Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Triumph and the Brink of Ruin
The last day of the year had enveloped Krasnoyarsk, and especially Gremyachaya Griva where the Kravtsov family resided, in a truly wintery, bone-piercing cold. Snow, fluffy and deep as a featherbed, lay everywhere, reflecting the dim light of the short day. Inside the Kravtsovs' apartment, however, reigned the feverish bustle that precedes a holiday. The air was thick and cloying with smells: pine needles from the freshly cut fir tree, the citrus sweetness of tangerines, and the complex, rich bouquet of olivier salad that Natalya Sergeyevna Kravtsova, Igor's mother, was tirelessly mixing in the kitchen. She was a woman whose good nature bordered on simple-mindedness, and her broad face, reddened from the heat of the stove, shone with anticipation of the general merriment.
Igor Petrovich Kravtsov stood by the window of his room – his svetlitsa, his sanctuary – gazing out at the snow-covered courtyard. Within his soul, a struggle raged between a feeling of deep, calm satisfaction and an obscure, nagging anxiety, like the premonition of a storm beyond a quiet horizon. The past year had not been mere time for him; it had been a series of conquered strongholds. The red certificate, testament to nine years of toil, lay in his desk. The OGE – mathematics (he had missed a perfect score by a single point!), Russian, physics (the triumph of pure reason – top marks!), computer science (the triumph of logic – also top marks!), English (almost flawless, only three points lost!) – all fives. These keys had opened the doors to the coveted Krasnoyarsk Lyceum "Kvant," a forge for future specialists who truly knew their stuff. Furthermore, studying at such a prestigious institution promised a state-funded spot at ITMO University. The dream of a career in the US in IT, specifically in the field of artificial intelligence, of those cherished, abundant dollars and a return to the homeland already wealthy for a quiet life of luxury, in the style of "freelance and sneakers," was slowly taking on the contours of tangible reality. After all, an IT specialist's career is most often remote and doesn't require the professional to be physically present.
But Igor didn't content himself with just getting into "Kvant." Soon, his active participation in various physics and computer science olympiads caught the attention of a local startup. And so, while still a tenth-grader, he landed something temporary yet significant – an assistant developer role on a machine learning project. The first notch in his employment record! First invaluable experience. First paycheck. He felt like no mere schoolboy, but a bird of a much higher flight! Igor had finally found what suited his spirit.
He took a deep breath, watching the children build a snowman. His soul was brightened by his achievements and the anticipation of celebrating with his family. The evening promised to be most pleasant: excellent food, perhaps some reading of literary fiction for the first time in ages, the chimes of midnight, his parents' embraces. And then – back to the battle for the peaks of the coming year. The guy felt he had changed greatly during his time in tenth grade in Krasnoyarsk. After all, memories of middle school following their move to Sosnovoborsk still occasionally resurfaced in his mind as nightmares: that burning shame he felt for himself, those people in front of whom he had disgraced himself and groveled, unwittingly behaving like a perpetual weirdo, amusing them with his strange demeanor and attempts to talk about material read in textbooks while teenagers were interested in the world of trends and aesthetic photos unfolding on TikTok, sex, e-cigarettes, regular cigarettes, online shopping. Maybe it all would have had a less painful effect... But then Igor not only wasn't interested in any of that, like a proper mama's boy, having a concept of what it all was – he genuinely went into a mental stupor internally upon hearing about "Wildberries," "akka," "reeks," "edits," "vape juice," and other such things, about which the reader is more than aware and may have even tried.
A few days before New Year's, Natalya Sergeyevna, whose good nature bordered on thoughtlessness and whose pride in her son knew no bounds, conceived a "joy." She thought the holiday would shine brighter if they gathered not only relatives but also... Igor's old schoolmates. Those same ones from middle school. She genuinely believed she would delight the boy by resurrecting the "warmth of childhood friendship." She kept silent about her scheme, savoring his anticipated delight.
