The Good Mother 1988

Mark stood on the tracks, surrounded by the noise and labor of the workers. They were busily repairing the rails, each swing of the hammer and the clatter of metal echoing throughout the area. The wind ruffled his hair, and the dust that rose into the air mingled with the smell of iron and wet earth. Everything was as usual, a bustle of hard work, and it seemed that it would always be that way, until Gene came along.

He ran up to Mark, his face distorted with worry. There was a clear fear in his eyes that he couldn't hide. Gene looked around nervously before speaking.

"Mister Engineer! People from the Union of Gabriel the Archangel have set up an ambush where you are going."

Mark turned calmly towards him, as if Gene's words could not shake him. He continued to get ready to mount the trolley, adjusting his sleeves and showing no sign of excitement.

"You can't be afraid, Gene," he said firmly, as if repeating a truth that had to be adhered to in any situation. "Even when you're scared."

Gene, however, clearly did not share his boss's calm. He did not take his eyes off Mark, continuing to speak with despair in his voice:

"I want to warn the guys, mister Engineer. They must be ready!"

Mark exhaled and, moving closer to Gene, put his hand on his shoulder.

"Okay," he said, "but I order you: under no circumstances are you to use the weapons I gave you. Understand? These revolvers are for emergencies only. We don't want any trouble."

Gene, still worried, nodded, but his face remained tense. He wanted to say something, but Mark, getting on the trolley, raised a finger, as if to emphasize the importance of his words, and said with diligent determination:

"The proletarian squad must prepare itself for an uprising, and not for a vulgar knife fight. Do you understand? We are not here to arrange massacres and showdowns. We are here for a great purpose."

His words, encased as if in hard armor, were meant to sober and strengthen every worker he interacted with, reminding them that they were part of something more important than just physical struggle.

With that, he started the trolley, and the mechanism crackled to life. Mark glided along the rails without any hurry, feeling strangely calm, as if the threat Gene had just voiced did not touch him. He was heading forward, into the thick of things, like a yacht sailing on a calm sea, where each storm was just another wave he could ride out. There was no panic in his head, only a clear sense that everything that was happening was just a stage on the way to something greater.

Meanwhile, Gene, a little taken aback by what Mark had said, quickly ran to the workers whom he had recently supplied with revolvers. He had to tell them that Mark had ordered them to remain calm and not rush into using weapons, despite the threat. But he still had some jitters, and he did not know what was waiting for him ahead.

Mark rode forward, feeling the light rhythm of the trolley sliding along the rails. Around him was the forest - trees thickening the shadows, thickly growing moss and tall grass, all of this smoothly shimmered outside the windows of the trolley, when immediately a strange, inexplicable chill rolled over him. It seemed that this was only a brief moment - one instant when the air became a little heavier, and the silence of the forest, broken only by the clatter of the wheels, seemed to deepen.

He continued to ride, absorbed in thought, when suddenly his gaze fell on a figure standing on the rails a little ahead. It was a tall, moustached man in a white suit, who seemed to dissolve into a light cloud, standing out against the dark forest. The white cap on his head only enhanced his strange and unnatural appearance, sharply contrasting with the gloomy surroundings. The man stood directly on the track, paying no attention to the approaching trolley, as if unaware of the threat of the iron rails and the noise it made.

Mark was not afraid - he had enough experience not to panic - but something eerie, elusive and alarming overshadowed his thoughts. This man, snow-white and motionless, as if carved from stone, caused a strange sensation in Mark's soul. He felt a cold shiver rise up his spine, although not a single element of the landscape told him of a real threat. On the contrary, everything around him continued to sound and move as usual: the grinding of wheels, the noise of the wind in the trees, and only this man - a figure, almost mystical, stood before him, as if on the very edge of his perception.

