THE ROPE: Locally Applied Physics

So little effort goes into building these blocks. Minimal structural framing. Brickies throw up cinder partitions as an off-plan option to increase margins, not strength. A single artillery shell undoes everything—the building and the lives. That version of reality is less than a 4-hour drive away. It's possible to collapse this design with four kilos of plastid shaped for cutting, maybe three.

At lunch, we seek out company. The sounds of work fade to just those with deadlines, obsessions, or anti-social streaks. We find a supervisor, Toma, and some lads in the lobby. A good plasterer is always clean. Toma and two of the lads are covered in plaster dust.

“Thought you were profesiynal, Toma!” shouts Stasik on approach. “Training apprentices?” Instant wind-up is standard operating procedure.

“Your mother knows what I'm ekspert in, son.” He spits a leery laugh, gives us the bras d'honneur we deserve.

“Then cough up our pocket money, Dad!” I shoot.

“Bastards aren't entitled to my money! They can get fucked! You already know: nearly 18 and full of vykhovna koloniya lessons!”

“Yeah, Reform Colony's where we met your real kids. All tighter than you! Well, they were.”

“Too much, too much! You win!” He folds with that barreling, gravelly laugh. “Leave my lovely, innocent, perfectly behaved, genius kids outta this!”

“What happened?” Stasik asks.

“Weak sack. Must've gotten wet or a cut we didn't see. Split and dumped when we were hauling onto a mezzanine.”

“You can't stay like that. Gums you up.” I wander back for my hand vac. We don't breathe dust.

Stasik's ribbing dwindles. “Talk to the doc about your weak sack. Treatment’s a finger up the ass. Like in your good old days…”

At the city's edge, the block stares across the increasingly modern mass housing sprawl: airport transit hotel patterns stuffed with compressed residential floor plans. Even less practical noise insulation in these piles. Further in, blocks solidify towards the Soviet constructs. They take much, much more plastid and skill to level. Their floorplans are easily twice the size with ceilings fifty percent higher. Walls solid, if uninspiring and uninsulated. High thermal mass absorbs bombs and blasts.

Ageing functional oppression built to last costs far more today than new disposable, fast-moving consumer housing. Both reveal power's consistent contempt for life and freedom. The Soviets collapsed people into solid blocks of labour under the guise of collective gain. The post-Soviets push individual gains while collapsing space, standards, and value-for-money.

I return to blathering about football. I hoover Toma down in deference, then pass the vac on to the other lads. Goodwill goes a long way to better jobs. People sometimes call people like me “obsessive compulsive”. They're totally wrong; they've no clue what that actually means.

The other guys chew junkified lunches—crap sandwiches, ready meals, Coke, two on beer. Our bourguignon scents the space, its meat melts inside a velvet-rich, slightly piquant sauce that writes false memories into my tongue.

“Your girls must love you,” says Pavel, a brickie.

“I made this. Come ‘ere, try some.” I step to him and spoon straight onto his sandwich. He's forced to eat it or sully the floor. 30 seconds of silence, rolling eyes and wavering brow is performance art: a 5-star review live in meatspace.

I dole some out to the others. The banter dies for a little.

“You should be a chef!” Pavel says.

“I'm my own private chef. You should be yours.”

For the last two hours of work, we switch sides of the apartment, looking onto nothing. Flat, featureless, unpunctuated land. Either green, swaying shades of yellow gold, brown or white depending on season. If there wasn't wheat, there'd be gigantic forests.

Construction choices mock people, given the vast amount of land here. They should be living in mini-dachas, basking in the summer swelter and their plot's bounty. The whole place is a cash black hole, although I’m grateful for that now. It's easier for us to work in such conditions.

In clear afternoon light, over rhythms of our toil, I picture a brasserie: a copper-topped bar; smart waiters in black and white. Vera, behind a decent menu, ponders wine, coyly twirling a soft curl of hair, the light dim like my memory.

We keep the radio off. The corrosive effect of local chart noise and adverts has its limits. Our own playlists are for earphones or private places. Being the same as everyone, unremarkable, liked but not deeply known, is the game here. The Bloke into His Cooking is fine. The Guy Who Always Played Russian Music isn't. It's not that that guy is uncommon, we just can't be him. Narrative is what comes out into daylight, wrapped around the minimum of truth.

Plains and flats and farmland run into Hungary and Romania. I find it a little bleak. The occasional installation, dying industrial complex or block structures protrude like the moulds of the dictator's middle finger dumped over and over. Each finger gestures: we should all go get fucked like Toma's bastard kids.

Working quietly, systematically making competent progress building out walls is Zen therapy. Mental clarification via physical rhythm and repetition. We chase optimisation, efficiency—higher standard in shorter time. Liberation via reflexive process and ritual.

