Work Text:
"Please… just think it over..."
Dmitry held a brown paper folder containing the documents he needed to deliver as he climbed the staircase to the second floor. Just as he reached the final step, he heard voices coming from somewhere down the hallway.
From the stairwell entrance, he glanced into the corridor. Near the window outside an office door, two people stood facing each other. He immediately recognized the back of one of them—the man he had come to see: the head director of the Institute for New Antibiotics.
The other man, a middle-aged figure with a weary and desperate expression, tightly gripped the director's coat sleeve. The fabric under his fingers was creased from being clutched with too much force.
Noticing Dmitry’s presence, the middle-aged man stiffened slightly, seemingly caught off guard by an unexpected visitor. His reddened eyes flickered toward Dmitry for a brief second before quickly turning away, as if trying to shield his face from the younger man's inquisitive gaze.
With his head lowered, the man muttered something to the director—this time ensuring his voice was low enough that no one else could overhear. Then, he turned and hurried away, heading straight toward the staircase where Dmitry stood.
Dmitry held his files close as the man quietly brushed past him. They kept a polite distance, but even so, Dmitry couldn't help but notice a faint glisten of tears in the man’s eyes.
The director remained by the window, gazing outside with slightly furrowed brows, lost in thought. Dmitry stepped forward, noticing how the man’s broad shoulders subtly rose with an inhale and then gently fell with a sigh.
It wasn’t until the sound of footsteps grew closer that the director seemed to register that someone else was there. He turned to see who had come and, upon recognizing Dmitry—one of the hospital’s newly recruited star interns—his expression softened into a smile.
The director remembered this young man—his friend Sokolov's favorite student and assistant. Judging by the folder in Dmitry’s arm, it was yet another day when Sokolov decided to slack off a little and send his intern to handle all the tedious paperwork.
"Director." Dmitry greeted politely, handing over the folder. The director took it with a nod.
"Let’s see… what’s your mentor requesting this time?"
As he spoke, the director untied the string on the folder and pulled out the papers, skimming through the first page.
"Amitozyn?"
He murmured a word, his thick brows instinctively knitting together in confusion.
Dmitry stood patiently, waiting as the director read through other pages. The window beside him faintly reflecting both of their faces. Beyond that reflection, Dmitry suddenly caught a glimpse of the middle-aged man who had just left, downstairs.
The man had exited the building and was now pushing through the busy pedestrian walkway. Not far ahead of where he was heading, a woman in a wheelchair, bundled in thick layers of clothing appeared to be waiting for him.
She sat slightly slumped. Her pale, sunken face was wrapped by a thick scarf, not a single strand of hair visible. Deep hollow eyes and cheeks made her appear far older than the man beside her.
The couple didn't exchange any words. Yet, the expression on the man’s face had said everything.
The woman’s gaze was downcast, distant—her soul seeming to linger somewhere far from her body. The man placed his hands on the wheelchair’s handles and started to steer her down the walk.
Just then, as they were turning away, she seemed to catch on to something. With visible effort, her head started to lift, and that pair of dull eyes shifted upward—toward the second floor where Dmitry was standing.
For reasons couldn’t explain, Dmitry averted his eyes without a thought.
He turned his attention back to the director, watching as the man’s furrowed brows gradually relaxed after finally reading through the papers.
"Why does no one ever follow procedure?"
The director sighed, but there was a hint of relief on the corner of his lips, as if there were some unexpected good news. Tucking the files back into the folder, he turned toward his office, gesturing for Dmitry to follow.
Dmitry quickly fell into step behind him. Though before that, he cast one last cautious glance downstairs.
The couple was gone.
"What was that man here for?"
Closing the office door behind him, Dmitry asked curiously.
He walked toward the only desk in the office, where the director was taking out his stamp from a hidden safe underneath it. The director let out a thoughtful hum, then, realizing who Dmitry was referring to, briefly glanced up before returning his attention to the task at hand.