When the figure in the snow-white suit and white bowler hat suddenly appeared against the forest, as if the earth itself had raised him, Mark felt a strange sense of recognition. He had met this man before, when he had first arrived in Cambridge. It was the same one who had made him uneasy at first sight - Jordan Thurlow, the leader of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel. He stood on the rails, motionless, as if unaware of the approaching trolley. His suit glittered in the sunlight, creating the impression of a translucent silhouette, as if cut out of fog.

When the trolley finally stopped, creaking with iron, Thurlow remained where he was. No fear, no movement, as if he were sure that Mark was sensible enough not to run him over like a fool. Mark watched him from where he sat, in no hurry to get out. There was no surprise or fear in his eyes, only a cold awareness that there would be no words between them now, only action. Thurlow walked toward him with his usual confident slowness. His eyes, cold and penetrating, met Mark's with a subtle hostility, but without the fierce challenge that might lead to conflict. He simply looked, as if expecting Mark, like everyone else, to understand that all the outcomes were already known.

As Thurlow approached, his smile was not genuine. It was the smile of someone waiting. He put his hands on his hips, taking his time to take the next step, as if time had slowed for him. He said nothing, and his silence seemed to be part of the game. He stood there, and Mark knew that it was a silence that should not be broken.

So they stood before each other, two men, two adversaries, each of whom knew that he would not betray his ideals for the other. There was no sympathy between them, no desire to start a conversation. Only the look, like a cold weapon, said something without words. Thurlow stood, as always, with that same steadfastness that seemed detached and calm, but in fact was full of readiness for any turn of events.

Mark didn't move, didn't say a word. Everything was as he expected, as he was used to, that's how real confrontations happen in life. Neither of them was ready to make the first move, and it seemed to be part of the game, in which they both understood the rules perfectly well. No matter how long the silence lasted, it was part of this space, created by tension and invisible struggle.

But then, finally, Jordan broke the silence. His voice was indifferent, almost dismissive, as always with those who are confident in their own strength.

"My boys are blockheads, but they're smart," he said, with a barely perceptible gesture, as if his thoughts weren't about Mark, but somewhere much further away. "They've sniffed out your interests."

Mark didn't answer. He didn't even move. His face remained calm, but a dark cloud of anger was already beginning to thicken in his eyes. He understood that Jordan's words were not just a joke, not just another game, but a real threat. Everything was much more serious than it seemed at first glance.

But Jordan obviously wasn't going to stop. His smile suddenly turned dirty, caustic as he said,

"Your wife is in the casemate, in solitary confinement. She will be here tomorrow. Or somewhere else - as you decide!"

Mark did not move, his face did not betray the slightest emotion. But in his chest, in the very center where there had been confidence and calm, anger began to rise like a storm. He clenched his teeth, but did not allow himself anything more. Was he so wrong, not understanding with whom he was dealing? This man, with his smile and pompous words, was not worth Mark showing his emotions.

Yet Thurlow was sure that every word he said had hit the mark. But Mark, despite his growing rage, remained unmoved.

"In return?" Mark finally broke the silence, saying the word quietly but firmly.

Jordan seemed in no hurry to answer. He still stood there, smiling slightly, watching Mark as if he were part of a game in which he was sure he was in control. His gaze, still full of insolence, left Mark no room for doubt.

"Are you American?" Jordan asked unexpectedly.

"My mother is from Portugal and my father is from Canada," Mark replied, avoiding a direct answer.

"It doesn't matter," Jordan said immediately, as if the other man's answers didn't bother him at all. "Do you revere your homeland and Catholic shrines?" he added, as if he couldn't resist asking questions.

"Let's say I have a neutral attitude towards them," Mark answered calmly, not hiding his point of view, but also not going into details.

Jordan smiled, but it was a nasty, mocking smile, as if he had just trapped Mark.

"Well, that means you and I," he said, slowly and somehow playing with words, "have the same path!"

Mark didn't answer right away. He knew that Thurlow was trying to spin a web, to lure him into some kind of trap, but he couldn't figure out what it was yet. Jordan continued, confident that his manipulations were working.

