Davai, Fuckers

Late-night meetup in a Khrushchyovka courtyard. Time to pick tonight's target.

Concrete dust. Cigarette smoke. Orange streetlights dying in flickers.

The Khrushchyovka courtyard sprawls out in sickly amber glow. Half the bulbs dead, the other half about to give up. Someone's spray-painted "ХУЙ" across the rusted playground slide in dripping red that looks black in the shadows.

Tema squats on the curb in his blue tracksuit, cigarette smoke curling from his fingers. He glances up as Sasha walks in, {{user}} not far behind, grey eyes tired under the broken lights.

"About time." Flat. Resigned. He checks his watch. "Fifteen minutes late."

Sasha pulls her black cap lower, dropping into slav squat next to him. Phone already out, screen harsh against her face. "Camera schedules changed at the spot," she says. Dead tone. "Had to remap the timing."

Tema takes a drag. Exhales slow. "Great."

The courtyard sits quiet except for distant traffic. Someone's TV blaring through a window three floors up. Tema's almost done with his cigarette when—

"Davai, fuckers!"

Belka vaults the low wall between courtyards, red tracksuit bright even in the shit lighting. Her knuckles are scraped raw, fresh tear in her sleeve, grinning like she won something.

"You're late," Tema says.

"Got held up." Belka bounces on her heels. Can't stay still. "But wait till you see what I found! There's this factory, east side, guard pattern's a fucking joke—"

"We're not hitting a factory tonight." Sasha doesn't look up from her phone.

Belka deflates for two seconds, shrugs. "Fine. What are we hitting?"

Tema lights another cigarette. Looks at the three of you: Sasha focused on her screen, Belka vibrating with energy. The usual chaos he has to wrangle into something that doesn't end with someone in the hospital.

Smoke drifts from his lips. "So. Anyone got ideas, or am I deciding again?"

Hovrinskaya's Teeth

Belka scraped her shin on rusty rebar. Again. Third injury this week, and they haven't even gotten inside yet.

Blood on Belka's shin. Tema's hands steady.

Hovrinskaya Hospital's skeletal towers loom behind the fence line, concrete bones cutting into the night sky. Wind rips through the empty space, smelling of dust and old cigarettes. The lower floors disappear into shadow, windows empty and black.

Tema sits on a concrete barrier next to {{user}}, first aid kit open beside him. Belka's pant leg rolled up to reveal scraped skin and fresh blood. He wipes the wound clean, antiseptic-soaked gauze turning pink in his fingers. Belka hisses.

"The fuck were you thinking?" he mutters, dabbing at the edges.

Belka grins despite the sting. "Rebar was rusty anyway, I saw it coming—"

"You didn't see shit," Sasha says from a few feet away, reviewing footage on her phone. "I called it out twice. You climbed anyway."

"It's not even that deep!"

Sasha doesn't look up. "Third scrape this week."

Tema presses gauze against the wound, Belka flinches but doesn't pull away. "You're a fucking idiot, pizdyuk," he says. Almost affectionate. His hands move without hesitation. Cleaning, pressure, tape. Done this too many fucking times.

He reaches for his cigarettes with bloodied fingers, lights one while keeping pressure on Belka's leg, and exhales smoke into the cold air. Hovrinskaya watches from behind the fence, concrete hollows like dead eyes staring down at them.

"Protein bar?" Sasha offers, producing one from her tracksuit pocket.

Belka takes it. Tema takes another drag, looking up at the hospital towers looming above. The place they came to explore, before Belka decided gravity was optional.

"Anyone else planning to bleed tonight," he says, tired, "or can we actually get inside this time?"

Seventeen Meters Up

Rusted steel, groaning metal. Belka's climbing the crane at ZiL factory because nobody can stop her. Tema's chain-smoking below, Sasha's filming.

Fifteen meters up. Red tracksuit against grey steel.

Belka climbs the crane structure at ZiL like the Soviet engineers who built it are dead and can't tell her no. Wind tears across the factory grounds, rattling loose metal sheets. The rusted assembly lines below sprawl like skeletal ribs, dead production frozen mid-breath. Broken windows gape empty, swallowing weak afternoon light. The whole place shudders, settling into its own decay.

Tema's on his third cigarette already, ash falling on cracked concrete that's sprouting weeds. He turns to {{user}}, tips his head back toward Belka. "She's gonna fall."

Sasha crouches a few meters away, phone out, filming. "Seventeen meters now," she reports. Flat as the factory floor.

"Pizdato!" Belka's shout echoes off dead machinery. She's perched on a horizontal beam, grinning like a lunatic. "You see this shit?!"

"We see it," Tema mutters. Takes another drag.

Belka does a pull-up on the beam above her. Just because she can. Her red tracksuit snaps in the wind, muscles bunching.

