Time: 02:30 PM. Monday. First Week of the Semester.
Location: East Bloc – Revolutionary Club Headquarters, Meeting Room.
There are no ceremonies. No congratulations. Not even an official welcome.
Only the sound of the creaking stool Sergei is sitting on, and the quiet rustle of paper as Natasha organizes several forms into her binder. The silence has lingered long enough to feel deliberate, structured, and even.
Then comes the boots.
Svetlana marches to the small stage, arms folded tightly across her chest, as if she has been waiting her entire life for this exact moment.
"Now that our newest recruit has signed the necessary documentation," she declares, voice elevated with rehearsed authority, "we shall begin the first emergency session of this semester's revolutionary agenda."
Irina rests her head above her hands as she balances a paintbrush across her lip. Mariya opens a fresh tab, already preparing to record another transcript. Liliya remains still, a statue in uniform.
The Chairwoman taps the folder on the podium. She can barely reach it, yet her conviction bridges the distance.
"The Revolutionary Club," she announces, "is under threat."
Sergei blinks.
"Not just ideological encroachment or abstract decay. I mean real, statistical, bureaucratic extinction."
Her eyes lock onto the boy.
"In six weeks' time, the Cultural Festival will be held—an event where all clubs must prove their value to the student body."
She stomps one boot against the floor.
"And that student body," she adds, "serves as judge, jury, and tribunal. No faculty. No administrators. Only peers. But do not let that fool you. They will decide whether we survive… or be erased like every failed revolution before us."
Sergei opens his mouth.
She immediately points a finger at their new recruit, instinctively.
"I am not finished."
He closes his mouth.
Svetlana begins to pace. Each step echoes faintly against the concrete.
"We have been flagged. Three warnings. Two audit citations. And one particularly patronizing memo from the General Student Body Council advising us to 'consider rebranding.'"
She nearly spits the word.
"Rebranding is surrender. A revolution does not negotiate its name."
Irina claps softly in support. She is clearly enjoying it.
Svetlana spins, then pulls a mobile whiteboard onto the stage. There is a laminated chart already pinned to the board—uneven columns, smeared ink, and a red-markered section ominously labeled 'MAYBE DOOM?'.
"This is our current standing among active clubs," she declares.
There are no rankings, only a single box outlined in red: Revolutionary Club – Pending Derecognition.
"If we fail to show meaningful contribution," she continues, "we will be removed from the registry. Our territories will be reassigned. Records sealed. Charter nullified. We will be rendered ideologically orphaned."
She then turns back to Sergei.
"In short: we will be wiped off the map."
Their eyes lock. Her stance is unshaken, and her voice is law.
"We will not let that happen."
He nods—or something close to a nod. It may be a twitch.
"Though unexpected strategic membership was not part of our plans for today," she continues, "we will make use of it. You, Comrade Recruit, will be the first step in our club's return to relevance."
Sergei is not sure if he should be relieved to hear that, but Irina flashes a thumbs-up at him. It only makes him feel worse.
"This will serve as a boost to our morale, and for that we will now execute Phase One: theoretical conceptualization of propaganda deployment in public-facing pre-festival environments."
He blinks again. He is not sure if he has heard those words before—at least not in that order.
"Our main goal is visibility. If the system wants to ignore us, then we ensure we cover every possible blind spot, making ourselves inevitable."
Sergei raises his hand, still processing everything he has heard so far.
"Yes, Comrade Recruit?"
"I… thought we were starting a meeting. Not a… campaign."
The Chairwoman smiles brightly. Dangerously.
"In a revolution, Comrade Recruit, there is no difference."
He lowers his hand. That is not the answer he expected—though he never expected an answer in the first place. The transfer student begins to reconsider every decision he has made since breakfast.
There is a pause.
Then: "Comrades! Suggestions!"
Without hesitation, Irina leaps up, as if she has been waiting her entire life for this chance.
"A flaming stage shaped like a sickle! We rise from the ashes as pigeons wearing red scarves! And we light fireworks with our hearts!"
"No fire indoors," Natasha responds immediately, pure reflex. She does not even look up.
"What about controlled fire?"
"You've never controlled anything," Mariya mutters.
Svetlana scribbles in her notebook. "Thematic enthusiasm: yes. Actual flames: no."