"Oh, him?"
The director stood. He made sure the stamp was inked first, then carefully pressed it onto the paper and held it in place.
"An old acquaintance. I hadn’t seen him in years—never expected he’d still remember me."
"He came asking for a favor."
As the stamp lifted, a crisp red imprint remained on the bottom corner of the paper—a perfect circle enclosing the stalks of wheat on the outer rims, and the hammer, sickle, and a star in the center.
Ah. So that’s what it was about.
Dmitry lowered his gaze.
It wasn’t surprising.
Compared to his mentor and the director, he was undoubtedly still young and inexperienced. But that didn’t mean he was naive about how things worked.
Although he couldn’t help but feel the same youthful cynicism that many his age did upon stepping out of the academic world, after diving into the real one, and only to see that reality was far as pure as the theories examined in the books.
Favoritism, after all, was a kind of social survival tactic. Every system around the world had it, and Dmitry understood that well.
He remained silent as he observed the director, who now finally settled into the office chair and began writing.
Then, a thought emerged.
If it were him—if, in the future, someone came seeking a favor like this—no matter the reason, he would absolutely refuse.
Just because something was deemed common practice didn’t mean it was right. In a hospital, no one should receive or be denied something they were rightfully entitled to simply because of who they knew.
But he also knew that this wasn’t the time to voice these thoughts. There was no meaning in making a rash, dramatic stand, pointing fingers at the director now and bursting out on his face. It would only be as futile as throwing a stone into the sea like a furious kid—stirring a fleeting ripple before being swallowed by the tide.
That's not what he wanted.
If he was going to make a difference, it had to be something far, far more significant.
After all, it was always the people with clear visions and actions that could change the world.
Changing the world. Even just the very vaguest notion of it was enough to make any young man's blood run hot.
"...Do you remember the article the institute published a few days ago?"
The director’s sudden question pulled Dmitry from his thoughts. He blinked, realizing he had completely drifted off.
Thinking back, he did recall an article.
Not long ago, a major breakthrough had been made in cancer drug research by the scientists here. A detailed report on their findings had been published in newspapers, causing quite a stir all over the union. Even at the hospital where Dmitry worked, the reception desk and mailboxes had been flooded with inquiries for days. Many people were desperate to learn more about the drug.
If that was the reaction there, he could only imagine how things were here.
"That man just now… was he also here about the new drug?" Dmitry realized aloud.
The director nodded.
"It’s moments like these that truly make you grasp just how many people are suffering the same pain in ways you never expected," he said. "When faced with the smallest sliver of hope, people will cling to it with everything they have. I can’t blame them for that."
Dmitry's eyes widened slightly.
There might have been a subtle misunderstanding here.
A faint sense of shame crept into his chest. If that was the case, then the director and the man from earlier weren’t necessarily guilty of the systemic favoritism he had assumed. Instead, it was more like…
"Does he have a sick family member who needs treatment?" Dmitry asked quietly, recalling the woman in the wheelchair.
"Yes," the director replied. "Though at this point, it's already at a stage where no existing treatment or any medicine can be effective anymore."
"That friend of mine, along with many others in the same situation, wants us to abandon the registry procedures for the new drug."
"You mean… they want to use it now?" Dmitry asked, startled. "But it just came out of the lab! Even the news reports made it clear—there’s no clinical test data yet, no proof at all that it…"
His words trailed off as the weight of reality hit him. The director gave a small, resigned smile.
"They think… death is near anyway," Dmitry murmured.
The director set his pen down, looking up at the young man standing before him, watching the way his brows knitted together in frustration.
The memory of Sokolov excitedly telling him he had found a promising young talent was still fresh in the director’s mind. A glimmer of mischief flickered in his eyes.
"Dmitry, let me ask you something," he said suddenly.
Dmitry's light brown eyes lifted to meet his, and from the way he looked at the director, it was almost as if he already knew what the next question would be.
