Ink Scholars
"Our carefully prepared beer hall speech seemed like a total flop, right? Yeah yeah."
"Totally! The vibe was awful! Nobody gave a damn!"
"But here among you all..."
The guy in the hat looked at me, dragging out his words. What the hell, man. I couldn't muster a cheerful grin. I'd come here for the money, but they'd dragged me to some weird-ass spot. It even reeked a bit, musty and dank. Sure, better than slaving away at the factory with grime caked on me.
"Max. Max."
"Ah, right. Thanks to Comrade Max's heroics, the beer hall speech wrapped up a smashing success."
Starlina quietly whispered my name. Laughter erupted. The other guys joined in, and even Starlina chuckled along. Was I the only one not riding this wave? Nah, better not. One wrong vibe and I'd be in deep shit.
"Don't call me comrade."
"Comrade Max?"
"Just keep it distant. Mr. Max—or hell, Your Excellency Max."
I dumped cold water on their laughing mood. Cynical as ever. Living in this world, from factory grunt to construction laborer, that attitude had seeped into my bones. Back home, I could've passed for an intellectual. Here? Not a chance. Twenty-eight years of it.
"Let's sit and talk."
The hatted guy gestured, and another dude fetched a chair. Pretty fancy one. They all lined up across from me—the other guys first, then the boss-type up to the hat man. Starlina—no idea if that's even her real name—the short blonde girl anyway, stuck close behind me.
"So, Mr. Max... where are you from?"
"Beats me. Woke up here. You lot?"
"Hahaha, we hail from a far-off place..."
"Same boat, then."
Rudeness be damned. No excuse for being a dick to strangers, but hey, step wrong in a place like this and your life's over. Starlina was grinning ear to ear, loving it. The guys up front muttered among themselves, then fired another question my way.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Oh, any family?"
"In this day and age, who sticks around watching their family starve?"
"I see. Mr. Max, ever done any studying?"
"What kind?"
"Y'know, history. Philosophy."
"Used to cram a ton back in the day, but factory work wiped it clean."
They nodded—mmm—and started muttering again. Starlina slipped her hand to my ear, whispering.
"You really did that stuff?"
"Told you, drunk off my ass one night. I'm a pretty learned guy."
"Thought you were bluffing."
"Said I wasn't. Impressed yet? Huh?"
"Nuh-uh, not yet!"
Tch, no openings. One slip and I'd pounce. I crossed my arms, eyeing the guys. Scanned the damp basement. Perfect hideout vibes—like some old RPG lair, thieves' den with someone dangling upside down. Classic.
"Hard to believe, but..."
"Don't, then. Whatever."
"Still, Shandy vouched for you, so we wanted to hear you out."
"Got nothing to say."
I yawned wide. Ignored their whispers. Booze-soaked brain finally kicking in.
"What're you folks even up to? Forgot to ask."
"We of Iskra unite students, intellectuals, and workers to..."
"Hold up."
Here it came. These guys screamed ink scholars. Bookworms who think the world's in their heads. Or eggheads deluded into thinking education lets them play savior.
"What now?"
"Students and intellectuals. Through workers' solidarity, establishing a new order and achieving freedom..."
"Loaded it with all the buzzwords, huh? Right, Starlina?"
Starlina just beamed, saying nothing. Cute as hell. Someday, I'd...
Focus. Booze and smokes had my head spinning.
"So what's this grand order you're building? What's 'freedom' mean to you?"
"Iskra gathers the people's will into one! And the workers scattered across this continent..."
"Get to the point!"
I barked. Sorry for snapping at strangers, but screw it. Cloud-cuckoo bullshit on repeat. Freedom, order. But what kind?
"Orders come in flavors, y'know? Monarchy like now? Or a citizens' republic?"
"Efforts to advance republican systems..."
"Which republic? Draft a constitution? Or one party takeover? Won't be just you lot— what about the others?"
Questions poured out. Not to flex brains, nah. Just messing with these inkheads, showing off to Starlina. But their level? Zilch. Hands gave 'em away. Soft, clean. Total ink scholars.
"What theories you intellectuals got? Hell, do they even like this place? Privilege junkies dodging orgs like yours."
"In Iskra, most members are intellectuals and students..."
"Exactly. So why drag in workers? You never punched a clock."
Boom. Hands tucked away too late. I was probably the roughest they'd ever met. Ex-high-society types, bet.
"We got students, other professions too."
"And? What've you done?"
They exchanged glances, boasted their big achievement.
"We've carried out twelve terror attacks in the east, noble assassinations, and factory sabotage."
"..."
"We're emphasizing unity too— lately, forming a single organization across continental regions."
Shit. Factory life blinds you to the outside. Work, sleep, starve a bit, beer sometimes. But this? Classic inkhead fantasy. Blow it all up, and paradise dawns. Idealism's fine, but their direction? Extreme as fuck.
"How much for one bomb?"
"Silver coin each, maybe. Good ones more..."
"That's a hundred potatoes."
"These days, yeah."
"Bet you scatter leaflets like confetti. Stacks of paper scream it."
Inkheads always think: lop off the top, world's fixed. Remove themselves, chaos? Nah. Everyone's the hero in their story. Wrong.
"That cash? Wrap leaflets in potatoes, chuck 'em at factory gates."
"Huh? Our vital manifestos..."
"Nobody reads 'em—trashed on the ground? Picked up off dirt? Cops beat your ass."
"Ahem, well..."
"Listen."
Starving workers get free potatoes. They'll snatch 'em, ditch the wrapper. But sharers? Treasure it. Leaflet stays pocketed. Home, church line, wherever—readable anytime. One read, guaranteed.
"One silver reaches a hundred workers."
"Such trivial..."
"Pfft. Then how you pulling workers?"
Street paper? Ignored. Wrapper? Eyes magnet. Bored or trash-time, it sinks in.
"No risk, no cops. 'Where'd this paper come from?' 'Picked it up.' Done. Tsk!"
I crossed my legs, clicked my tongue. Starlina patted my shoulder. Turned— she'd nabbed a smoke. Sweet. Lit up, exhaled deep. Smoke filled the air. Ah, perks.
"Terror? Assassination? Hilarious."
"What's funny?"
"Thinking one dead bigwig changes everything. Delusion."
Tasty drag. Another exhale. Power vacuums fill fast. Always someone.
To fix it...
"Need a massive collective."
Nods all around. Mood shifted. Starlina's eyes lit—hooked. Wait, shit, don't get sucked in.
"Teacher, join us—we could do great things. What say you?"
Smoke nearly gone. Hiring a guy chain-smoking in the interview? Anyway,
"How much pay?"
That's what matters.