Iskra Interview Review – Stingy Comrades and Silver Bets
Leaving a review after passing the interview. 1.5 stars. It was basically salary negotiation.
At first, they offered five coppers a day, and I nearly jumped at it. But sizing up the place, I figured they might cough up decent pay. With all their intellectuals and students, they probably had solid funding.
"We'll give you six coppers."
"Just one more? Make it ten coppers."
"Sir, factory workers these days barely scrape five coppers a day. True?"
"You know it—why ask?"
"Sir, six coppers it is. That's plenty for smokes too, right?"
"Then make it seven."
"Six coppers."
"... Tch! Stingy bastards."
Hired. Wait, hold up. This wasn't what I signed up for.
The guys clapped, shaking my hand. "Take care of us."
Six coppers a day... better than the factory? But factoring in the risk, shouldn't it be at least seven?
"Take care of us, Max com... Mr. Max."
"Yeah. Call me Mr. Max from now on. Comrade? Screw that."
"We're working together now—let's introduce ourselves."
They opened the door to a haze of cigarette smoke. A couple more people had shown up. For a secret society, not a bad crowd. Five in here, two outside, plus blonde Starlina. Pretty solid size.
"Introduce yourself. This is..."
The guy who'd seemed like the interviewer grabbed my shoulder and ran through the intros. Nothing special about the names—hard to remember anyway. Honestly? Didn't feel like bothering. I could barely recall the factory guys I'd gotten drunk with last night.
"Anyway, welcome to Iskra, Mr. Max."
"Pay up now."
"Haha! Hold on. Another smoke?"
Oh—scored a fresh cigarette right away. Struck a match, held the flame steady to the tip.
"That potato idea's brilliant, by the way..."
"Good, right? Better than bombs—no cost, no risk, cops won't care. Perfect name too. Natural advertising."
"We try reaching workers, but it's tough... haha."
"Yeah, yeah."
I flopped onto the sofa in the corner. Smoke curled up lazily. Potatoes beat bombs: cheap, safe, no arrests. And the name? Propaganda gold.
"If you have more ideas, share 'em with us often, sir."
"Sure, whatever."
Twenty-eight years in this world, and the real secret to thriving? Adapt fast. Lets you chase jobs east, west, wherever the money is.
"So, where you living now, Mr. Max?"
"... Why ask?"
"Just in case—for security. Might need to relocate."
"Not around here."
"Staying somewhere else?"
"Nah. Streets."
They burst out laughing—haha. No joke. Unless it was the streets, nowhere to crash. Half-homeless since the factory axed me. Churches hated us like dirty laundry, so mostly just unrolled near Jenkins Factory. Stank, filthy, whatever. Priorities.
"You really sleep on the streets?"
"Where do you guys crash?"
"We've got homes, places to stay."
"Mind if I bunk here?"
Roof over my head at last. They agreed without hesitation. Starlina'd already dug out a pillow and blanket from somewhere.
"So where's Starlina live...?"
"How can you ask a girl's address like that? No way."
"Aw, playing hard to get. For real."
Haha—laughter filled the room again. I ground out my smoke on the floor.
"Haven't eaten? Let's grab a meal."
"Food too? Hit the jackpot."
Beggar. Bum. Call me what you want—didn't sting. Facts are facts.
I tagged along for Iskra's group meal, hitting the streets. Already midday bustle. Roads roaring with rushing crowds, hawkers yelling their wares.
"Sausage fan?"
"Love it."
"Bet you love beer too, Mr. Max."
"Way too much."
We ducked into a joint with quirky decor. Looked like any beer hall from the door. But inside? Facing podiums, like a parliament brawl stage. Someone was already in a heated debate.
"Students and profs around here love scrapping with words."
"Figures."
"Wanna try a bet over there?"
"They do that?"
"Yep! Saw a smooth talker win a silver once."
"Hell yeah, I'm in!"
We sat. Starlina ordered like a pro—tons of beer. I eyed the debaters. Topic? Labor, classes, the usual blah-blah.
Sausage hit the table. Beer everywhere. I was drooling like a dog.
"Uh, eat up."
Too obvious? Dove in anyway. Starved-man style. Pretty sure I had been starving for days.
Munching away, eyes on the students scrapping. Total inkling newbies.
"Can't stop staring, huh, Max?"
"Starlina, those kids are one step from full inkling. Admit it?"
"Dunno about that. No plans to snag a silver?"
"Bets need cash. Got two coppers, tops."
"I'll spot you two more. Double payback."
"Hmm... maybe?"
"You talked circles around us drunk on beer."
Munch-munch—beer chased the greasy sausage perfection. I stood, pocketed four coppers, climbed the podium.
Slapped all four coppers on the table bold as brass.
"Wh-what?"
"Hand it over. My mouth's faster than that inkling."
"Student?"
"Don't care. Get lost!"
Stared down the guy opposite. Freshman? Pale, baby-faced.
Topic didn't matter. I was itching for this.
The dandy flipped open his notebook, pitching his voice weirdly high to start the smack talk.
"The tragedy of our era isn't mere hunger! It's forgetting history!"
Glanced at his notes, waving hands dramatically. Guy was a riot.
I shot a look at our table. Everyone watching dead serious. No pressure.
"Workers are just machines! But they can't break free alone. They're hooked on their scrap of bread, their sausage!"
Another sneaky note peek, voice cranked up. Eye contact—smug grin, even a snort.
"So we intellectuals must open the ignorant masses' eyes! Ignite the spark in their hearts! Arm them with philosophy and theory!"
Inkling alert. Worst kind.
"Labor is sacred, but labor without theory is meaningless! If we don't give workers consciousness, society's progress is doomed forever!"
He thinks he won—cocky smirk pissed me off.
Scanned the room. Nobody really listening. A few tables glancing over, tops.
"Hey, kid. Ever done real labor?"
"As an intellectual, I establish theory and—"
"Nope."
Obvious. Ghost-white face, never touched factory grime.
"Starved for real? Hungry enough to devour a passerby?"
"Y-yes, once in winter."
"Day? Two? Nah—days with zero meals, scavenging crumbs?"
"Wh-what's that got to do with anything!"
Voice as loud as he wants, but crickets. Theory's great, relevance too. But reality's a bitch—scratch that itch, and theory lives. Words hit like hammers.
"Listen up, inkling pals!"
Slapped my gut hard. Eat-and-drink crowd's eyes locked on.
"Man's starving? Morals, theory—fuck all that. Nothing matters. But bellies full?"
Then folks get smart as hell. Need a lecture or what?