"If one day, a dying patient came to you, and you happened to have an experimental drug—fresh out of the lab, completely untested—but specifically designed for their condition..."
"I'm curious. If it were you, what would you do?"
Now, that was such an unfair question.
Because Dmitry had only just naively assumed that the director would bend the rules for the sake of an old friend. He had even sworn to himself that he would never do anything like that in the future.
So he averted his gaze, and let the weight of shame press down his forehead.
"All I know is… our current definition and boundaries for ‘compassionate use’ are still unclear. The medical committee strictly prohibits the use of any drug that hasn’t undergone sufficient testing. So, from a legal standpoint, prescribing the drug is absolutely not allowed," Dmitry said.
Although yes, he had thoroughly read the research team’s report on the new drug and was very optimistic about its efficacy. For those who might not have enough time left to see the completion of Phase III trials, this could truly be their last hope.
A scale wavered so loud in his heart, then tipped indecisively to one side.
"I’m sorry," Dmitry’s lips trembled slightly. "I understand where the patients are coming from, but… there are too many issues that our medical community hasn’t yet properly addressed. So I, I just…" He struggled with words.
The director waved a hand reassuringly.
"Relax, there’s no need to apologize. I know this isn’t a question with a simple answer."
He neatly stacked the stamped and signed papers, slid them back into the folder, tied the string, and handed it back to the young man in front of him.
Dmitry accepted the folder with a word of thanks, slowly turned, and prepared to leave.
But just as the tip of his shoes turned, he hesitated. He wavered in place for a second, and eventually, he couldn’t resist turning back.
"In a case like this… is there really nothing the committee can do?" he asked.
The director silently observed the young man, whose expression carried a trace of unwillingness to easily let go.
"If you’re asking about my friend’s case," he said, "then no, there isn’t much we can do here right now."
But then, the director nodded toward the folder in Dmitry’s hands, "However, it seems your mentor may have brought us something useful. Apparently, some scientists in a western region department have shared our concerns—and they’ve even gotten a little further along than we have."
"They’ve developed a different anticancer drug—Amitozyn—that seems to have some clinical testing data."
"The only issue is that they bypassed Moscow entirely, skipping the necessary registration and approval process for some unknown reason."
"Your mentor wants them to publicly share all their data. But even if we do get our hands on it, given how little time has passed since Amitozyn first emerged, I highly doubt that data will meet the committee’s standards." The director sighed.
As he spoke, Dmitry’s face shifted from disbelief to a quiet disappointment. Seeing this, the director couldn’t help but smile slightly.
"Still, regardless of how effective Amitozyn actually is, I have no reason to oppose your mentor’s attempt to investigate it. However…" His tone became pointed.
"That said, we’ll likely need someone who doesn’t mind a long haul, won't be tired of all the bureaucratic back and forth, to bring back some samples of their drug—along with a thorough and objective report. Only then can we even begin to discuss anything further."
Dmitry instantly understood the implication, his eyes widening in surprise.
The director chuckled at the young man’s completely transparent expression.
"But don’t get your hopes up too much, kid," he added. "There is no promises."
Yeah, right, no promises.
A faint smile found its way onto Dmitry’s lips.
"What’s the occasion? Why suddenly ask me out for a drink?" Chariton asked.
The pub they chose wasn’t particularly crowded, probably because it was a weekday. Seated at the bar, Chariton, still in his lab coat, held a glass of water as he turned to watch Dmitry pull out the chair beside him and sit down, looking utterly exhausted.
"A beer, please," Dmitry said to the bartender instead of answering right away. He let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the center of his brows with one hand.
Chariton studied his friend’s— deep circles under his tightly shut eyes. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen Dmitry in a rough state like this before, but that was mostly back when they were just a couple of reckless young men with too much energy.
Technically, Chariton had left the front lines of operating rooms as a surgeon a few years before Dmitry. He was now comfortably settled in the lab, enjoying its quiet working environment. Research work was far less demanding than being a doctor—his sleep was rarely interrupted anymore. He had, in fact, even maintained a strict 10 PM bedtime for the past year and two months.
