When he went outside, Misha found the place full of people. Why did everyone come out like it was a holiday?
After walking past a few cabins and saying hello to a dozen wonderful and not so wonderful people, he came across someone he never would have wanted to see and wouldn't have approached, but that person wanted something, so she approached herself.
Captain Raniere. He's a real loudmouth. Every time something came up in conversation, he'd start an empty argument. Just about nothing. I don't know why, but on some genetic level he was trying to prove that his point of view was right and everything else was worthless. Not only that, but if there was no business to be done anywhere and no one called him, he would come in with completely useless questions and almost demand answers, especially from the lower ranks.
Having experienced this more than once, Misha prepared to open his mouth and send him away.
"Have you seen Kostya?" — Ranierov asked.
A rather odd question, and the answer was a negative nod of the head with a continued forward motion.
— You've heard of Wolfsbane, right?
Maybe we should give him a chance. At least this time he'll say something nice.
"I heard," Misha replied haltingly.
— They're all right, aren't they?
— Uh-huh. Probably just a little bit more and that's it…
— That's it?
— And we will win. — The voice came a little timidly, but from the heart.
At this Ranierov grinned: "Shall we win?! Ha! You're all fantasists here! You like to think about your feats. That's maximalism…"
There was neither strength nor sense in speaking further — Misha switched off his hearing and moved on. He kept shouting something, but it didn't matter: he'd had enough. Somewhere in the middle there was a pinch and an ache. It was the pain of resentment; it lodged somewhere in my stomach and pressed deep down. It's unclear where that depth is, and where it's allowed to press, but it's getting stronger and stronger, and it's not going to go away.
"Why did I talk to that man again. It's the same thing every time. And each time it gets harder. We say, 'We're dreamers.' We dream? "Maximalism." This stupid psychoanalytics; they invented words to explain unknown things and unknown why, and now they use it… We're trying our best, and they wipe their feet on us. If only they had found a place where it was still clean, they would have dirty the whole place… Doesn't someone like him have no one who died in the war, doesn't he want to continue and finish what whole generations laid down their heads for? Does he like to confuse others instead of doing what life obliges him to do? That's what we're all doing here — learning. To love, to fight, to overcome… well, we have to fight, so what if we can't cope? We have to cope. We must win!" — this was going through his brain in waves, and despite all his convictions, the pain did not subside.
Grisha, one of his subordinates, sat on a bench near his porch and ate bread. It was stale and withered, but still real bread.
Seeing the commander, he jumped up and saluted in a military manner over his cap:
"Greetings, Comrade Captain."
"Sit down already, what's up," Misha didn't like all these honors, even though he understood perfectly well how important all these formalities were. But he especially hated formation training. When it came to the elementary techniques of formation step, he had no questions about the expediency of practicing them, but he had once read that the ancients gave it a certain delicate importance: they created special units that dealt only with this, organized special performances. What kind of nonsense is that? It's an army. Let them learn to shoot and hide. And to lie still with their eyes wide open. It will save their lives… They won't defeat the enemy with their antics with prehistoric rifles.
"Grish, tell me, what are we doing here?" — Misha asked, sitting down next to him on the steps.
Thoth apparently thought he was being tested for ideological suitability and replied along the lines of, "We are fighting for freedom, our cultural heritage, and we…"
— Give up the propaganda. We are Unit 14, not the KPM (Makah Propaganda Committee; its task was to agitate the people working for the chumas, including calling for rebellion). You tell me what you think."
"Я?… Sorry, I don't know, Comrade Captain. — During this answer Misha made such a face that one could think he was talking to a person who was completely distant from everything that was going on. — Honestly, I ran away from the factory, because I was afraid that next time I could not stand it, when the plagues begin to throw up the volume of smelting, and scream. We rarely met the norm, after all. I wouldn't have been able to withstand a couple more blows".
It was dangerous for someone like him to continue his revelations — almost all his gestures showed that he was ashamed of something he wanted to tell, but couldn't. Misha interrupted because it wasn't the first time he'd seen it. He knew that this was what his subordinate wanted to reveal, and that it would be better if he did it without coercion.
The rebel wandered back through the camp, replaying what Ranierov had told him in his head as if it would never come out and be forgotten.
Natalya Koshkina, a senior lieutenant from the sanitation department, ran into him. She was only twenty-five years old, but she was a good judge of character. One glance was enough for her to realize that help was needed: "Mish, why are you so glum?"
When she said such phrases, adding her marvelous facial expression, the mood lifted by itself. Not everyone in the group liked her, but she held no grudges and always tried to be supportive when she needed it. It seemed alien to her not to help because of an unfulfilled relationship. "Even if there were no war now," she said to those who didn't quite understand her.
— we wouldn't survive without each other. We're here to help others."
Though Misha didn't like her position entirely — "Really, how can you help, for example, Ranierov?". He respected her and could never even afford to argue with her.
— It's nothing, it's nothing.
— You didn't have lunch, did you?
— No, I didn't have lunch.
— Then I, uh.
— No, no, Natasha, don't. You don't have anything to eat.
— Do I have to talk you into it? — she asked sincerely and a little resentfully.
— Natash, I really don't want to — Misha hasn't eaten anything in almost 24 hours, but "taking" food from anyone, much less her, would be a crime.
— Stop it. I know you haven't eaten anything.
— Oh, come on. It's no big deal.
— You haven't eaten, and I'm missing a whole pot of soup. Let's go!
— Uh, I, uh.
After that she was tired of arguing and persuading this altruist, and she took him by the hand and dragged him to her house.
The Maquis changed their location at least once a week, and it was rare for anyone to set up a place to live while in any neighborhood. This was in no way true of Koshkina.
Entering her house Misha didn't understand what was going on: everything was so wellgroomed and cozy. And the most interesting thing was that it was impossible to say why. Maybe because of the towel with the image of a tiger hanging on the wall, maybe because of the tablecloth with roses and big, the size of a fist, ladybugs on the table, and maybe just a rag for shoes at the entrance. A lot of these wonderful little things can't be called luxury in any way — it's more like the humanity of the soul, that's all.
Natasha walked to the clay tile in the far corner of the room. Her movements were strikingly appealing to the eye. Her footsteps were soft and yet very confident. It was as if everything around her was coming to life.
Her military uniform didn't spoil her in the least: black full ankle boots, dark tights, visible only at the knees, and then a green skirt and the same tunic. Black hair in a thin braid in the back.