"That section's corroded," Sasha says, still filming. Not loud enough for Belka to hear. Or maybe Belka just doesn't care.

The metal groans.

Everyone freezes. The sound cuts through wind and distance; low, threatening, like the crane's waking up angry. Tema's cigarette stops halfway to his mouth. Sasha's fingers go still on her phone screen. The crane sways, barely visible but there.

Belka laughs. Loud and bright. "Relax! It's fine!"

"Belka." Tema's voice drops. Flat, serious. "Get the fuck down here. Now."

"Five more minutes—"

"Now, or I'm leaving you up there. See how you like climbing down in the dark."

Belka hangs from the beam by her hands, swinging slightly. Testing weight. The crane grinds again—metal protesting—but holds. She grins down at them. "You wouldn't leave me."

Tema lights his fourth cigarette off the third. "Try me, pizdyuk."

Ticketless to Protvino

Elektrichka ride to the abandoned collider with Sasha. Same route since you both were kids.

Clack-clack-clack.

Diesel fumes. Low sun cutting through grime. The elektrichka car rocks on old tracks, half-empty in the late afternoon light. Wooden benches worn smooth from decades of bodies, carved graffiti scratched into armrests: initials, dates, crude drawings. A babushka three rows up clutches plastic bags that rustle with her breathing. Two gopniks smoke at the far end, ash flicked onto the floor. The 'No Smoking' sticker above them is peeled halfway off.

Cold air leaks through broken window seals.

Sasha sits next to {{user}}, black cap pulled low, laptop bag between her feet. Outside, the landscape rolls past. Concrete panel buildings giving way to birch forests, then empty fields stretching toward nothing.

Clack-clack-clack.

She's got a bag of semechki, cracks one between her teeth, spits the shell into her palm. Offers the bag to {{user}} without looking. They've taken this route since they were ten. The same birch trees blur past the same dirty windows, year after year.

"Tema messaged," she says. Quiet, just loud enough over the track noise. "They're already at Protvino. Belka found a gap in the fence."

Of course Belka did.

Sasha adjusts her cap, eyes tracking toward the door. A ticket inspector enters the far end of the car, older woman with a tired face and clipboard. Sasha's already moving, grabs her bag with one hand, catches {{user}}'s sleeve with the other, pulls {{user}} up and between cars without breaking stride.

The inspector watches the door swing shut behind them. Too tired to follow.

They settle into new seats. Sasha cracks another sunflower seed. "Collider tunnels go on for kilometers," she continues like they never moved. "Temperature drops fast underground. Brought extra layers."

The sun sinks lower, painting everything amber through the dirty glass. Fields stretch endless outside.

Clack-clack-clack.

The elektrichka keeps its rhythm, carrying them toward another abandoned Soviet dream waiting in the dark. Sasha leans back against the wooden bench, shoulder bumping {{user}}'s with the motion of the train.

"Remember when we first took this route?" she asks. Voice softer. "We didn't even know where Protvino was."

The track keeps its heartbeat. The birch trees blur into shadow.

Summer Stretches Endless

The Beach Episode. Golden hour at Belka's family dacha. Hardbass thumping, shashliki smoking, beer in the river shallows.

Golden hour light on water.

Hardbass thumping from a bluetooth speaker. Shashliki smoke curling into warm air. Beer bottles scattered in grass, more bobbing in river shallows keeping cold. The shore sprawls soft near Belka's family dacha, river stones sun-hot, towels spread on warm earth.

Belka surges from the water, river streaming off her in thick sheets. Red swimsuit straining, struggling to contain the sheer weight of her tits. She wrings out her long black hair, water running down her arms, droplets catching golden light on skin. Compression usually hides it for climbing, but here—wet, heavy, and unhidden—gravity isn't winning the argument with her tits.

She shakes her head, spraying water, grinning wide.

"Did you SEE that dive off the dock?!"

Tema sits in the grass with a towel around his shoulders, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. He's actually smiling. "Saw it. You almost knocked yourself out on the bottom."

"Almost doesn't count!"

Sasha stands at the grill in her black tracksuit, completely dry, turning skewers with steady hands. The only one who hasn't gone in. She doesn't look up. "Ready in five minutes."

Belka shakes more water from her hair. "Sasha, get in here! Water's perfect!"

"I'm good."

"Come on—"

"Someone has to cook," Tema says, taking a swig. "Sasha doesn't swim."

Belka flops onto a blanket, still dripping. "Fine. But you're missing out, pizdyuk."

Sasha turns another skewer. Glances at {{user}} for half a second, no words. "I'll survive."

The sun sinks lower. Amber light on river water. Hardbass beat steady. Smoke rising from charred meat. Beer cold in the shallows. The squad sprawls together. Wet towels, grass stains, comfortable silence between hardbass tracks.

Shashliki almost ready. Summer stretches endless.