We cut at 3pm as planned and head straight for building supplies and hardware. At the bottom end of the car park, I draw a diagram of the compartment to show Stasik. I write a list for him and one for me, burn the picture, hand him a wad of cash. We head back with everything we need to build the design, and enough flex for mistakes and changes.

We get back to the hide to start our working day with ritual. I drop Stasik a block away, wait to watch if a foot tail picks him up or whether someone approaches me, then I drive a wide loop to detect a tail. He walks the hide perimeter, sniffing surveillance units and signs, then clears into garage level. I roll in clean; we check alternating floors for obvious changes or activity, then approach our door communicating “clear, safe”. “Caution, stand to” or “pursued, assault” would be double or triple the pulse rate.

Now a shower and whatever we need to switch gears, before we report to base. Today, I set the filter machine, nose the coffee bag’s roast and travel in a breath, then sentence two pistachio and white chocolate cookies to death by slow chomp.

Spiker, then Olezha, give their reports as I look down from my throne.

“Delivery run was alright. Unit six’s developing a connection problem. I got it all in the end, but I've flagged it. It's not ours. Some other dildo delivery guy will have to fix it.”

“Send was fine. Standard package came back. No new orders. We got mail,” says Olezha. “Some of those girls are webcammers or hookers. I was in the corner. Two tables away these three chicks—no little ones, way too much make up—nattering about how much money they’re making from banging… well, troops. It sounded like parties. Orgies. My aerial went up. Nearly blew my cover.”

“Location?” I forgo extending the innuendo.

“Dunno yet. Definitely locals. I put them on the automation. A regression run should show venues. Aren't we due an office night out soon?”

“Could help us finish that long term job: ‘Help Spiker achieve manhood,’ Failing that, it could be a useful sidequest,” I say. Kompromat or combat, we’ll look at everything.

Spiker shakes his head, doesn't speak. He just taps away at high speed then swivels the monitor around. On it, a regional map is veined with three thick lines of ant-like dots crawling northeast, east, and east-southeast. “Morning commute,” he says, flat. “Convoys. Transports. Moving onwards every two to three days.”

“Bit of R&R here ahead of some real work, eh?” I say. “Mobile data should be packed with gems.”

“Honestly, darling, this is not goodbye! I prrrromise I shall return!” Stasik whistles a bomb dropping then frowns theatrically and sinks down into the bath.

Spiker zooms out. The pulsing tracks stretch beyond the edge of the screen, dissolving into a scatter of unremarkable towns. “They don’t stop again. Not within our range. Flyover country.” He clicks a key; a new layer blooms: a constellation of red dots across the city. “Focus here. Mariana’s farm vans? Found ‘em. Same routes, differing drivers. It’s a pattern, until it isn’t. We need eyes on.”

Olezha leans forward, tapping a dense cluster of dots in the city’s centre. “Epitsentr. The mall.” He looks at me, a hard glint in his eye. “Last week, it was quiet, civvy signals. Now? It’s screaming. They’re either bedding down in the food court or using the place as a giant locker.”

Spiker isn't done. He brings up another window—a complex scatter plot of signal signatures. His finger stabs at a cluster of outliers, the digital profiles stark in their brevity. “These. The turisty.”

I lean in, the coffee in my stomach going cold. “Who are they?”

“Embeds,” Olezha's word hangs like smoke. “Mixed origins. Just… riding along with the convoys.”

“Turisty? Diletanty?” says Stasik. “Can't assume anything about them yet. Could just be couriers, bag men.”

“Seventy-three in two weeks. Trainers wouldn't come forwards with these units, wouldn't show themselves like that.” Olezha errs on the side of caution.

“Hmm. Turisty? Da. Diletanty? Mozhet. They didn't flip SIM cards at the border. Why?”

“They didn't have to, or they didn't need to,” says Spiker.

“So that means they weren't ordered to, or they can ignore orders. That's some mix of independence, ignorance or arrogance. The convoy units don't care either. Interesno.” I sort of shrug. “Only matters directly to us when it matters directly to us.” The second I say it, a cog spins in my mind.

“Their funeral,” Spiker sighs with a technician's pragmatism. He zooms in on the admin district. A building lit up with 43 individual signals. “Here. New management's moved in. Twenty-seven of them are permanent residents. They’ve built a little krepost. We need to see what they’re guarding in there.”

Base is quiet now, banter extinguished. The screen isn't just showing data; it's showing us the board and the pieces moving against us. It's a slice of a fast-changing reality.

We've got plenty to stave off boredom before I finally get to offload about extraction.

