Taking a deep breath, I looked at the not wounded fist again. And yet that pain was incredibly pleasant. It's even a pity that in reality this cannot be done. But this practice definitely helps to relieve stress much better than most traditional techniques.

- I saw it here recently…

In the real world, the redneck had just begun her crazy speech, which could be heard for a good half of the street. I, spitting in disgust, corrected my route around this yard. Listening to this nonsense a second time would be disrespectful to oneself and a manifestation of extreme masochism.

The rest of the way to the hostel passed without excess. A quiet weekend morning buzzed with an atmosphere of mild nervousness, showing no special external changes, but disgustingly tickling somewhere at the limit of the sixth sense. The feeling was like waiting for the buzzing of a mosquito in a dark room - when in silence it seems that everything is calm, but you know for sure that it is somewhere.

This could be traced in the smallest details - from the "Z" and "V" symbols that had grown up all over the district like mushrooms after the rain, the general orientation of the conversations of people passing by, and especially in giant queues to the ATMs that had not been miraculously emptied until now.

People were crowding, swearing, trying to move forward pushing others, and the owners of even the lowest categories of abilities did not disdain to use them, practically not holding back. Everyone was well aware that the police would not react to such violations at best. For them, cases of "domestic violence" and "minor hooliganism" were at the very end of possible priorities - immediately after thefts of small scale. Even if someone received a fatal or serious injury, gentlemen officers came to the scene in the best case after a couple of hours, or even days, if annoying relatives did not begin to demand the unthinkable from them - to start working. It was possible to expect some noticeable efforts from law enforcement officers only in two cases - during scheduled and unscheduled inspections. The rest of the time, people were quite satisfied with the silent absence of greedy bastards in sight.

After passing an open steel gate, I entered the quiet courtyard of the hostel that has already become my home. The five-floored building, built back in the days of Great Food Surpluses, personified the whole essence of the local contingent. Battered by time, with gray cracked walls, and windows yellowed from dirt and dust, which had not seen any repairs for years, but were generously decorated with modern cameras monitoring the neighborhood. On the old, cracked windows in places, hung a few banners of support - "Z", "V", "ZA SYSTEM", "ZA FREEDOM"(FOR FREEDOM), and other varieties of active citizenship of rabble.

A white camera with a small visor over the lens with a nasty buzz slightly jerked in my direction. Without even looking in its direction, I headed for the wide porch of the dorm. A dozen steps high, it was covered with many deep pits, translucent under the crust of ice. Leaning on the old rusty railing bent wherever possible, I put my hand in the pocket of my shoulder bag, looking for a pass. The green plastic card of SYSTEMBANK was noticeably worn out, which to my surprise did not affect its performance in any way. Taking into account the fact that most students were forced to change them several times a year, mine could be safely considered a real centenarian.

Looking at the students smoking in the area in front of the entrance, I mentally sighed and pulled the heavy steel door towards me. From above, a quiet clanking of a door closer broken last year was heard, the money for the repair of which each time settled at the bottom of the wide pockets of the respected management.

Pushing forward the yellowed wooden door, I went inside the spacious hall. The room was not rich in detail. Right in the center is a lattice separating the checkpoint from the corridor and several school desks and chairs attached to it, on the left is the eternally closed door of the dormitory commandant O. P. Toporov, on the right is a latched barrier, a turnstile, and a small plastic window leading to the concierge's cubicle.

Attaching the card to the reader mechanism and waiting for a loud beeping sound, I went inside. Lingering for a dozen seconds at the table with an open account book, I wrote down all the necessary data about myself, without waiting for the disgruntled shouts of a bitch of Balzac's age(40-50). Today the shift was for a particularly meticulous and quarrelsome woman, whose character is not digested even by the *best* z-patriots. Having filled in the columns "room, date and time of arrival, signature" with a barely writing shitty pen, I proceeded down the corridor to the second floor.

Despite the rather early time, people and quilted jackets could still be heard on the approach. The small kitchen with three sinks and electric stoves was completely packed with students screaming at the top of their voices. Something was boiling, crackling, and bubbling on each burner, and one single table was completely occupied by cutting boards. The clatter of spoons on the walls of pots was harmoniously combined with the clicks and whizzing of knives on wooden surfaces.

But the most striking thing was the form of the cooks - both physical and the form clothing. Muscular, fit, with broad shoulders and strong necks, they immediately gave the impression of having at least the second, or even the third rank category. The military uniform sitting on them, with the inscription "SMD" on the back, only reinforced the not-very-pleasant feeling of superiority among the foulest class of the population - the z-patriots.

- LET'S GO OUT TOGETHER TO THE FIELD WITH A HORSE…

Whether out of boredom or lack of intelligence, the "horses" even now continued to sing one of their favorite songs. This tradition of the members of the military department was so deeply ingrained in the perception of all local residents that there was probably not a single person who, at the word "horses", would not immediately think of these mentally disabled.

Noticing me, one of the ungulates put aside a small, rusty knife in place and hurried over.