"I did two surgeries back-to-back yesterday," Dmitry finally said after a long pause, his voice hoarse.
The bartender placed a cold, freshly poured beer in front of him. Dmitry murmured a small thanks, picked up the glass, and took a long, deep gulp.
The chilled liquid, rich with malt-driven aromas, flowed down his throat, soothing its dryness and instantly clearing his mind.
"This is going to give me a headache in the morning," Dmitry muttered, staring at the glass in his hand.
But he had the day off tomorrow. So with just one brief pause, he raised the glass to his lips again.
"You sound old," Chariton remarked, watching the liquid in Dmitry’s glass gradually but steadily disappear. He took a small sip from his own water.
"I probably am getting old," Dmitry chuckled dryly against the rim of his glass.
"So what happened?" Chariton asked. "You don’t drink like this often, and when you do, it usually means something’s really bothering you."
"And as I recall, even when I do drink like this, you never once offer to help," Dmitry countered. His tone carried a hint of complaint, but those who knew him well would recognize there was no real blame behind it.
"It’s not that I don’t want to—it’s that I can’t." Chariton shrugged, candidly admitting the weaknesses in his personality. "I’ve never been good at dealing with people or handling things I have no interest in. There’s a difference, even if the outcome is the same."
Dmitry scoffed lightly. "Who actually cares about that difference?"
"Well, clearly you do," Chariton replied without missing a beat.
Dmitry hadn’t expected that answer at all. He glanced at his friend in surprise, but Chariton simply continued, "Otherwise, you wouldn’t have stuck around and still call me a friend after all these years."
The half-empty beer glass landed with a soft clink as Dmitry set it down on the bar. His slender fingers rested on the rim, absentmindedly spinning it in place slowly. He didn’t respond to Chariton’s remark, though a faint curve lingered at the corner of his lips.
The two sat in silence, accompanied only by the soft jazz playing in the background and each other, while each lost in their own thoughts.
Until the exhaustion of two straight days of work finally caught up with Dmitry. The lighthearted expression that had briefly surfaced on his face faded away .
"I did two surgeries back-to-back," he finally spoke again as he neared the bottom of his glass. With enough alcohol in his blood, his tongue loosened, allowing him to voice some things that had been kept suppressed underneath.
Chariton merely lifted an eyebrow slightly, signaling that he was listening.
"You already said that. And?"
"There was supposed to be a third." Fatigue thickened Dmitry’s voice.
"It was an old man," he began, lowering his head. A strand of hair, usually neatly combed back, had fallen loose over his forehead. "There was an accident. Broken ribs punctured his organs."
"When they brought him in, he was barely conscious. He said he didn’t want to live."
"So I had to ask his family."
"They agreed to let him go."
"Ah." Chariton blinked, understanding.
"The man already had several severe underlying conditions—aftereffects of war and disease. He needed constant care, but according to his daughter, he had always refused to move into a care facility."
"I had thought that, with a universal free healthcare system in place, things like this shouldn’t still be happening."
"Doctor, I understand what you're saying."
The old man’s son-in-law pulled Dmitry aside, glancing over his shoulder to check on his wife before lowering his voice again.
"But he’s already at his age," the son-in-law said. "Even before the fall, he was barely living—just suffering, day after day."
"Suffering?" Dmitry frowned. "But you and your wife have been taking care of him, haven’t you?"
The son-in-law gave a strained expression. "That’s part of the problem," he said. "You see, my wife… she has a soft heart."
"But my father-in-law… He abandoned them when she was little, you know?"
"After the pandemic, he refused to go to a nursing facility because he thought it’d be worse than death. He lived alone, and it was a mess. Eventually, it was my wife’s idea to take him into our home."
"But even then… he was... always miserable, always bitter, always talking about dying like it was the only thing left. I guess some people are just like that by nature."