Natasha clears her throat and adjusts her scarf. "Perhaps we will present a cultural exhibit. A history of revolutionary thought. Peaceful. Informative. Respectful. And most of all—budget friendly."
"A propaganda gallery!" Irina shouts.
"No propaganda," Natasha replies.
Irina groans. She picks up a pillow from under the table labeled Emergency Morale Cushion and hugs it tightly.
Mariya then raises her hand.
"We could… maybe create a digital timeline," she begins cautiously. "Of student-led revolutions throughout history. From the 1905 uprisings to the Komsomol movement. Even the Kronstadt mutiny, if we frame it correctly. Posters. Archival footage. Graphs. With citations."
The room becomes very still. Even the lightbulbs seem to pause.
Svetlana slowly turns her head.
"Malenkova… that was the most neutral, unprovocative, state-approved suggestion I have ever heard."
Irina squints over her cushion. "Why does that sound like attending class?"
"I know," Mariya whispers. "I'm sorry." She clutches her laptop. "I just really like footnotes."
Svetlana looks conflicted. "Still… we may need a fallback plan. In case Irina's bird inferno gets vetoed."
Then the temperature shifts when Liliya raises her hand.
"I could sabotage their logistics," she suggests calmly. "Delay supply routes. Misfile their paperwork. Ensure their permits expire on the morning of their events."
She looks up. "There will be no alarms, no trace… only procedural collapse."
Sergei freezes. "Was… was that a joke?"
"She doesn't joke," Mariya whispers. "She schedules."
Liliya continues without pause. "I can fabricate at least three proxy identities before sundown. Four if I skip lunch."
Natasha presses a hand to her temples. "We are not sabotaging anyone. We are submitting a proper entry. Like a respectable club," she emphasizes, holding her patience together.
Svetlana raises a finger. "Respectable—and terrifying."
"Legally terrifying," Natasha mutters.
"Illegally efficient," Irina adds, raising her pillow triumphantly.
Sergei scans the room.
The militant chairwoman. The exhausted diplomat. The trembling analyst. The pyro-visionary. The shadow tactician with a knife behind the curtain.
He has not joined a club. He is in a frontline battalion of ideological warfare disguised as an extracurricular activity.
And he has already committed. There is no turning back now.
"I've made a huge mistake," Sergei mutters.
"You will grow into it," Natasha offers gently.
Liliya leans in. Her voice is almost tender.
"You will adapt. Or be reshaped."
Their Comrade Recruit only nods faintly. His eyes are glazed—the look of a conscript receiving orders with no illusions.
"Fantastic," he mutters softly. "Drafted into the Great Patriotic Club Fair. And if I retreat, I get metaphorically shot for cowardice… in the face of committee obligations."
The voices blur together—Svetlana's declarations, Irina's schemes, Natasha's objections, all merging into ideological static. His vision narrows. When clarity returns, they are already arguing about pudding.
"Absolutely not!" Svetlana barks. "Snacks are bourgeois distraction tactics!"
Mariya raises a trembling hand. "Technically… we do need snacks for the planning session. The last one took six hours and… we ran out of spoons."
Svetlana hesitates. Then her eyes flick toward the ration shelf—specifically, the last unopened tin of chocolate pudding.
"Exception granted," she declares. "Revolution requires calories. And—ideally—pudding."
Natasha maintains her gaze on her ledger. "We're already over the pudding ration this week," she says. "This is how rations collapse."
Mariya nods diligently, "I… I've already sent an email to the Rations Distribution Committee."
The meeting rages on.
Papers rustle. Pens click. A marker screeches across unauthorized poster boards. Somewhere in the corner, Irina is already constructing a life-sized cardboard pigeon prototype wearing a scarf made of red caution tape. It looks angry. Or symbolic. Or both.
Sergei sits on the stool that has continued to deny him the dignity of a backrest—and quietly accepts that this will be his life now.
He has stopped trying to understand how the room shifted from strategy to sabotage to pudding.
Despite the theatrics, despite the humor, there are no laughs. No applause.
Only pressure. Only presence. No one says he can leave. No one needs to. There is no escape. There is only the Revolution.
And—if fortune favors the bold—maybe, eventually… a chair. One with a backrest.