"And if there's something you don't like about our union," he said with a grin, "then we'll fix it together!"

He paused, obviously counting on the effect of his words, on the fact that they would lead to the desired reaction.

"On my honor," he added, thinking that this would give his words special significance, which would make Mark feel the pressure.

"Honestly," Mark repeated Jordan's words mechanically, and then said with determination: "I can't."

"You have no choice," mister Thurlow replied with a grin, as if this answer had been prepared in advance and he was sure that Mark would not be able to resist.

Mark, despite the rage that was boiling inside him, held back. And Jordan, apparently sensing his intransigence, changed his tone. Now there was a mixture of menace and calm in his voice, but behind that calm there was a clear desire for control. He straightened up slightly, took his hands from his sides, and, putting them behind his back, took a few steps along the rails, as if thinking. Then, turning his head to Mark, he began to speak:

"Do you know what awaits you ahead, there, on these paths?" His voice sounded measured, but with a subtext. "My archangels! They stand there, flapping their wings, threatening with sharp blades!" he suddenly recited with some kind of malicious determination, as if he was reading bad poetry of his own composition."

He emphasized the word "archangels," as if this was something much more than just a group of people who belonged to a club called the Union of Gabriel the Archangel. Mark remained silent, watching his every move. Jordan moved closer, his face now almost level with Mark's as he sat on the handcar.

"And, you know, if it's just the two of us," he continued, almost good-naturedly, but with a hint of threat, "then we'll let you live. And we'll free your wife, who's languishing in the dungeon now."

His words echoed in the silence of the forest, as if there were even fewer sounds in the surrounding space. Mark looked at him, his face remained inscrutable, but inside, he felt as if he was being pierced through by these words.

"What will you choose?" Jordan took a step back, clasping his hands behind his back again, like a man accustomed to negotiating from a position of strength. "Continue your futile attempts at a rebellion that will lead to nothing? Or perhaps you would agree to settle the matter peacefully with us, the Loyalists?"

Mark remained silent. He knew this was a test, a challenge. He was being asked to turn away from the path he had chosen, the path for which he had left his old home and come to Cambridge, risking everything. Looking at Jordan, Mark knew that this man would never stop trying to dominate or destroy. But what angered him most was the way Jordan tried to lure him in with betrayal-not a personal betrayal, but a betrayal of the ideas for which Mark lived.

"And if I'm alone…" Mark began, but didn't manage to finish.

"I don't even want to think about it!" Jordan interrupted with a theatrical hand gesture, as if waving away some ridiculous idea. His tone was demonstratively light, but there was a hardness in his eyes.

Mark looked at him, cold, calm, but determined. He knew that any further conversation with this man was a waste of time.

"Okay," he said, his voice now firm. "Then I'll think about it alone. And now... I have the honor."

With that, he pulled the lever of the handcar. The machine came to life with a creaking sound and began to move. Jordan didn't move, just stood there and watched him go, his arms crossed over his chest.

Mark rode on, and Jordan's figure slowly disappeared from view. But even at a distance, Mark could feel his gaze on him - heavy, contemptuous, full of hidden menace. Jordan remained standing on the tracks, his face taking on an expression of strange satisfaction, as if he had already seen the end of this game.

As if watching his opponent slip away, he allowed himself a slight smile, a reminder that he was used to being the boss in this game. Mark, however, did not think about it. All his attention was now focused on the road ahead. The forest around him was colored with golden reflections of the morning sun, which broke through the foliage, as if drawing paths of light between the slender trees. Birds were singing somewhere in the distance, and a light wind stirred the branches, creating the illusion of calm. However, Mark did not notice all this beauty. His thoughts were occupied with the words of Jordan Thurlow.

