Dima pushed through the workers' entrance, his steel-toed boots marking wet trails across the linoleum. The floor beneath curved upward in chemical-eaten waves, a topographic map of twenty years' worth of flux spills and acetone drips. The fluorescent tubes overhead pulsed their erratic rhythm—three short flickers, one long dim, matching his morning trudge.

  The air held its distinctive mixture: lead solder fumes from the wave soldering machine, the ozone bite of arcing contacts, and beneath it all, the sweet-sick smell of electrolytic capacitors cooking themselves to death in poorly ventilated chassis. In the distance, the assembly line's robots performed their stilted dance, servos grinding metal-on-metal where lubricant had long since dried up. The mechanical arms wandered off their programmed paths by millimetres, misplacing components in a mistake repeated thousands of times per shift.

  A sharp electronic shriek pierced the factory's background drone—another board failing its automated test sequence. Dima's fingers twitched toward the circuit designs in his pocket. The solutions were clear to him, ways to breathe new life into this decaying place. But management wouldn't listen, not to someone like him. They'd rather let the whole operation crumble than admit a line worker might know better.

  Working with expert control across the acetate sheet, he drew graphite lines flowing into perfect right angles and sweeping curves. The trace width narrowed to 0.3 millimetres as it approached the voltage regulator—tight tolerances, but necessary for the switching frequency he planned. The assembly line lurched forward, each cycle producing another batch of cut-rate CRT boards destined for budget televisions.

  Inside the component bin lay electrolytic capacitors that rattled loose in their cardboard box, leads bent at awkward angles. Chinese knockoffs with inflated specifications, guaranteed to fail within months. The design called for Japanese Nichicon caps, properly rated for temperature and ESR.

  Taking the foreman's pencil—borrowed during a convenient cigarette break—he added thermal relief patterns around each pad. The defect counter above his workstation climbed: another dozen boards rejected in the last hour. The old wave soldering machine kept missing its targets, scattering cold joints and bridges across each panel like cryptic messages of failure.

  A smile tugged at his mouth as he completed the ground plane, the copper pour perfectly shielding the sensitive analog section from noise. This was how circuits should be built. This was engineering.

  The factory's ten o'clock whistle cut through the morning fog. At the loading dock, Dima leaned against the corroded railing, cigarette forgotten between calloused fingers. Twenty metres away, Oksana jabbed her index finger at the foreman's clipboard, her practical bob swaying with each emphatic gesture. Her voice carried across the yard in sharp Ukrainian consonants.

  “Three hundred roubles short, again! You think we're stupid?” The ember of her cigarette traced angry arcs through the air. “Check your math, Vadim Sergeevich.”

  The foreman's response dissolved into the factory's mechanical drone. Oksana flicked her cigarette, the filter landing in a puddle near Dima's boots. A perfect coral crescent marked the paper where her lips had been. When she stormed back inside, he retrieved it, tucking the sodden treasure into his breast pocket beside his circuit diagrams.

  The cafeteria queue snaked past peeling murals, their optimistic workers faded to pastel ghosts. Dima shuffled forward, aluminium tray clutched in his calloused hands. Two welders stood ahead of him, coveralls spotted with burn marks.

  “Third time this month they've threatened to cut power,” the taller one muttered, jabbing his spoon at the borscht. “My cousin's factory in Tver? Same story.”

  The other spoke in hushed tones, glancing at the “United Russia Youth” poster where someone had sketched a thick marker moustache onto the smiling candidate's face. “Elections coming up. Squeeze the factories, blame the managers, swoop in with promises.”

  “Like they did with the steel mill?” The first welder snorted. “New owners, same problems. Just different faces collecting the bribes.”

  The lunch lady's ladle clanked against Dima's tray, drowning out the rest of their conversation. Steam rose from the watery soup, carrying the sharp smell of overcooked cabbage.

  Approaching his workbench, he stopped short. The surface looked wrong—too clean, too ordered. Scattered resistors now stood in precise rows, capacitors grouped by value. The solder station sat three centimetres left of its usual spot, its tip wiped spotless.

  A yellowed copy of “Radio” magazine lay between the frequency counter and multimeter, open to page forty-seven. The HD64180 processor specifications stared up at him in faded Cyrillic, its pinout diagram annotated in red ink. The acetate sheets remained exactly where he'd hidden them, tucked beneath the service manual for the wave soldering machine, but the manual's corner aligned perfectly with the workbench edge—a precision that made his throat tighten.

  Pushing into the stairwell, the metal hinges protested with a harsh screech. The sound nearly masked it—a soft, muffled noise from the landing below. He paused, one foot hovering above the next step.

  Oksana sat on the concrete stairs, shoulders shaking. A crumpled paper lay at her feet, official letterhead visible even in the dim light filtering through grimy windows. The unlit cigarette quivered between her fingers.

  Something caught in his chest as he watched her. They might have been standing metres or kilometres apart—the gap felt just as vast. Reaching for the pack of Sobranie Black Russians in his breast pocket, his fingers brushed against the folded circuit diagrams.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Need a light?”

  She startled, wiping her eyes with her work coat sleeve. The motion left a smudge of machine oil across her cheek.

  “Sorry, I didn't—” She straightened, composing herself. “I should go.”

  “Last one.” The cigarette caught the weak light as he offered it. “Better than those Bulgarian fakes they peddle at the kiosk.”

  Their fingers met as she took it. The lighter's flame briefly revealed her face—eyes red-rimmed, but dry now.

  “My brother.” She nodded toward the paper. “Conscription notice. Chechnya.”

  The word lingered in the stairwell, heavy as lead. The cigarette smouldered forgotten in Dima's hand.