The relatives arrived first. Grandmother Tatyana Semyonovna, all calm and the scent of vanilla from fresh gingerbread. Uncle Denis with Aunt Marina, noisy and corpulent as steroid-stuffed chickens for sale, immediately sat down at the table with the appetizers; their fat cheeks quivered in anticipation of the feast, and their little eyes gleamed between folds of skin, which, in Igor's view, were clearly filled with copious amounts of fat. Although the guy wasn't particularly thrilled about the relatives being in their home, especially the noise they generated, the sweetish smell of sweat, the drunken talk about the past interspersed with singing, he understood it was a tradition that couldn't be broken and whose violation could threaten to spoil relations with a large part of the family, which would undoubtedly be most unpleasant. Little cousin Alyoshka, quick as a sparrow... Didn't bother him much, didn't inspire disgust... Was tolerable. And in principle, Igor didn't mind his company.
After the whole horde of relatives arrived, the apartment filled with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. They praised Igor in unison: "Well done, Igorek!", "Takes after his father, so smart!", "ITMO – that's the real deal! You found a job? You're a prodigy!". He smiled, bowed, but inside, a string of tension was tightening. Somewhere deep in his soul, a bad feeling stirred. And not without reason...
It materialized in the form of a trio at the door: Timur Bryukhanov, Savely Kazantsev, and Elvira Polyakova. Those very same "friends." Seeing their grinning faces, Igor felt as if doused with ice water. All his success, all his confidence evaporated instantly, giving way to a familiar, sickening feeling of humiliation and shame. Memories flooded back like an avalanche: he – the weirdo who was perpetually behind his peers in development, who only knew how to prepare for lessons, raise his hand in class, and go to bed on time. And they – the angels who, from their lofty perch, had deigned to bestow upon such a half-baked, clueless misfit their most precious attention and the irreplaceable feeling that he supposedly had friends. For small "favors," of course. To give examples of such "favors," it's worth mentioning that they included skipping lessons, which felt to our little nerd like something completely contrary to his every moral principle of self-discipline and respect for teachers... The "friends" knew how much discomfort their requests caused the kid, and if he tried to refuse, they threatened to stop hanging out with him and bestow upon him the proud title of "class outcast." All of this would have been far less traumatic and shameful if it had been limited to that; therefore, to complete the picture, other examples of "requests" should be given: making Igor up to look older so he could buy them some "vape juice" at the store, a raid on the vape shop at 1 a.m. behind his mom's back, stalking a boy Elvira liked, running for "snacks" in the freezing cold during a 15-minute break, using his own money... In short, these people were the embodiment of the most pathetic and helpless period of his life. And they had shown up. Here. Now.
Natalya Sergeyevna beamed: "Look, Igoreshenka, who's here! Your old friends! They wanted to surprise you!" Igor felt the blood rush to his face. He gave a barely perceptible nod, hiding a storm of disgust and fear behind a mask of politeness. The "friends" pounced with feigned cordiality.
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"Well, hello there, Igor Petrovich Kravtsov!" – Timur slapped him on the shoulder, lean, swarthy, a short-haired brunet with a sinewy neck and a long, "dry" face. In his voice – the usual arrogance and mockery, as if Igor had just done something extraordinarily weird right then and there.
"Could it be our Igr-tiger?" – Elvira cooed in a playful, deliberately joyful, and thin voice, a rather thin girl with a decent chest; she was one of those blondes you could tell had unnaturally dyed hair, with brown eyes whose whites, upon closer inspection, were irritated from mascara and kohl pencil on her waterline; she looked him up and down. – "You've become so distinguished..." She was dressed in her usual style: a long "wildly" patterned skirt with a slit on the side, a black crop top with a rounded neckline showing cleavage, plus a black synthetic blazer and heels of the same color. And her lips – cherry red!
Savely, the heaviest and shortest of them, though not pot-bellied, with light brown hair, gray eyes, and a few freckles on his face that emphasized his already noticeable width, just quickly walked past Igor, wheezed a laugh, and began examining the Kravtsovs' bookshelf in the hallway. After his inspection, he approached and, with undisguised mockery, whispered in Igor's ear in his rather effeminate voice for a guy his age: "Pfft, boring! What, you're gonna sit with this crap all vacation?" The question was clearly rhetorical, asked only to insult both Igor and his family.