The words, sweet but poisonous as a snakebite, stuck in his head. It was not an empty threat, but a cold calculation. Mark sensed that the Union of Gabriel the Archangel did not throw words to the wind. If Jordan had spoken of an ambush ahead, then his people were indeed waiting there.

But what gnawed at him even more was the ugly feeling that Jordan was trying to force him into a choice that would affect not only his future, but the lives of those he was responsible for. And worst of all, it was a game that involved his word of honor.

"If it's just the two of us," this word weighed on him like a stone around his neck.

He remembered his daughter Molly, her blonde hair when she was three years old listening to a fairy tale, and his promise: "If you can handle it, you will see the Quintans." Those words had been given to her not as a mere fairy tale, but as a symbol of the purity and hope he had sworn to preserve. And now he was being forced to betray that for the sake of an alliance with a man who knew no honor, no purity, no hope.

Mark frowned, his hands tightening on the trolley's lever.

"No," he whispered under his breath, as if fighting off the onslaught of an invisible enemy.

He continued to ride, looking ahead, but in his heart he was preparing himself for a collision with what was waiting for him on the way. Soon the silhouettes of people became visible on the rails in front of him, their figures becoming clearer as the trolley approached. They stood motionless, right on the tracks, as if they were determined to prevent him from passing. They were young men, dressed with aristocratic elegance: dark frock coats, neatly tied ties, patent leather shoes. Their well-groomed faces seemed to speak of a habit of refined living, but in their eyes and expressions one could read something else - a predatory indifference, restrained rage, a readiness for violence.

At the head of the group stood someone Mark recognized immediately: Damien. A dandy with a moustache, he had already had an unpleasant encounter with the day Mark first arrived in Cambridge. His impeccably tailored suit, white shirt, and long face with a smirk that still irritated him, were immediately noticeable.

Damien was staring at Mark with a mixture of contempt and defiance, his hands casually shoved into his pockets, as if to demonstrate that nothing in this world could shake him from his state of confident superiority.

Mark stopped the trolley a few steps before the group of people, weighing in his head everything that could happen in the next few minutes. Slowly, without a hint of haste, he climbed down from it, firmly grasping the handrail. With careful movements, he took off his jacket, casually folded it and placed it on the seat of the trolley. His calm and measured manner seemed a challenge in themselves - as if he wanted to show that this situation did not cause him any fear or anxiety.

Then he turned to face the people who had already begun to move towards him. Their steps were even, synchronized, as if they had rehearsed them in advance. The young people stopped a few steps away from him, their faces filled with some kind of eerie solemnity, and their eyes were frozen in tension, reminiscent of a premonition of an upcoming drama.

Damien, standing in the center, tilted his head slightly, as if in thought, his gaze focused on Mark. Shadows played in his eyes, as if he was trying to solve some unknown mystery. The silence around was overwhelming, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves, like the gentle touch of an invisible wind.

"God rest your..." Damien said after a short pause with heavy determination.

His whisper was barely audible, as if his voice itself was fading into the darkness, but his words resonated in the air, breaking through the silence of the forest, echoing between the trees.

"...the deceased soul," his comrades continued synchronously, as if on command.

Their voices sounded the same - flat and mechanical, with a hint of mockery, as if these words were learned by heart, as part of some memorized ritual. Strange notes were intertwined in their intonations: either light irony, or weariness, or perhaps something more obscurantist, hidden behind the formality of the words.

Damien, without stopping, took a step forward, his silhouette seeming to merge with the darkness. At that moment, his eyes darkened, and a strange softness, almost sly, appeared on his face.

"Your servant..." he continued even more quietly, with the false meekness of a man who forgives but does not forget.

This time the choir rang out with greater force, pronouncing the word with such emphasis as if it were the core of the most important rite for which they had all gathered.

"Amen," came their restrained and confident singing.

Mark stood motionless, his face calm, his eyes following his opponents' every move. When the last note of their strange pseudo-religious declamation died away, he adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt, leisurely, even lazily, as if he were doing all these actions not in the face of danger, but simply for the sake of order.