  “I should get back.” Oksana rose, smoothing her coat. “Thank you for the Sobranie.” Without another glance, she ascended the stairs, leaving only tobacco smoke and the sound of her steps fading against concrete.

  His hand stilled on the grease-slick control panel as the assembly line stuttered, then died. The Korolev-6 motor seized with a metallic shriek, its drive belt smoking. The factory's mechanical symphony fell to an accusatory silence.

  Opening the motor's access panel revealed copper windings gleaming dull beneath decades of grime. The serial number caught his attention: КР-6М-2002-478В. His thoughts returned to last month's manifest—a special order, triple-checked by management, destined for a “private contractor” in Vladivostok. The same batch that sparked hushed conversations between suited visitors and the plant director.

  The motor's commutator showed scoring marks typical of sustained high-speed operation, not the gentle start-stop cycles needed for television assembly. Along the reinforced brush holders, military-spec carbon was clearly visible beneath cheap civilian markings.

  “Sokolov!” The foreman's voice cracked across the factory floor. “Why isn't that line moving?”

  Dima replaced the panel with measured movements. The motor's secrets disappeared beneath scratched steel, hidden like so many others in this failing monument to industry.

  Balancing the plastic container of pelmeni on his knee, he steadied the gutted radio chassis. Steam pipes overhead knocked and whistled, their pressure gauges trembling behind clouded glass. The boiler room's relative warmth made it a popular lunch spot, but today he needed solitude.

  The radio's circuit board revealed itself under his penlight. Following the FM demodulator stage with a borrowed multimeter probe, he traced the signal path. A simple modification—just three components and some careful rewiring—would extend its reception range into the police bands. The copper traces glinted under the weak light.

  Spearing a cold pelmeni with his fork, he barely tasted it as he worked. The 100kΩ resistor from a scrapped TV board fit perfectly. His soldering iron, smuggled in piece by piece over months, warmed against his palm. The scent of rosin core solder mixed with the boiler room's atmosphere of mineral oil and rust.

  Static crackled through the speaker as he adjusted the trimmer capacitor. Numbers and codes filtered through the white noise: “Asset transfer protocol seven-one-nine...” The voice paused, replaced by a different operator. “Confirmed for fourteen hundred hours. Locations as specified.”

  The fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He fine-tuned the frequency, catching fragments of more transmissions. The technical challenge of the modification faded against the weight of what he intercepted. Something was coming—something that required coded language and precise timing.

  A pressure release valve hissed, momentarily drowning out the radio. When the noise subsided, only regular patrol chatter remained. Dima checked his watch: 12:47. With methodical precision, he packed away his tools, each component returning to its hidden place in his modified work coat. The empty pelmeni container vanished into the depths of a rusted disposal bin.

  The radio, now reassembled, appeared unchanged from its factory state. Only the slight discoloration of fresh solder joints betrayed its transformation. With the device under his arm, he calculated the safest route back to his workstation. Two hours until whatever “asset transfer” was planned. Two hours to decide what to do with this information.

  The production line quieted as Vadim Sergeevich cleared his throat. The foreman's polyester tie hung crooked, its knock-off Hermès pattern faded from too many washes.

  “Mandatory productivity training,” he announced, gesturing to the man beside him. “Our new consultant from headquarters.”

  Studying the consultant, Dima's gaze moved from the ill-fitting grey suit to his shoes. Ferragamo loafers caught the fluorescent light, their hand-stitched leather worth three months of assembly line wages. The contrast struck him sharply—expensive Italian craftsmanship beneath bargain-bin Russian tailoring.

  A smile crossed the consultant's face, teeth too white for a domestic dentist. “We'll begin at fifteen hundred hours.”

  Making his way past the assembly stations, Dima's fingers brushed a resistor reel. The path to component storage felt different today—each step measured, deliberate. Through the forest of suspended magnifying lamps, Oksana's workbench caught his eye.

  She knelt beside her station, transferring tools into a leather briefcase. The gold-stamped Ryazanovka logo reflected the light—a brand reserved for Moscow's technical elite, far beyond a line worker's means. Her movements carried an unusual urgency, missing their typical fluid efficiency.

  Their eyes met across the cluttered aisle. A muscle twitched in her jaw. She gave the slightest shake of her head, a gesture so subtle it might have been imagined.

  His chest tightened. Still, he maintained his natural pace past her station, even as questions multiplied in his mind like cascading logic gates.

  While working on the voltage regulator, three silhouettes cut through the harsh lighting. Their Zegna suits stood out against the oxidised machinery, each crease precise. United Russia pins glinted from their lapels like warning signals.

  The tallest visitor raised a Leica camera, its chrome body worth more than six months of Dima's wages. The shutter clicked three times—documenting the assembly line's faltering movements.

  Boris, the factory's orange tabby, emerged from his nest behind the component shelves. The cat's ears flattened, whiskers bristling. A low growl rose above the production line's mechanical drone. He darted beneath Dima's workbench, retreating from the visitors with a bristled tail.

  The men continued their inspection, Italian leather shoes leaving pristine tracks through decades of accumulated carbon dust.

  Near the rusted loudspeaker cabinet, Dima worked its oxidised screws loose. Inside, where paper cones and voice coils once lived, sheets of acetate rustled—circuit diagrams layered like geological strata. Memory management units from '89. RF oscillators from '93. Power supplies that could have saved three production lines, if anyone had listened.

  Between two others, he slipped his latest design: a voltage regulator that would never see production, tucked against an amplifier that would never sing. The sheets settled with a plastic whisper, transparent ghosts of possibilities never realised.

  The cabinet's lid closed with a squeal. His fingers traced the Электрон-2 logo, worn smooth by decades of warehouse dust. Each turn of the screws returned the speaker to its disguise of industrial irrelevance.