With builders’ chalk I draw on the dark slate-like wall of the walk-in shower. A rough rectangle for a van. “Two biggest vans. Protected compartment in each. That's the tsennot. Build from that.”

Stasik grunts, kneeling down. He takes the chalk. “We need to check weight, but just two vans gives us no manoeuvre options. We're running or firing from tsennot. We can't build a big enough bullet sponge to last the distance.” He draws a third box. “Add the ZALA van. That's one full-time gunner—admin, counter-surveillance, overwatch.” His chalk scrapes as he draws arcs from the third box, representing fields of fire. “But if they all look the same, we’ve got a decoy. We can split the tsennot a little.”

Olezha folds his arms, staring at the chalk schematic like it’s a losing bet. “Or we go the other way. Four vehicles.” He doesn’t reach for the chalk. “Beamer for fast recce. ZALA van for tech and decoy. Two vans for tsennot. More options. More space. More confusion.”

Spiker stares at the ceiling, running numbers in his head. “Cons list is longer. Four vehicles, four drivers, zero gunners. Everyone exhausted, trying not to crash. Who provides mobile fire? Who watches rear? Who thinks?” He finally looks down, his gaze cold and practical. “The first contact we have, we’re a mess. It’s not a convoy; it’s a traffic jam waiting for a rocket.”

Debate spins healthily, as it should. Options and drawbacks bounce off porcelain. We talk it out, the logistics and fears airing naturally. I cut back in and show them what matters: not the vans, but what goes inside. A sketch of a steel compartment, the cargo facing rearward.

We build models, argue options, cite limits.

“AR500 steel’s the only option,” says Stasik. Olezha backs him up.

“No brainer,” he says. “We've got enough, half the weight for the same stopping power as mild steel. We’ll pad out the space, we've got lighting & ventilation. What about belts? Unless crashing is our point of abandonment?” He knows rules of engagement come from Home, but the question is how much we care, professionally or personally, about our charges.

“Get belts. And camera kits with the flip-up array display with intelligent bracketing,” I say. “How are we looking?”

“Pretty tasty. We've got a ton of spare load, accounting for the vans already being armoured,” says Spiker, eyes fixed to the spreadsheet. “But what are we loading around the box? A ton might not be enough.”

“Dunno yet. Food, packages, some kind of supplies?”

“Come on boys, this is obvious!” Stasik's smiling, waiting for a penny to drop. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1.” He makes a farting noise indicating failure. “We're builders and other things. Sandbags tick both boxes. Massive protection, cover matches work. Just find a job site eastwards and that's a cover.”

It's a start. A start's enough for tonight.

“We can’t start building yet.” I retake my throne. The chalk lines on the wall seem suddenly fragile, a fantasy plan in a world of immediate threats. “Fatman and Junior,” I say, shifting from future back to present. “That’s priority. He said, ‘those cunts’ remember.”

“Like he's not getting paid enough to know nothing,” says Stasik. “Well, he's fired now. Limited future employment options.”

“The 4x4 went this morning, before the delivery round. Replacement’s dropping tomorrow.” Olezha says. “Might be able to get them to put the cameras and belts in it. Spiker, ping the order now. They should be watching.” Spiker nods.

Fatman and Junior’s pattern of life analysis turns the next hour's work into a plan. That leaves plenty of time for food, mail and snoozing. I prioritise some sleep. Vera's messages will be there tomorrow. Flawless execution from clear focus—unsullied by distant matters—is what meets my obligations to them, bratishki moi.

My veto overruled their vote. They picked mercy; I ordered applied physics: force equals mass times acceleration. I lead by example, spearheading force to maintain my own edge. Olezha stays home, working signals and preserving hide sterility.

Sneaking into the car park office is straightforward. I track along the river, turn right at the five-tree copse, approach from the south, through two hedge lines to the boundary road fence. The cameras are only lowlight and badly positioned, leaving the office portacabin uncovered. There's no security here, just a veneer pasted over the otherwise unemployable. The value in the car park isn't the cars or what's in them—it's in control, access, records, witness.

With two pretend guards—Fatman and an innocent, the Lisp—I have to wait for their patrol, always done together as a shared pain. I watch the office at the end of the direct line I'll take to its back wall.

They head out. I peel through our cut in the road fence, cross over, hop their fence, and invert my jacket as I approach the office. Now I read as one of them: same kit, superior gait. A car's lights and hissing growl from the road don't matter. I belong.

Fatman's waddled to the edge of the car park building. The Lisp is twenty meters behind, eyeballing a Merc G-Wagen that followed the foreign aid money. I have the key ready. Hugging the wall gets me to the door, off-camera.

