Republic of Moscow: The Knights of Fukuyama

Gorokhin stood by the radiators, as it was the only place in the school gymnasium that had any sort of warmth. He adjusted the glasses on his face and wiped his brow. He wasn’t sweating, but it was a nervous tick he developed during his time in that steaming summer of Syria.

“The hash rate is dropping,” he murmured as he looked at the phone strapped to his forearm like a sophisticated tattoo. “I think the local node is throttling us.”

Oksana was still getting ready. Her foot was placed firmly on a plastic school chair as she inspected the buckles of her combat boots. She had a warm scarf wrapped around her neck, one that she had spent the past week knitting.

“It’s just because of the cold weather,” she remarked. “Batteries simply perform worse at this temperature. Physics isn’t a conspiracy.”

“In the Republic of Moscow, it definitely is,” Gorokhin said, pacing back and forth. There was a line taped on the ground demarking the perimeter allowed for observers. “Thermodynamics is just a suggestion. This latency is intentional. If I can’t get the block confirmation to Geneva in under a few seconds, the chain of custody breaks.”

The gymnasium definitely saw better days. It was old, older than him and Oksana put together. He could still see a mural from the Soviet era hidden behind the bleachers. The basketball hoops were rusted several times over. Five women in their seventies sat behind long tables. They’ve lived through several political revolutions and had countless stories hidden behind their glasses.

They were watching him, as if they were gargoyles. They had seen the tanks shell the White House in ‘93 and the currency riots over the last few years. They didn’t know him, but they knew of him. He was a Knight of Fukuyama, a confused Pole in a bright blue tactical vest who thought that Russia had a soul worth saving.