His confidence, his outward ease, all this created an atmosphere of strength around him, restrained but ready to break out at any moment.

He knew in his heart that this spectacle staged by Damien and his men was downright stupid. The theatricality of the whole scene, the false sanctity obviously calculated to confuse him, did not affect him. But he knew that behind this farce there was a real threat.

Mark, after a dramatic pause, slowly raised his head, squinting slightly, and, as if bored, asked:

"Damien?"

His tone was casual, almost friendly, as if he were talking to an old acquaintance whom he had met by chance on a walk.

Damien, taken by surprise by this address, instantly changed. The assumed solemnity vanished from his face, and a defiant gleam lit up his eyes. He straightened up, as if this challenge had forced him to drop the mask of religious ritual. His voice became rough, almost mocking.

"What do you need?!" he asked in the mocking tone of a rude boor.

Mark didn't move from his place, only allowing a slight, barely noticeable smile to flicker across his lips.

"Are you with the knuckle duster again?" he asked calmly, as if discussing something completely mundane.

The corners of Damien's lips curled upward in a predatory grin.

"No, sir, we don't have brass knuckles!" he replied, snorting and baring his teeth.

He had hardly finished speaking when the young man standing behind him, looking nervously around, took a dagger from his belt and extended it over his shoulder to his leader. The handle of the weapon was made in the form of a figure of the crucified Christ, a symbol that looked especially blasphemous in the hands of this company.

Damien, without even turning his head, deftly intercepted the dagger and twirled it in his hand with an evil glint in his eyes. As if admiring the weapon for a moment, he took a step forward, approaching Mark like a predator approaching its prey. Mark involuntarily lowered his gaze to the dagger in his hand. The thing was unusually familiar.

Mark instantly remembered where he had seen this weapon before: in Boston, at an antiques show where he had once been invited by an old friend, missis Baylock. Among other exhibits, this dagger was on display - a rare artifact found during excavations in the ancient city of Megiddo, in the Jezreel Valley. Missis Baylock, being an expert, had whispered to him that this dagger might have been used in ritual rites in pre-Christian times.

The dagger attracted attention, as if it had its own aura. But even more attention was drawn to the story that followed: after the exhibition, the dagger was stolen from the collection, and so cleverly that the police puzzled for a long time over how the thieves managed to bypass the most complex security measures.

And now this very dagger - ancient, overgrown with legends, stolen under mysterious circumstances - was in the hand of a man who clearly did not look like an archaeologist or a historian. Mark turned his gaze to the crowd behind Damien: young men in aristocratic clothes, whose faces looked more like the faces of street thugs.

He understood it all at once. Not only were these self-proclaimed "archangels" stealing the attributes of their symbols, they probably didn't understand their true value. The irony of the situation was so obvious that Mark found it funny. His lips stretched into an involuntary smile. Damien didn't notice, but some of his companions, standing slightly behind him, looked at each other in confusion. Their faces lengthened, and their eyes were frozen in bewilderment. Apparently, they expected fear, confusion, or at least tension from Mark, but certainly not a calm smile.

Mark, not hiding this cheerful disdain, took a step forward and, as if politely extending his hand for a handshake, abruptly knocked the dagger out of Damien's hand. The movement was so swift that Damien didn't even have time to react, and the dagger fell onto the rails with a metallic clang. Damien, losing his balance, staggered in surprise and, almost falling, fell backwards into the crowd of his friends. They barely managed to catch him, vying with each other to help their leader, but they clearly looked awkward doing so.

Mark, without waiting for them to come to their senses, rushed towards the trolley. He braced both hands against its side and, straining his whole body, began to push it forward. The wheels reluctantly began to spin, creaking and making dull blows against the joints of the rails. The speed was low, but the trolley moved. Mark, bending over the handles, pushed it with the tenacity of a man who knew that to stop meant to lose.