I'm in before the car passes. It reeks of grease, like bad pies and unwashed hair, the smell being undetectable to those who own the stink. Beneath it, the vinyl smell from the floor and evaporated damp. Fatman's gone from direct view. The Lisp slides into the side door of the car park.

Dust outlines the DVR in its cupboard under the desk. At least there's a small challenge there. I lift the box cleanly, leave the halo intact, pivot it on my knee, and slide in the USB.

I flick to the archive. Nothing older than a month. Mixed gaps. I execute the deletion, check it’s done and the logs are empty, pull the USB, then reseat the DVR on its dust-free mark. I leave the computer display and mouse position as I found it.

Fatman and the Lisp are still on the ground floor, probably sharing the wisdom of idiots. I check their drawers for interest. I clear the sent and received stacks on our phone. A locked drawer gives way to a wave rake. It beggars belief that Fatman's keys and wallet are in there.

I open my car park jacket and by touch, select tools from my entry bag on my chest. RFID scanner, camera, tape, and dust. I work all of his cards across the scanner, photograph both sides, then his six keys.

They're still on the ramp to the first floor. That's the pace of mind-numbing boredom. They'll punctuate it with a line at about 3 am.

I dust two solid prints on a black, glossy bank card then pull them with the tape. There's an old business card for a plumber with four phone numbers on the back in differing biro and orientation. A remarkable amount of cash: nearly $600, the rest worthless local paper. There are many possibilities, but I can guess the top options. Squeezing the overstuffed wallet reveals another slide pocket on each face that aren't immediately obvious. In one, his half-full baggie, confirming a possible vector for us. In the other, a seriously ancient, heavily compressed condom—XL. I feel a moment's relief on his behalf until it's obliterated by the condition and the expiry date on the packet.

Four minutes in, I stow my kit, his goods, and reset the lock. They're only half-way along the second row. That's fatness for you. My eyes crawl the scene for places that keep secrets. Glued to the underside of the second chair there's an empty padded envelope. Stooping, I smell a trace of acetone tang: cut gear.

I escape into crisp air, noting a growing patch of ground ice around the roof downpipe and its drain, teasing a story about damp. By the fence I invert the jacket back to black and withdraw.

At the exit point from the river bank I remove then fold the jacket in on itself, tie it into two black trash bags then put it back, at arms length, in the large nettle patch.

30 minutes later, I've walked to a late night junk food outlet wearing a cap, thick, neutral spectacles, and a randomly chosen bad teeth set. Memory imprints focus other people's recall on what you specify, on things you discard. I don’t go in for junk food. I just stand in a sunken doorway beside, swallowed by shadow. They pick me up in the UAZ MPV that lives at apartment 6.

“Junior's tucked up. Mum and dad home, so not tonight.” Spiker's report annoys me. This task drags into the future. But no one’s life is ever convenient for our purposes. Feeling reverts to fact.

“Fatman's a shade more interesting,” I say. “I got two fingers, he's holding $600 plus a wedge of toilet paper, half a baggie till the weekend… oh, aaand he's either packing a Desert Eagle, or thinks too much of himself.”

“Right, well then…” Stasik turns round in the passenger seat. “Gentlemen, place your bets.”

We show numbers with hands like rock, paper, scissors. If it's one, I win but we have to delay his pointer because we're not pointing him near his home. If a line extends his night the others are in with a chance.

At 04:15 we’re parked two streets back from the car park exit where they'll drive out at shift end. Stasik puts the snoop to work, filtering on Fatman's number and our phone. Then he widens the filter to any number in proximity, in case a fat man who likes coke has another phone. With his number locked to the snoop, the tail is easy. We track out of sight.

Spiker wins. Fatman doesn't call or text, so there's a plan already. Site 4 is an eight-story block in a very affordable zone. The appointment lasts just over an hour. Between the block and the visitor spaces is a pathway hemmed by windowless walls. He waddles out at 06:11. As soon as he's a step away from the line between lamp light and shadow, I rise in the dark at speed, grip him and shock his neck. He sinks. His head accelerates with a push. I feel for his face, position my foot then hard stamp through his jaw. The sharp crack, muffled by meat, bounces up the walls.

Noisy, puggy rasping eases when I pull his head back, force his soft mouth open and packed tongue down. Someone else rifles his gear. We open his phone, pull an image onto a drive, upload the breachkit. His wallet's already $50 lighter, half the local paper’s gone and he’s got a new, fat baggie. His old condom still lives to ride another day. I push a bit of coke up his nose, spread some in his pockets where he can't clear it, take his cash but leave his powder. We sling his phone along the path, too far to crawl to. A double tap from my colleague: their tasks done. I tap back: mine too. He straightens Fatman's leg; I stamp through the knee.

We leave at the far end of shadow. Force decelerates mass.