more than a little bit frightening,
especially spilling from the lips of a young child who’d just lost
her only living relative. And that was the last I’d seen of
her.
Months had
drifted by, and there had been no follow-up. Valeriya had
disappeared, or so I thought. I assumed she’d gone somewhere to
grieve, and would eventually move on with her life. When The Red
Army surfaced and the movement gained momentum, I had no idea that
she wasn’t just the inspiration, or the catalyst – she was the
puppeteer, pulling the strings from behind the curtain.
If Valeriya was
revealing herself now, it could only mean one thing: her opening
act had had drawn to a close. This was the onset of phase two, and
whatever she had planned, it was going to be a game-changer. She
wanted me in the front row, eyes forward, and she had my full
attention.
“No need for
introductions,” I replied. “I know who you are.”
“And you
already know why I am here, and what I want.” It was a statement,
not a question.
“It was you.
The Kashstarter campaign.”
Her face didn’t
reveal a single tell. She just stared up at me, unflinching. “What
makes you think that?”
“The words that
Astrid Neve used in the video, the terms she used...you wrote that
speech for her.” I’d recognized a similar tone and inflection
during Valeriya’s powerful speech that she delivered just prior to
the Arena Mode tournament, condemning the values of the Western
world, and calling out the tyranny of capitalism. Her iTube video
following the event was just as biting, and equally eloquent. “Not
to mention the clothes.” I flicked my eyes to her designer jacket
and matching boots.
“The clothes?”
She asked.
“I know the
Taktarov family background. You’re the orphaned daughter of poor
farmers. Either you hit the lottery, or you’re using some of that
Kashstarter money to finance a new wardrobe.” Brynja had replicated
a number of similar garments using our 3D printer over the last
three months. I recognized the designs because I frequently found
them scattered around the fortress. I was hardly an expert when it
came to fashion, but I could spot the difference between a
four-thousand dollar jacket and a cheap knock-off that was stitched
together by slave laborers.
“Are you, the
richest man in the world, going to lecture me about my
lifestyle? About excess?” Valeriya’s words poured out like venom,
although she didn’t seem angry, or even annoyed. I couldn’t read a
single emotion by studying her face.
“So why not
just do it yourself?” I asked. “Taktarov’s only living relative,
asking for revenge? That’s strong motivation to rally support.”
“Sympathy for a
poor little Russian girl who misses her brother?” She nearly
laughed at the notion. “That will move a few – some who are easily
swayed, with soft hearts. What I required was an army. For that
type of commitment I needed a common enemy.”
It was a
brilliant strategy. Nothing brings people together faster than
mutual hatred. I still wasn’t buying her reasoning, through. She
could have recorded the video herself, and was more than capable of
delivering a powerful address. “It seems like being on-camera
yourself would have had more impact. Why not just tell everyone
that Sergei was The Chosen One and that I was the bad guy?”
Valeriya’s tiny
lips twitched at the edges, hinting that she was about to crack a
knowing smile. She resisted the urge. “I needed someone without an
attachment to Sergei. Someone to plant the seeds. The world is
angrier than they have ever been, and slowly, they are readying
themselves. In a few moments when I release my new video, they will
see who I truly am, and they will finally be prepared for what I am
about to become.”
I folded my
arms across my chest and smiled. A calculated smile, wide and
condescending. It was in my best interest to keep her talking. The
more she said, the more I could learn. I knew Valeriya wouldn’t
especially spilling from the lips of a young child who’d just lost
her only living relative. And that was the last I’d seen of
her.
Months had
drifted by, and there had been no follow-up. Valeriya had
disappeared, or so I thought. I assumed she’d gone somewhere to
grieve, and would eventually move on with her life. When The Red
Army surfaced and the movement gained momentum, I had no idea that
she wasn’t just the inspiration, or the catalyst – she was the
puppeteer, pulling the strings from behind the curtain.
If Valeriya was
revealing herself now, it could only mean one thing: her opening
act had had drawn to a close. This was the onset of phase two, and
whatever she had planned, it was going to be a game-changer. She
wanted me in the front row, eyes forward, and she had my full
attention.
“No need for
introductions,” I replied. “I know who you are.”
“And you
already know why I am here, and what I want.” It was a statement,
not a question.
“It was you.
The Kashstarter campaign.”
Her face didn’t
reveal a single tell. She just stared up at me, unflinching. “What
makes you think that?”
“The words that
Astrid Neve used in the video, the terms she used...you wrote that
speech for her.” I’d recognized a similar tone and inflection
during Valeriya’s powerful speech that she delivered just prior to
the Arena Mode tournament, condemning the values of the Western
world, and calling out the tyranny of capitalism. Her iTube video
following the event was just as biting, and equally eloquent. “Not
to mention the clothes.” I flicked my eyes to her designer jacket
and matching boots.
“The clothes?”
She asked.
“I know the
Taktarov family background. You’re the orphaned daughter of poor
farmers. Either you hit the lottery, or you’re using some of that
Kashstarter money to finance a new wardrobe.” Brynja had replicated
a number of similar garments using our 3D printer over the last
three months. I recognized the designs because I frequently found
them scattered around the fortress. I was hardly an expert when it
came to fashion, but I could spot the difference between a
four-thousand dollar jacket and a cheap knock-off that was stitched
together by slave laborers.
“Are you, the
richest man in the world, going to lecture me about my
lifestyle? About excess?” Valeriya’s words poured out like venom,
although she didn’t seem angry, or even annoyed. I couldn’t read a
single emotion by studying her face.
“So why not
just do it yourself?” I asked. “Taktarov’s only living relative,
asking for revenge? That’s strong motivation to rally support.”
“Sympathy for a
poor little Russian girl who misses her brother?” She nearly
laughed at the notion. “That will move a few – some who are easily
swayed, with soft hearts. What I required was an army. For that
type of commitment I needed a common enemy.”
It was a
brilliant strategy. Nothing brings people together faster than
mutual hatred. I still wasn’t buying her reasoning, through. She
could have recorded the video herself, and was more than capable of
delivering a powerful address. “It seems like being on-camera
yourself would have had more impact. Why not just tell everyone
that Sergei was The Chosen One and that I was the bad guy?”
Valeriya’s tiny
lips twitched at the edges, hinting that she was about to crack a
knowing smile. She resisted the urge. “I needed someone without an
attachment to Sergei. Someone to plant the seeds. The world is
angrier than they have ever been, and slowly, they are readying
themselves. In a few moments when I release my new video, they will
see who I truly am, and they will finally be prepared for what I am
about to become.”
I folded my
arms across my chest and smiled. A calculated smile, wide and
condescending. It was in my best interest to keep her talking. The
more she said, the more I could learn. I knew Valeriya wouldn’t
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