Slava KPSS/mazello/ Slava KPSS/ mzlff

Are villagers lost or those who are experiencing the country from the inside? I don't know the answer to that question, because that's not my goal; my goal is to keep you interested. Well, let me begin.

The 1990s. A village near Moscow was famous only for its crazy kids. Some were schoolchildren, others were already working. But they all resembled one huge, extremely unpleasant family. The kids hung out with each other, but they greeted older kids. Everyone knew each other, and when "outsiders" showed up, everyone immediately cut off contact.

Vyacheslav, or simply Slava, is one of them. He's in the 11th grade. Well, not really a student—he just goes to school occasionally. The key word is "occasionally." He was an authority figure among the bullies.

Those who come from the city rarely become one of the locals; they are often shunned and not accepted into the company.

Ilya is a city boy, an eighth-grader from Moscow. His parents were forced to send him to live with his grandparents.

Ilya's first day in the village went so-so. He ran into a group of older students, who made fun of him a bit, most likely because of his appearance and height. Although Korkov looked fine, they were just tall. Two weeks passed like this. The green-eyed boy walked to school, catching the glances of his classmates.

Evening. The dark sky was strewn with a multitude of stars, with only the occasional cloud drifting past, obscuring their glow. Ilya was trudging home after several hours of wandering along paths and various impassable areas. Turning the corner of a small shop, he felt a hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch. Everything after that was a blur. His vision suddenly darkened, most likely due to fear or panic, the ground, and the light from a lantern shone directly into his face. He could hear muffled voices.

“Slav, this is not the one,” one of them said.

A tall figure squatted down next to Koryakov, looking at his face.

— Are you idiots? That's enough for today, let's go.

(continued in the protocol)

Ilya slowly began to come to his senses. He saw a high school student in tracksuit bottoms and some kind of sweatshirt standing before him. His hair was covering his face, or maybe it was because of the shadows—it was unclear.

— Stop lying around.

The stranger's voice rang out with arrogance, and he practically lifted Ilya by the scruff of his neck. The height difference was noticeable, almost a full head taller.

— I'm Vyacheslav, or just Slava.

Slava extended his hand, and Ilya shook it.

“I’m Ilya,” the younger one answered briefly.

That's how they met. A couple of weeks later, Slava invited Ilya to a get-together, if you could call it that. Everyone gathered at the old farm and did whatever they pleased.

The day of the party finally arrived. Koryakov had brought some snacks to wash down the alcohol. Having drunk heavily, the green-eyed boy was disoriented and searching for something familiar. It turned out to be none other than Slava. The older boy stood with a glass of beer, chatting with his classmates and students from his year. Ilya pushed through the crowd to get closer to his acquaintance. The alcohol was taking its toll, and the younger boy, completely unaware of his actions, practically leaped toward Slava and embraced him.