"We were always careful with him, Doctor. We told him over and over not to go near that slope alone, but he just wouldn’t listen. He and my wife had fought countless times. He always felt like we were the ones stripping him of his freedom, that life had no meaning anymore."
"He said awful things—things no father should ever say to his own daughter. He was impossible!"
"Doctor, you have to understand, we’ve done everything we could for him, more than enough I shall say! Me and my wife still have two young children to care for…"
With every word out, the son-in-law's voice grew more urgent, his emotions swelling, as though he was unloading years of pent-up frustration.
Perhaps, he believed if he said enough, if he explained enough, then the doctors would surely empathize. That idea might relieve him of some of the guilt he hadn’t yet allowed himself to feel before the weight of their decision could fully settle.
"So, in the end, everyone agreed to stop treatment," Chariton said. "And the old man got what he had been wishing for. I don’t see anything wrong with that."
"You notified them of the choices."
"Then they made their decision. And it followed your hospital's protocol."
Dmitry said nothing. He only stared at the last, thin layer of beer in his glass.
In the quiet hospital room, the lonely old man lay in his bed, slowly slipping away. Dmitry stood beside him, the only thing he could do now was ease the pain as much as possible.
Then—
Through the oxygen mask, a faint sound.
The old man's eyes cracked open just slightly, clouded and searching. His lips trembled, trying to form words.
Perhaps it wasn’t entirely too late.
Dmitry immediately leaned in, listening carefully, straining to catch what the old man was trying to say.
"I'm sorry…"
Yet, the fragile whispers of sorry were all he could hear.
"I… never wanted any of this… I'm so sorry…"
Two thin trails of tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, lost in the deep lines of his face.
“It was too late in the end, no matter what," Dmitry said quietly.
Chariton watched the turmoil flickering in his friend’s eyes with a calm gaze.
“All I can tell you,” he began after a moment of thought, "is that even if you had managed to save him, given his condition, the aftermath would have only brought more suffering to everyone. And I doubt anyone would have truly thanked you for it. You’ve done everything you could, and what you’re feeling now is just you tormenting yourself. Those words of regret you heard could have been just some fleeting thoughts; they don't necessarily mean he didn’t want things to end."
Dmitry's jaw tightened.
“I didn’t become a doctor to be thanked.”
Chariton knew that, but still deliberately raised an eyebrow. “Then why did you?”
"Why?" Dmitry turned to him, incredulous. He spread his hand out in front of him, fingers straight, as if to emphasize his point. His voice carried a rare intensity.
“I did it to uphold my belief in medical science. Because I want more people to benefit from it, to save lives—simply out of respect for human life itself!” he said.
But what he didn’t expect was that this earnest response only earned him nothing more than an unimpressed eye-roll from Chariton.
"I suppose that’s why you can put up with being a doctor better than I could," Chariton said, ignoring Dmitry’s sharp glare. He took a sip of his water, smacked his lips as if he’d tasted something off, then added, “It’s also what I dislike most about you.”
“You dislike me?”
“I can tolerate you.”
Dmitry raised his eyebrows at him. He opened his mouth, trying to say something to defend himself, but hesitated. Realizing that, from Chariton’s perspective this was probably the equivalent of saying, I consider you a friend.
What an honor.
"Science should be pure," Chariton said, frowning at his cup. "Even if no one discovers it or studies it, it’s always there. That’s why I despise it when irrational emotions or artificial values try to hijack it."
“If you’re going to devote yourself to this path, you’d better let go of all that self-righteous morality and sentiment early on.”
"Otherwise..."
Chariton’s eyes narrowed slightly. His words trailed off as if lost in thought.
Dmitry waited patiently, but when it seemed like Chariton wasn’t going to finish, he pressed him, "Otherwise?"
Chariton’s fingers tapped lightly on his plastic cup, the crisp sound echoing. The cup was nearly empty.