Igor was silent, clenching his fists in the pockets of his slim trousers. He tried to move away, to lose himself among the relatives, but they stuck to him like leeches. Every word of theirs, every glance, was a sharp knife to a sore spot. The relatives, unaware of the underlying dynamics, were touched: "Ah, how sweet, old friends reuniting!"
The festive meal became torture for Igor. He sat like on hot coals, pushing food around his plate, while Timur, Savely, and Elvira, loosened up by champagne, launched into "remembering the past."
"Hey, remember, Igorek, how you whipped up that geography paper for us? The whole class was cracking up, and the teacher gave you a five!" – Timur bellowed, his cheekbones standing out more than usual.
"And how we dared you to go get beer in the freezing cold, and you ran like a rabbit!" – Elvira chimed in, smiling saccharinely.
Igor felt a burning shame sear through him. He wanted to sink into the ground. His achievements, his pride – everything was trampled by this fake "nostalgic" jeering. To them, he wasn't a person, wasn't a friend, but a convenient object, a "nerd" to be used and humiliated. And they had come here, to his home, to his family, to indulge their pathetic self-esteem one last time.
And it happened. Timur, flushed with wine and impunity, raised a toast: "To old friendship! And may Igorek never forget his roots! Come on, just like old times, let's watch something cool!" His eyes gleamed predatorily. "For example... something from the 'Transformers' franchise... 'Transformers: Prime'! Season one! Our Igr-tiger here goes crazy for Transformers, right? Perfect timing to watch something we haven't seen!" He knew. He knew perfectly well that Igor loathed this franchise, moreover, everything associated with it, considering the concept of talking alien robots the height of idiocy and their fans to be hopeless, backwards degenerates who just wanted to gawk at epic battles and women's bodies from interesting angles. It was a provocation, pure and simple.
Igor tried to refuse, mumbling something about work. But immediately a chorus of indignant, whiny voices arose.
"Oh, come on!" – Elvira exclaimed. – "It's New Year's! Relax!"
"What, you too cool for your old buddies now?" – Savely said, sounding sulky, seemingly joking but with clear menace.
"Aunt Natasha!" – El suddenly wailed, looking at Natalya Sergeyevna, who was watching anxiously, and spoke in a deliberately hurt, "childish" voice, pouting her lips – "Igor is being mean to us! He doesn't want to hang out with us! He doesn't want to watch his favorite cartoon with us... He wants to watch it alone in his room all evening. Tell him!"
Natalya Sergeyevna's face showed confusion and reproach. "Igosh, what's wrong with you? They're guests... It would be rude..."
The trap snapped shut. Refusing would mean a scandal, a ruined holiday, shame in front of the relatives, and his mother's tears. Igor felt something inside him break. He stood up, his face turning to stone.
"Fine," he muttered dully, his voice at that moment barely a whisper of rustling leaves. "Let's go. We'll watch."
Igor's room, his inviolable temple where bold plans were born and destinies forged, had in an instant become a torture chamber. These "friends" – God forgive me! – had oozed like amoebas onto his bed and armchair, like conquerors amidst the ruins of a fallen city. From the laptop Igor had placed on the desk with an utterly stony expression, "Transformers: Prime" blared. These connoisseurs of cinema, who couldn't go a second without a dose of epileptic nightmare and loud emotions, paused the episodes more often than Igor blinked, to unleash a torrent of "witty" commentary. Every one of their quips stuck in his ear like a rusty nail in a Stradivarius.
Igor already harbored a steadfast antipathy towards "Transformers" and assorted other animations, comparable perhaps only to a cat's disdain for a vacuum cleaner. And now – a double whammy! Not only was he forced to witness this triumph of pixel animation, but he also had to pretend he was interested and make some attempt at conversation. Honestly, it was enough to try a saint!
To his astonishment, Igor discovered that "Transformers: Prime" wasn't complete and utter hell. No, of course, it was nowhere near the masterpieces of world cinema – about as close as the moon on foot – but... it was watchable! And Soundwave, he had to admit, seemed like a total sigma to him. But still, his rational mind, nurtured on the strict laws of physics and the elegance of code, rebelled against this absurd phantasmagoria. He gritted his teeth, trying to at least focus on the plot, but the din from his "friends" was unbearable.
