no distractions. Only the question that lingers in his mind.
"I was wondering… did you really mean what you said earlier?" he asks. "That this club is for people like me?"
Natasha meets his eyes without flinching.
"I did."
She lifts her cup, takes a sip, then sets it down gently.
"We were all pushed aside. Not loud enough. Not convenient. Not quantifiable. Eventually, we stopped asking where we belonged and chose to stand together here."
She inhales. Slow. Composed.
"That's why I cannot lose this place. It isn't about posters or slogans. It's about standing where I choose to stand… not where others expect me to."
Her voice softens, but the conviction beneath it remains steady. It feels personal—undeniably so.
"And I hope… maybe you'll find that here too."
Sergei does not answer right away.
Natasha's words linger—less an offer, more a question. One that is his alone to answer.
His gaze drifts downward again.
To the chipped red paint. The faded slogans. The crate Svetlana used to elevate herself. Irina's scattered art materials. Mariya's careful folders. Even the subtle tension left behind where Liliya stood the entire time.
These are not merely objects. They are fragments of a place held together—precariously, stubbornly—because those here had chosen to stay.
Natasha's voice comes softer now.
"You're a transfer student, which means you also took the aptitude test."
Sergei raises his head again and looks at Natasha. He does not speak, but he gives a subtle nod.
"You're not the only student the system marked as uncategorized. There were others. But most of them couldn't even pass through the plaza alone. They always walked away," the young woman explains.
"We're not exactly in a position to choose who joins… but you, Sergei, you decided to walk into that plaza. That was your decision."
And then he realizes.
What truly happened in the plaza. The broken bulletin board. The cracked monument of a raised fist. The gathering pigeons. The silence.
He could have disregarded his aptitude test result. He could have walked away. But he stayed. Until Liliya found him. He was not drifting. He had already made a decision.
Natasha speaks again, her voice gentler now.
"So I'll let you decide again. If you decide not to return, then I understand. We have been rejected before."
She pauses.
"And I'll talk to Liliya if she decided to pursue you."
He stares at her. Not because it is humorous, but because she means it.
Sergei glances around the room once more—not at the furniture itself, but at what it holds. A messy archive of intentions, half-finished plans, and quiet convictions.
He can still walk away. No one will stop him.
But somewhere in the bitter tea, the creaking furniture, and the absurdity of it all—there is something strangely human.
And for the first time all day, he realizes:
They had not asked him to change.
Only to show up.
The transfer student raises the cup, then drains the last of the tea. He sets it down with care. Then he stands—taller now, more balanced, as though the weight in his chest has finally decided where it belongs.
"I'll be here," he declares. "Tomorrow. Eight sharp."
Natasha blinks—just once. A flicker of surprise. Then her smile appears. Real and full. A quiet victory.
"Good. You should get some rest."
"You already warned me," Sergei says—and for the first time since he arrived, he smiles. Faintly, but truly.
"Yes," she responds. "But you will need it more than you realize."
He nods. There is no sarcasm, and no hesitation. Only a quiet promise.
Then he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks toward the double doors.
They open with a low, metallic groan, and Sergei steps out into the hallway beyond.
Natasha remains in her seat. She looks at the lonely stool he left behind—still warm, still imperfect, but no longer empty.
Then her eyes shift to a binder: the draft proposal they are meant to submit to the GSBC before the week ends.
And for the first time in what feels like months, she feels it.
This is not rhetoric, nor strategy, nor agenda.
It is hope.
And for once, that is enough.