The pause barely lasted a second before Chariton’s expression shifted, his frown smoothing out, his face turning unreadable as he looked at Dmitry.
"Nothing," he said innocently.
Dmitry narrowed his eyes, studying the man beside him. But in the end, he gave up.
With a quiet sigh, a faint smile returned to Dmitry’s lips. He picked up his glass and downed the last of his beer in one gulp.
The warm yellow glow of the bar lights cast a soft hue over the two men sitting side by side.
“I see you’re still the same as always,” Dmitry murmured after a moment of silence.
"Thanks," Chariton nodded.
"That wasn’t a compliment."
So this is what lies at the end of the Great Wall.
His hair, damp from the seawater, clung messily to his ear and forehead.
The sharp pebbles and sand beneath him pressed uncomfortably against the side of his face. Dark waves lapped at the silent shore before him, curling up white foam as they retreated.
The sky was heavy with thick clouds, pressing down ominously. Thunder rumbled faintly, brewing within the vast expanse above.
He had always wanted to visit this land, the southern star.
“It's beautiful here.”
A soft voice suddenly spoke beside his ear, rousing his thoughts before he could once again slip into the lull of the waves.
The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it…
Frowning, he felt a hollow emptiness in his mind, as if he had lost something important. The thought sent a chill through his body.
Whose voice was that? He tried to recall. How did I even get here?
“…It’s alright now. I’ve found you.”
The voice answered.
In the foggy abyss of his mind, a single point of light appeared—a tiny anchor keeping his consciousness from dissolving completely into nothingness.
The voice from the light resonated directly within his head.
“We’ve found you. You're safe now,” it reassured him once again.
We?
He stared at the light, confused.
“Yes,” it answered.
As the voice faded, new tiny points of light began to rise from the mist, one after another.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
…
“Yes.”
With each new light that appeared, more followed, driving away the fog and chaos that had once dominated his thoughts. The voices from the lights were different, yet they all repeated the same words.
At first, there were only a few, but they easily multiplied exponentially, quickly filling the narrow confines of his skull until there was an entire galaxy of flickering stars.
Before his bewildered gaze, strands of energy wove between the points of light, linking them together into an intricate network. A single entity, yet composed of many.
Then, at an unknowable moment, the entire network pulsed as one before him.
“We’ve found you.”
“I’m Mihail, Dr. Sechenov. Do you remember me?”
The first voice spoke again.
“Mihail?” he repeated instinctively, only to be wracked with violent coughing the moment the words left his lips. His throat was parched, as if it had been slashed by blades.
“Dr. Sechenov, we don’t have much time. Zakharov will be here soon. We’ve preserved most of you, but…”
Mihail's voice carried urgency, and that urgency seemed to spread through the network, until every light resonated with him.
“His last intrusion caused some of our comrades’ consciousnesses to break apart… Every person we lose means we lose a part of ourselves.”
With Mihail's explanation, emotions and thoughts began to surge from various points in the network, spreading through the delicate web like ripples in a vast ocean.
It seemed these lights had individual consciousness, yet together, they formed a singular entity.
A collective mind. He finally understood what he was looking at.
It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
“We’re wasting time.”
A neighboring light flared impatiently. Then, the entire network suddenly began to shift, its structure twisting and reorganizing itself dramatically. Ideas and information collided and passed rapidly. It was as though an argument had erupted within the very fabric of the network. But just as quickly as the tension had risen, it subsided, restoring equilibrium. The lights once again pulsed in unison, radiating a gentle glow.
“Doctor, forgive us. You might feel a little strange in a moment. But we have to…” an unfamiliar light said.
Golden threads shot out from the network, stretching toward him.
But just at that moment, there was a sudden faint, out-of-space sound. Almost drowned out by the howling wind and crashing waves.
“He’s here.”
“He’s here.”
“He’s here.”
Almost simultaneously, all the lights began to flicker in panic, their rhythm now chaotic.