His gaze, wandering in despair, mechanically picked out a figure from the chaos. One that was always calm and calculating, never diving into the thick of battle, acting logically and not impulsively, unlike most of the characters. In this madness – at least some semblance of order and meaning. Even if it was sinister.
"So, what d'ya think, Igorek?" – Timur turned around, his voice dripping with venom. – "Who's your favorite? Bumblebee? Optimus Prime? Arcee? Don't be shy, expert!"
Igor, who had during a fleeting moment of viewing managed to teleport himself from the stifling reality where he had to breathe the same air as these... um... individuals, took a deep breath, like a diver before plunging into the abyss of idiocy. The main thing was to stay calm! No hysterics, no signs that these clowns were getting to him! Exhaling, he said with deliberate cheerfulness: "I like Soundwave! At least he shuts up and gets things done. He doesn't scream like a moron."
Silence fell. Timur, Savely, and Elvira exchanged glances. On their faces was not anger, but a strange, triumphant understanding. Timur snorted, then started to snicker.
"Soundwave? Seriously? You're something else, Igorek! A Decepticon, huh? Well, that's unexpected..." – Savely said in a strangely conspiratorial whisper, a sly smile spreading across his face.
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Igor felt his carefully constructed bravado crack. His friends' reaction, instead of the expected irritation or argument, provoked something far more alarming. Their whispers and appraising looks suggested that his words had become not just an occasion for mockery, but some kind of catalyst, setting off a complex process he didn't understand.
He tried to analyze the situation. Choosing Soundwave, a Decepticon known for his taciturn nature and efficiency, as an object of sympathy, might indeed seem strange in the context of their long-standing rivalry. Perhaps they saw it as a sign of weakness, a capitulation to the "enemy," or, even worse, a hidden motive.
In psychology, there is the phenomenon of "groupthink," described by Irving Janis in 1972. This phenomenon is characterized by a striving for conformity within a group, suppressing individual opinions and critical thinking. Perhaps his words had become a trigger, disrupting the established group consensus, and now he was the target of a "corrective" influence.
The chimes of midnight. A symphony of crystal ringing, universal rejoicing, a cascade of embraces. Natalya Sergeyevna, radiating joy, reached out her arms to her son. But Igor remained motionless, shielded from the festive euphoria by an impenetrable wall. His consciousness pulsed with only one all-consuming desire, saturated with despair and fury: the disappearance of the aforementioned trio. The end of this nightmare. Transportation to any place other than his current one. At the climactic moment, when everyone around was absorbed in making wishes, he caught Elvira's gaze. Her look contained not just laughter, but a sinister, knowing gloating, accompanied by an indistinguishable whisper directed at Savely. A barely perceptible movement of her finger pointed towards him on the final strike. Timur and Savely displayed similar behavior – not so much mocking him as performing a ritual upon him, using his forced compliance as the key element.
The twelfth strike. The deafening crescendo of fireworks outside the window. At this pivotal moment, Igor Kravtsov's world underwent a radical transformation.
The sounds of celebration – laughter, music, the clinking of crystal – were instantly distorted. They transformed into a deafening, all-encompassing hum that penetrated to the bone. Not just sound, but a tangible physical pressure on his eardrums and chest. The figures of his relatives, Timur, El, Savely – all blurred, turning into ragged, unnaturally slowed shadows.
Igor was forcibly extracted from the continuum of reality. Not a fall, but a sensation as if his bones, his flesh, his very essence – everything was compressed, twisted, turned inside out under the onslaught of unbearable pressure and a dizzying rotation. The last thing he registered through the prism of distorted space were the smirks of his "friends," now appearing as demonic grimaces, and their fingers pointing at him.
Igor opened his eyes, lifting his head. The cold, uneven surface of a tiled roof pressed against his cheek. One thing was clear – Kravtsov was no longer within his home. He was outside the geographical boundaries of Krasnoyarsk.