Meanwhile, there was a commotion behind him. One of Damien's assistants obligingly picked up the dagger and returned it to its owner. Damien, with a grim expression, accepted the weapon, while the others carefully shook invisible dust from his white suit.

When Damien finally recovered from his shock and was ready to lunge at Mark again, the moment had passed. The trolley had already gained enough speed for Mark to climb on. In one deft movement, he leaped onto the platform, deftly placed one foot on the handle, and turned to face the crowd.

Having started the trolley with his usual ease, he still managed to cast a quick glance back. The crowd of "archangels", startled by his escape, tore off from their place and rushed after the trolley. The young men, despite their aristocratic suits, ran with surprising agility. Their shiny boots crushed the gravel between the sleepers, and their silk ties fluttered in the wind, giving the events an almost farcical coloring.

Damien, as the most embittered and determined of them all, quickly pulled ahead. His face was twisted with anger, and one thought was pulsating in his head: to catch up with Mark at any cost and get even for the humiliation. Mark, although he saw him in his peripheral vision, did not pay attention, concentrating on gaining speed.

But Damien didn't give up. On the railroad tracks, in the dust and hot air, he found the strength to speed up and finally reached the trolley. Grabbing the edge, he pulled himself up and jumped onto the platform, breathing heavily like a hunted animal.

Mark turned around and immediately realized that a fight was inevitable. Damien lunged for the control lever, trying to wrest it from Mark's hands and stop the trolley from moving. The railway landscape flashed by faster and faster against their backdrop, but for both men the world seemed to stand still, leaving only their struggle.

Damien tried to push Mark back, his movements were sharp, almost desperate. But Mark, despite his less impressive build, did not give in. At the decisive moment, he put all his strength into one jerk, taking advantage of Damien's slight loss of balance on the vibrating platform.

"Damien, this is all for you," Mark whispered, without even raising his voice, and with a sharp movement pushed his opponent.

Damien lost his balance. His feet slipped on the smooth surface of the platform and he fell with a dull thud onto the sleepers. His suit was covered in dust and stone chips, and his elegant hat flew off to the side of the road.

Mark, without even turning around, grabbed the lever again and accelerated the trolley. It rumbled along the rails, its wheels beat a rhythmic beat, and the forest around it blurred into a green spot. Mark continued to drive, concentrating on squeezing the levers, when he suddenly heard a noise behind him. One of the pursuers, a young man in a light jacket with disheveled hair, caught up with the trolley and climbed onto it, clutching a threatening flail in his hand.

Mark glanced at him briefly, assessing the situation, and then, without wasting time, dropped to the bottom of the platform, pressing himself tightly against the boards. The pursuer, breathing heavily, stood on the trolley, holding the mace in front of him, but at the same time trying to maintain his balance. He turned his back to the direction of travel to watch Mark, clearly intending to attack him as soon as he made a move.

But fate played a cruel joke on him. A barrier appeared ahead, blocking the railway line. Carried away by his rage and focused on Mark, the pursuer did not even notice how dangerously the obstacle was approaching.

The trolley crashed into the barrier at full speed. The wood cracked, and the pursuer, who had his back to the barrier, ran into it with his whole body. There was a dull thud, and the barrier broke in two, falling into splinters. The man with the mace flew off the trolley like a puppet and landed on the side of the road, rolling on the ground.

Mark instantly jumped to his feet, without wasting a second, and grabbed the lever. Now the trolley rushed forward again, leaving behind the noise and fuss of its pursuers ever faster.

Mark pulled into the train yard, feeling the trolley slow down and watching with relief as the gates slowly closed behind him, protecting him from pursuit. However, his attention was quickly drawn to a shadow that flickered at the gate. Five men from the Union of Gabriel the Archangel, including Damien, had managed to slip inside.