…
“Quiet! Don’t let him notice us.”
A hushed whisper reached his ear.
Footsteps approached, gradually growing closer until they came to a stop beside him.
“Still alive?”
A familiar voice called down to him.
Dmitry inhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his heartbeat.
After a long pause, he forced his heavy body up from the harsh sand, supporting himself with one trembling arm.
His face, half-buried in the coarse grains just a moment ago, was now streaked with dust. He raised the back of his hand and wiped it clean.
Only then did he realize that all he had left on him were his white shirt and dress pants, his pant legs soaked from the sea.
He couldn’t remember how he had ended up here. The last thing he recalled, from his consciousness just regained, was the direction of the Neptune Underwater Complex, far across this sea.
At some point he failed to remember, he had even lost his shoes.
Exhausted, he bent his knees slightly, shifting his position to be more comfortable. This also allowed him to finally take in the view before him: the dark sea and the massive structure that encircled the beach.
The Great Wall of China.
It had taken over fifteen centuries in making, through efforts from millions of people working generation after generation, eventually stretching an astounding 21,196 kilometers.
So this was its end, extending into the sea.
A true marvel of human civilization.
Yet, regrettably, it seemed that from space, it remained invisible.
...Ah, humans were ultimately insignificant. Life brief and fragile.
Even this grand feat of human ingenuity, was nothing more than a speck of dust in the vast cosmos, a mere footnote in history.
So…
...what's the point of this all?
Dmitry found himself at a loss for an answer.
When he thought about himself and the countless others like him who had poured their hearts and souls into their ideals and pursuits, only for them all to be so easily dismissable like this—it planted a deep, bone-chilling helplessness within him. Like a seed taking root, draining his strength, feeding on his flesh and blood as it grew.
His eyelids grew heavy again. His heartbeat slowed. He could barely suppress the urge to yawn.
He was so tired.
“Do NOT listen to him!”
Everything went dark. For a moment, his heart stopped—as if struck by an electric pulse—before violently jolting back to life.
By the time his throat finally relaxed, allowing him to breathe again, Dmitry found himself already collapsed onto one side. His elbow barely kept him from slamming his face into the coarse sand.
His ears rang. Dmitry hung his head, gasping for air. His heart ached, as if someone were squeezing it, forcing it to keep working to sustain life.
The suffocating thoughts from earlier… they weren’t his own, he realized.
The translucent, red jellyman beside him remained silent, watching as its old friend struggled to survive. Then, it shifted its position, slowly sitting down on the sand beside Dmitry.
“Don’t blame me. I didn't say that.” Dmitry heard Chariton say.
He slowly raised his head, staring at the gelatinous mass beside him—searching for even a trace of the old friend he once knew.
"What?" he rasped.
“ ‘It's so brutal disemboweling the poor whales for the sake of polymer!’ ”
“ ‘Yeah, I still don’t really understand what's the point of this all.’ ”
Two unexpected voices echoed from within the jelly man's belly. Dmitry’s heart leaped for a moment with joy, only to sink as a bitter taste spread across his tongue, as he started to remember how things went the last time he saw Major Nechaev.
"It’s clear that you people's educational efforts have been lacking," Chariton remarked with a malicious grin in his voice. He picked up a handful of sand, rubbed it between his fingers, then let it slip through his palm, carried away by the wind.
"After all, wasn’t it the deployment of your polymer robots that tipped the scales of war in favor of the Allies? And wasn’t it thanks to those same robots filling the labor gap that society managed to keep running under the shadow of the plague?"
"And yet, those two seem to have conveniently forgotten that without polymers and robots, they would have long since turned to fertilizer—rather than standing together here now, saying sweet nothings to each other."
"You saved them. And yet, they despise everything you’ve done, blaming you as the root of all disaster, cursing you for robbing them of choice and freedom."
Chariton's voice carried a mocking, almost satisfied laughter, as if he had just witnessed an exceptional performance.