- Hello, Kolyan! Do you know if Rustam is at home or what? - he holds out his hand in greeting.

After answering the handshake, I once again understand how strong these bastards are. Even the third category, still vulnerable to blows from ordinary people, is already a considerable danger. There is no need to talk about higher ones.

- I have no idea. I just came myself.

- Okay. I'll come back later then.

- No problem.

It will be necessary to close. I don't have even the slightest desire to contact this bio-trash. There are many reasons for this, and each of them would already be enough to systematically avoid this particular person. However, like a caricature of a true patriot of the SYSTEM, Vladson was such an outstanding personality that it was difficult to even begin to describe him. My level of respect for this ungulate was so high that for all three years of living in the hostel, I did not even remember his last name.

Walking to the end of the corridor, I couldn't help but notice several marks that appeared on the wooden doors. The notorious “Z” symbol was now applied not only to the windows of buildings and cars but also in any other places that damaged ones could only think of. And they had surprisingly much imagination and dedication in this regard. The whole essence of our mindset is “do something useful? No, no, (any invented reason)”, but “show off, ruin something, or demonstrate your position? Of course yes, and with pleasure and at any time.” The saddest thing is that many did not even see anything wrong with this, considering it as something natural. Those who criticized such behavior, for the most part, as a rule, did not disdain engaging in such a thing.

The door was closed. Taking an old steel key out of my bag, I inserted it into the lock and turned it for a few turns. Opening the door, he immediately intercepted the key and drove it already into the hole on the inside. After going inside, it immediately closed. A habit developed over the years. Sigh, just a few years ago, there was practically no need for such actions. How quickly the world is changing.

The room was compact, without frills, but with all the necessary minimum of furniture. A couple of beds, tables, and wardrobes, three battered chairs, four bedside tables, and a small white refrigerator. On the hinged "kitchen" shelf there are seasonings, sugar, salt, two packs of tea, and a large, but almost empty, bag of cheap coffee. In the household, there are colognes, deodorants, cotton buds, tweezers, and other useful trifles.

Most of the interior was purchased by me personally, sometimes making me think about how much it will cost to transport all this furniture to a new place of residence. Now, such everyday thoughts helped to distract me a little.

Collapsing on the bed, which creaked resentfully, I began to look lazily at the smartphone display. The cheap model of three years ago was already beginning to slow down significantly in comparison with modern analogs. The replacement should arrive only in a few weeks. Due to diving too deep, I involuntarily managed to estimate the speed of the new generation in advance, and now I regretted it a little.

There was nothing too eye-catching on the net. Everything that was happening could be described in three words. Panic. Depression. Aggression.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Independent media tried their best to sanctify truthful information, but their ranks were fading day by day. Of a couple of dozen time-tested publications, less than half remained alive by the fourth day. Offices were raided and systematically liquidated, official pages were blocked and deleted, and managers and even employees were forced to flee the country. "Outside the SYSTEM." The bastards who seized power continued to label any opposition as foreign agents, reinforcing the accusations with any nonsense sufficient to convince the rabble.

At the same time, the propaganda machine was only gaining momentum, receiving funding unthinkable for an ordinary person. Officials spewed out streams of aggression and hatred towards all living things while sitting in comfort and well-being, recording their voices on expensive imported microphones, filming their faces and figures on dozens of cameras, and at the same time loudly despising everything connected with the "capitalism of the damned democrats."

An incalculable number of corrupt bloggers at the same time spread no less nonsense to the masses, often contradicting each other. From high-quality channels millionaires to very small and insignificant millennials, everyone with full dedication sought to make money on the events and hype. Even dying channels that had never reviewed politics before suddenly proclaimed themselves experts. Many of them were lucky to come back to life and start getting fatter and fatter government contracts. At the same time, this whole horde of human bio-trash diligently promoted the opinion that they were not corrupt at all, but people with a more peaceful position.

The panic among the people reached incredible proportions, and the disputes between people with different views continued endlessly. The washed-out majority again dominated against the background of reasonable people, turning those who had not yet decided into their ignorance. It was almost impossible to argue with the true patriots of the SYSTEM - any arguments were immediately lost against the background of dozens of stuffing, making it impossible to convey to people at least some of the verified information. In the same rare cases, when the alcohol-soaked garbage began to lose even despite the abundance of fictional facts, more effective methods were immediately used - to shout over, dumping huge amounts of text on the enemy, or start translating the conversation into completely different topics from the case.

I had no desire to do this personally. Even if by some miracle it is possible to convince someone on one of the issues, it will not change the essence of the matter in any way. From reading the comments of the z-patriots, faith in the bright future of our society began to be completely lost.

Putting my smartphone on the bedside table at the head of the bed, I finally allowed myself to rest. There was no sense in excessive excitement and stress, but rationality at such a time faded into the background. Even despite knowing the possible future, I could not treat what was happening indifferently. Rather, on the contrary, because of the too strong distortion of probability, I could perceive too much not as it should be. But it was psychologically necessary for me to look ahead to the limit of immersion, even realizing the senselessness of this action.