Mark gritted his teeth, knowing that his refuge was temporary. He stopped the trolley and jumped out, losing his pince-nez in the process, which for the second time during his stay in Cambridge had fallen off at the most inopportune moment. He turned to see five young men approaching, their faces full of confidence and anger, wearing wicked smiles.

One of them, tall and with a determined expression on his face, said:

"Got you?"

Another, a little more excited, muttered:

"Son of a bitch..."

Mark, arms crossed over his chest, looked at them with barely restrained theatricality. The cigarette, long since extinguished, swung in his fingers as he said mockingly:

"Oh, Lord, could you do something as an exception?" He looked at them slowly, adding with increasing pathos: "Forever and ever!"

And as his words echoed in the silence, a strange sound was heard - sharp, almost invisible, but it was immediately confirmed by the result. From the sky, as if on cue, came an answer that seemed to drown out everything around:

"I could!"

The same tall guy, who was about to take a step forward, felt something cold pierce his hat. Instantly the headdress flew up into the air, and in its place there was only a hole through which the air shone. A bullet, barely noticeable, flew straight across his head, knocking off his hat, but causing no harm to the man himself.

All the "archangels" standing around the trolley, as if on command, raised their eyes, and their gazes simultaneously fixed on the roof of the railway depot. There stood those same 15 workers to whom Mark had once handed over the revolvers. All of them, as if on cue, aimed their weapons at their former opponents gathered around the trolley. The air became silent, and each of those present faced a certain threat, clearly perceived and felt.

Mark stood in the center, not hiding his satisfied smile. He was enjoying the moment, like a spectator watching a theatrical performance in which everything went according to his script. He let out a quiet laugh, as if deliberately emphasizing how far he had gone in this game, and without changing his intonation, he loudly announced:

"From today on, I declare the Union of Gabriel the Archangel closed and disband all its members!"

His words echoed around the depot. His confidence made everyone around him tense. He leaned toward Damien, who was standing a little to the side, and spoke loudly again:

"Please bring this to the attention of all interested parties!"

Damien looked stunned, but his eyes continued to burn with fury, while the others just stood there, trying to figure out how to react. Mark turned to the others, pointing at each of them with his eyes, and asked with barely suppressed sarcasm:

"Do you agree or do you have any objections?"

The silence lasted for a second that seemed like an eternity. No one said a word, and Mark, as always, did not miss the opportunity to take advantage of this moment. He stepped forward again and, without reducing the volume, asked:

"No? Then those who are "for", I ask you to bare your heads."

No hats were removed. All five remained standing, motionless. In their eyes one could read not so much humility as a dull, almost wild determination. But Mark already knew that the game was over - they had lost, and that was clear even without words.

Mark, noticing that no one was going to take off their hats, frowned slightly and said in a less loud, but still confident tone:

"We will vote by roll call."

He paused to give everyone time to realize the gravity of the situation. At that moment, when silence fell upon everyone, a shot suddenly rang out - one of the workers fired at the wall directly above the head of one of the "archangels". Stones of the brick wall crumbled, and dust rose into the air. Mark, without moving, quickly and carefully examined the place from which the shot came, and then, turning his head, said with a teacher's reproach:

"Comrades, this won't do. Don't waste your bullets, you're not playing soldiers, you're preparing to make a revolution!"

His voice was confident, with a hint of irony, like that of a man accustomed to explaining the obvious to those who could not understand it. It was as if he were speaking to children who did not understand the gravity of the situation. He stood with one hand raised in the gesture typical of stage orators, as if he had an audience ready to listen to his instructions. His gaze was focused, and his words were spoken with a special emphasis, as if he were trying to put meaning into every sound.

"If you waste resources on all sorts of small fry, then there will be no strength left for those who really pose a threat!" he said loudly, clenching his fist and sharply raising his finger to the sky. "Remember this, comrades! The revolutionary fund is not endless!" he said even more firmly, as if giving an order. "We cannot afford to waste it thoughtlessly on trifles!"

