Cracks in the Revolutionary Facade
Why were the secret society's goals so damn flimsy? I couldn't help but hum a little tune. What a windfall. One silver coin would cover my beer and smokes for a good while. It felt like I'd made more from a single word than from rolling around in the factory for eleven, fourteen hours a day my whole life. Was this what they meant by wiping out a thousand-tael debt with one phrase? If I'd known, I would've wandered from betting den to betting den ages ago. Nah. Maybe I should go pro as a mouth fighter from here on out. Then I could build a grand mansion in the capital and heh heh my way through the continent's top S-rank cool beauty babes—
"You're thinking something weird again, aren't you?"
"Starlina?"
"You're just lying there on the sofa with that shady smirk on your face."
"Hmm, someone like Starlina? I could squeeze her in. Whaddya think?"
"No idea what you're on about, but I have a feeling you'd pull something creepy, so no."
"What the hell do you take me for..."
"So you won't do it?"
"If you say okay for now, I'll let you know."
"See? Ugh! Gross!"
I kept flirting with Starlina from my spot on the sofa. Okay, less flirting and more outright propositioning, but in this world's meta, aggressive pickup lines were the way to go. The factory guys swore by it.
A couple Iskra members came and went. Strangers gave me curious stares but said nothing. You guys called me here.
"At least say hi to people!"
"What? You called me."
"Still, be a little friendlier—like 'Hello~'!"
"No thanks..."
"Come on! Come on! Hurry up!"
Sheesh... I grabbed Starlina's arm and yanked her up from the sofa. It felt like dragging a shy kid from next door to introduce to your friends at kindergarten—the kind who always dresses cute but clams up around strangers. She must really like me.
"This is Leo. He's from the west..."
"The west, huh? I once bolted from laying train tracks out there."
"Oh—yeah."
"Back then..."
"And this is Karl. He's from the imperial capital."
"Another one where I did grunt work in the capital..."
"Stop!"
"Got it."
It's not for sympathy. Following Starlina's lead, I greeted the new faces. Something rubbed them the wrong way. Their faces were all scrunched up, no real responses. Petty much? Jealous 'cause I'm tight with Starlina?
I just watched them. The guys from the back room earlier seemed unbiased, but now? Those eyes. Pure prejudice.
"Letting a guy like that into our group."
I caught someone muttering. Sounded casual, but talking right by the sofa? It was meant for my ears.
Leo—that was his name, right? Yeah, I knew it. In a secret outfit like this, letting in an unvetted nobody could bruise the ego a bit.
"Only the qualified should hold positions!"
"Where's this ink-stained bullshit coming from?"
"Jeez. Shandy! Who the hell is this guy?"
Starlina beamed and held Leo back. I slowly rose from the sofa. I'd expected some hazing. But seeing the group's vibe, I got it. I wouldn't lose a head-on clash. Words or fists, I wouldn't budge an inch.
"I rub you the wrong way that much?"
"Ha! As if a punk like you could grasp our grand vision."
"Come to think of it, I never asked what your group is really after."
"Iskra pursues the abolition of classes, and along with that..."
"Already giving me a headache."
I lit a smoke. Didn't know whose it was, but if it's near me, it's mine. Someone must've left it around. I puffed out a cloud right into their hovering faces, and they started freaking out. Pale boy who'd never touched a cig. Why do these types always seem untouched by real hardship?
"So how do you divvy up the classes?"
"Simple! Nobles and the bourgeoisie who own factories and means of production! And then..."
"Us workers. So where do you fit?"
"I'm one hundred percent working class!"
Made my skin crawl. Like they were stealing poverty from us. Class consciousness. Fancy term. Our great teachers say class struggle is history's engine. But where it starts or ends? Who knows. Some say it's now, after reading the book. Others peg it for some distant future.
"First off, you're no worker. Can't picture your mom or dad with dirt on their hands."
"What're you saying?"
"Your parents might've been workers, but you're not. You're just a parasite leeching off them—an ink-stained hack."
"What?!"
"You hide in the back, shove others forward to spout your crap. Pathetic."
Leo edged toward the sofa. Starlina grinned and stepped between us. The commotion drew a few from the back. Our boss, Fredrik, too.
"Listen up, everyone here! What exactly is your ultimate goal?"
No answer. Just more people holding back the fired-up Leo. Time to school them. Just stuff I'd learned before landing in this shithole world.
"You talk a big game about a workers' society, but it's all theory—no real workers involved."
"Enough!"
"And the ones sacrificing 'for them' by chucking bombs? Utterly clueless."
"You ignoring all our efforts?!"
I plopped back on the sofa and lit another. Chain-smoking after ages. Too pricey before.
"After you chase out the nobles and your bourgeois? Then what?"
"Then a government for workers and intellectuals, achieving equality..."
"That's the snag. Right now, it just looks like scorned intellectuals throwing a tantrum."
Revolution. That urgent, aggressive fire to flip everything, lives be damned—it spreads when society’s primed. Like oxygen filling the air; one spark torches it all. Plenty of countries in my world went up like that.
"This vibe? Despair. No oxygen. Yet you're scrambling for a flame."
"So what's your oxygen?"
"Realizing the imbalance. That's what fills it up."
"How do they realize it? Without violence like us! Without rushing ahead!"
Sure, sometimes you need violent, flashy methods. Like beating a drum to shout your injustice. But if no one notices the subtle stuff? Pointless. Yeah, how can "pro-worker" types not know the real workers at all?
"Ever explained why you're violently taking them out?"
"That's...!"
"No reason. To you, they're just bad guys. You don't get the workers' side."
Reasons matter. Better call it a cause. The justification for wielding violence on workers' behalf. Simple as that.
"Who's the last one you took out?"
"Fredrik Column, a member of the southern noble Column family."
"No clue. What'd he do?"
"He owns factories down south and pushed to fully legalize child labor in the noble council..."
"Could've explained that as your cause, right?"
"W-well, he escaped."
Fair enough—better than getting caught and killed. But the key was why Fredrik Column had to die, why it was righteous revenge for workers. Without that, he's just some bastard who croaked.
"Shout it loud: He's a pedo-loli-con trying to steal our kids and sell 'em off."
"Lo—what?!"
"Oops. A creep shoving kids into factories for his gain."
Shout it. If we can't scream hope for the living, at least let 'em taste a speck of despair! Let our kids—my son, my daughter—do human work at least!
"That's how you get workers on our side, yeah?"
The Iskra folks went silent. No comeback to "intellectuals' tantrum" meant they felt it too. Maybe they didn't know where to go next either.
But now? Things were about to change.