So, mentally jumping from one topic to another, I fell into a restless sleep.

There was a knock on the door. Having gathered myself with difficulty, I went to the door in a slight hurry. From the sounds outside, it was obvious who exactly decided to come in. However, I still used partial immersion, looking ahead for a couple of seconds before turning the key.

- Hello again. Rustam didn't show up?

- No. What did you want? I can pass it on.

- It doesn't matter, there's a matter for him personally, then when he comes tell him to come to me.

- No problem.

I'm closing the door. Soon the neighbor will have to come if I remember correctly and nothing has changed. In the meantime, I can continue to rest.

After brewing coffee in a massive half-liter mug, I lean back in my chair. Taking out my smartphone, I start recording the most important moments from memory. The details of the long dive were already blurred and resembled fragmentary moments of sleep rather than clear memories. The accuracy of the events, especially towards the end, was too low to correspond to reality. But the very fact of the "possibility" of the occurrence of those events was already relatively useful.

Rustam came in the late afternoon, as usual. People with this type of thinking were usually called "out of politics." Even despite the events taking place in the world, he was much more interested and worried about the most insignificant and pathetic everyday issues. Grumbling about the difficulty of studying and the fucked-up teachers, constant laziness and its justification, dissatisfaction with the fact that it has now become impossible to pay for purchases in his favorite game, and other little things that are clearly not worth paying attention to now.

But the saddest and most paradoxical thing is the sudden belief in the strength of our troops. How did a person who had been criticizing the equipment, supplies, and general training of the soldiers of the SYSTEM for years, change into an ardent patriot in just a few days? It's simple - denial of reality and faith in the authority of corrupt sources. I don't understand it, but according to psychologists, many suffer from it. Unwillingness to admit one's own or others' mistakes leads to such a strong cognitive distortion that a person really begins to believe in any version of events convenient for him.

Careful attempts to change his mind led to nothing. To direct the already inveterate thoughts of the quilted jacket in another direction is a thankless and largely meaningless task. Any arguments, like other sources, even if "not authoritative", were perceived with extreme aggression and skepticism, and contradictions in their own rhetoric were worthy of a true patriot of the SYSTEM. "I'm out of politics, and I don't follow the situation!", but at the same time, "My sources (several videos of corrupt bloggers) are obviously better than yours, and also, don't tell me they're wrong, of course, they're not, what you have against them, and who are you watching there anyway? Whom? I haven't heard of them. Clearly, they're worse than mine, and, as my bloggers said, they had already been bought by a foreign organization! However, it's okay, everyone has their own opinion. But mine is obviously more correct, and you decide for yourself there."

Leaving attempts to convince a neighbor, I reminded him of Vladson's request and continued to go about my business. Rustam, however, albeit with obvious reluctance, went to visit the ungulate. He returned quickly, with a small rectangular piece of paper in his hands.

- Again, yes?

- Yes. He's so fucking annoying with his invitations. This time they promise allowances for the scholarship…

- Heh, then why did you refuse? And the salary will be increased, and the team is cheerful, it was necessary to agree!

- Very cheerful. Even too much. That's the second time I didn't have enough to deal with the army! Once is enough, I've already paid my duty to the SYSTEM, I've had enough!

- That's right... especially since even Ilyaz ran away, where do you go, heh!

-That, too. After his stories, I will definitely not join this flock of ungulates!

- Well, that's right! It's lucky that they don't take me for one of their own. At least one problem less.

- Indeed.

This ended the conversation, and everyone continued to do their very important things. While watching the video, the time passed unnoticed, and it was necessary to get ready for bed.

Using the dive for a few minutes ahead, I checked the corridor for possible threats. Even without any special guarantees, but with a high probability, so far everything has been calm. Unfortunately, these measures were not at all superfluous, even despite the rather rare potential skirmishes. The dormitory residents were too dubious to treat them lightly. Especially when you consider the fact that many of them are significantly superior to me in strength.

Our room had a rather convenient location - right behind the left wall, there were washbasins, and opposite, across the corridor, four toilet cubicles. Their condition was on the verge of critical. Of the ten taps, no more than half were working properly, and only in the best couple of them, it was possible to collect water without obvious signs of rust. The sinks were covered with a layer of dirt, snot, and worse - part-time cleaners clearly could not cope with the pressure of local residents. There was no one to straighten the bent taps and sinks, as well as to replace the broken lamp - there were still several weeks left before the next inspection. With the bathrooms, everything was even sadder. Half of them did not work at all, and one of the two remaining ones constantly clogged the pipe, without the possibility of normal flushing. It was funny and sad to look at the broken tanks - one of them literally split in half after being kicked by an unidentified patriot, and practically nothing remained of the second one at all.

Brushing my teeth quickly, I hurried back to the room. Somewhere behind the intermediate door of the corridor, a fight began. The screams could even be heard from the other end of the building. It lasted for several minutes, after which it subsided. Judging by the sounds, horses were involved in the case, which promptly called for the help of a whole flock of ungulates.

It was 23:59 o clock. The fourth day of SOED came to an end.