"Doesn’t this remind you of two children swinging the toys the adults gave them, smashing everything in sight—while cursing those same people for not working harder, giving them a bigger and warmer house?"
With his arms wrapped around his knees, Chariton tilted his head slightly. That translucent, featureless head had no visible eyes, yet Dmitry could feel the weight of his gaze.
There was something unsettling in that gaze—an intensity that suggested he had just found something particularly intriguing.
"I'm suddenly curious, Dmitry," Chariton continued, "tell me—what are you thinking right now?"
"Do you regret saving the Nechaevs?"
Dmitry lowered his eyes.
At the time, the terrorist attack that befell the young couple was an undeniable accident and tragedy.
Dmitry still remembered the moment when two blood-soaked bodies were brought before him. One was beyond saving— true death of the physical body, irreversible by any known technology or power he knew. But the other…
Under the operating light, with gloved hands raised over his chest, he was struck by a memory—a similar ethical dilemma he had encountered in his youth.
Only this time, the situation of the Major was far more extreme.
He was not conscious, no choice left—only "Voskhod," an experimental Polymer implant that had never moved beyond the theoretical stage.
Using it meant a slight chance at survival—only then could anything else even matter.
Perhaps he had been through enough, witnessed too much, his heart no longer hesitates the way it did in his youth—no longer the young man shackled by overthinking and indecision.
So even now, knowing that the major would one day turn the weapon against him, Dmitry would not regret the choice he made that day.
“I see you’re still the same as always,” Chariton said, unsurprised, turning his head back toward the sea as if already bored—despite Dmitry having given no response.
On the desolate beach, the two of them sat side by side, as if none of this absurdity had ever happened, as if they were just like before, with only each other for company, while drowned in each's thoughts.
“Then you should already know,” Dmitry finally spoke softly after a pause, “I won’t let you take the Network.”
Looking back on the past—on all the odd things Chariton had done and said—Dmitry had always attributed them to his old friend’s inherent nature, never thinking too deeply about them. Perhaps that, if anything, was his true regret.
“What a waste.” Chariton scoffed. “You still don’t understand, do you? Humans created a network with such immense computational power, yet it’s precisely the things you pride yourselves on that hold it back”
The salty sea breeze carried the distant roar of approaching aircraft.
Drones, in combat mode, responding to Chariton’s command, pierced through the thick clouds and swept in from across the sea.
From here, they looked like a hurricane slowly taking shape in the sky, descending toward the ocean, churning the waters into chaos.
“You can't stop me,” Chariton said dismissively.
“That’s fine,” Dmitry replied, unfazed.
He gazed at the dark storm closing in, then slowly rose to his feet.
Brushing the sand off his shirt, he stepped barefoot onto the sharp, rocky beach and walked into the wind.
Chariton watched him from where he sat.
A faint golden glow flickered in Dmitry’s eyes as he merged himself into the Network. The Network, in turn, welcomed him warmly, opening its gates wide without hesitation.
His feet sank into the surging tide, his pant legs soaking in the cold, murky seawater. The wind, laced with raindrops, lashed against him, and made him sway slightly, forcing him to squint.
Yet he stood there, calm and resolute, facing the entire world that was about to crash down on him.
Behind Dmitry, faint silhouettes began to flicker into existence. Their outlines shimmered with the same golden light as Dmitry's eyes, connected to one another by threads as fine as spider silk.
They stood together, facing the same direction, silent and unwavering— in the water, on the beach, along the great wall.
“You’re not just facing me.”
Standing at the forefront, amidst the howling storm, his shirt whipping in the wind. Dmitry did not turn around as he called out to Chariton.
Even from this distance, Chariton could almost picture the familiar curve of his old friend’s smile.
The jelly man huffed, then, at last, rose from his seat. Stretching lazily, as if accepting an invitation to a long-anticipated duel, he let out a quiet chuckle.
“Then let’s continue.”