Mark stood there, confident of his victory, and his gaze scanned the group around him. He assessed each of the "archangels," as if lining them up in front of him. He stared at Damien, at his pale face, and his gaze was cold and penetrating, like the gaze of an old hunter who seeks out the weak point in his prey. Then his eyes moved to the others - these young men, so well dressed, but so dangerous, looked less confident now. He looked at each of them, and as if pondering what lay ahead, he added in a perfectly calm but determined tone:

"And now, everyone, prepare to leave the union!"

His voice was loud and clear, like a command. There was no hesitation in it, only firmness and confidence. As if he himself were the master of this situation, and each of his opponents was just a pawn in his game. He looked at them again, as if he were making them feel that they had no choice but to obey. And then there was silence, tense and drawn out.

Mark lifted his chin slightly, and his gaze became even sharper. He waited until everyone had taken in what he had said, and then, a little louder, adding even more confidence to his voice, he said:

"I repeat, everyone leave the union immediately!" he repeated, as if confirming the seriousness of his intentions.

And so, as if under his strong-willed influence, one by one they began to take off their hats, caps and caps, creating a silence that filled the atmosphere. Each of them, at some point, ceased to be the leader of his group, and became just another person forced to admit defeat.

Mark glanced at the five "archangels" standing before him, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He looked at them the way a teacher looks at his students when they have finally completed a task, and now he can proudly state that everything was done according to the rules. His gaze was calm and authoritative, like a man who knows that justice is on his side, and he has achieved his goal. He bowed his head slightly, as if checking that each of them understood: now they are nothing more than ordinary people, who have lost their former strength.

Then, without giving them time to think, he raised his head up, as if inviting everyone present to attention, and said loudly and confidently:

"Write it down unanimously."

Mark's words, spoken in a loud, confident voice, sounded like the final chord that ended this tense moment. Each word he said with such intent that they sounded not just like a sentence, but like the final point at which all their attempts to resist ended. Mark stood like a carved statue, his gaze calm but full of strength, and his every gesture, every movement left no doubt: here and now he was in complete control of the situation.

The workers of the railway depot, standing behind their comrades, kept their opponents at gunpoint, not giving them the slightest chance to resist. Their faces were calm, but cold as steel. Their determination, their calm in their eyes, indicated that they were ready to act without hesitation if one of the "archangels" dared to take a step to the side. And those who stood in front of them understood perfectly well that any attempts at resistance would only lead to a quick and decisive end.

The five "archangels" stood before Mark, and each of them felt their pride melting away, the flame that had once burned in their eyes now fading. All five of them looked at him with anger, their faces distorted with rage, but they understood: resistance was pointless. There was nothing to object to. Mark stood before them, without a shadow of fear, as if their actions meant nothing to him.

First one of them slowly took off his hat, then a second, then a third - all, as if on cue, began to put on their caps and forage caps in silence, as if trying to hide their humiliation under the mask of their former aristocratic appearance. But none of them could hide the sting of bitterness that was felt on each of their faces. Only the heavy silence and the steely looks of the depot workers in response filled the atmosphere with a stifled tension.

With expressions of hurt and inner rage, they headed for the depot gates. They walked unsteadily, their postures sagging under the weight of this humiliating reality. All attempts to maintain dignity, all their previous claims to power and importance were now crumbling the moment the gates began to open before them, allowing them to leave this place.

Like the first people cast out of Eden, these five loyalist youths, nicknamed the "archangels," moved forward, leaving behind all the ideals that had once been their guiding stars. Their steps were heavy, as if they were carrying the weight of deep disappointment and loss, and each of them was full of bitterness and insults that could not be erased. In their movements one could sense a helpless struggle with their own fate, with the realization that it was no longer possible to change the course of events. The heavy gates of the train depot slammed shut with a crash, and only then did the workers put away their weapons - after all, their enemies, as Velimir Khlebnikov would say, had already "lain down in their coffins."