Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

On the fourth floor of a mysterious Khrushchev building, which even American satellites cannot detect, lies the location of Slava and Nian Dao.

There was an indescribable smell in the hallway, like a mixture of overcooked cabbage and stale cigarette ash. Some of the plaster had peeled off the walls, revealing the gray cement underneath. The stair railing was made of iron and felt a little sticky to the touch.

“To be honest, this building is a bit old. It feels like it’s at least ten years old. When we have money, we definitely have to get a nicer house to live in, even a second-hand one would be fine,” Slava said, sniffing.

"Buying a second-hand house might not be possible. Housing is a national welfare policy that is mainly allocated. Although there are some houses that can be purchased commercially, the Union does not have a housing transaction market. The houses you buy cannot be sold to private individuals. You have to understand that it is rare in the entire history of mankind for the state to allocate houses to its residents for free."

"The man in the dark blue jacket who brought them here said, and handed the key to Slava."

"If you are a single person, you may have to wait a long time to get a house, but if you are a family with multiple children, you can get a better house - we will allocate it to you according to the standards for couples."

Director Nian raised an eyebrow, and Slava glanced at her, sighing softly, feeling that this was just how her life would be.

“You’ll be staying here for the next few days,” said the man in the blue jacket. “There’s some food in the fridge, enough for two or three days. If you need anything, go downstairs and find Comrade Natasha, the building manager.”

"Can we go out?" Director Nian asked.

"It's best not to go too far."

He left after saying that. Slava closed the door and walked around the house: the living room wasn't large, containing an old cloth sofa and a coffee table with an enamel ashtray on it. A landscape painting hung on the wall, depicting a birch forest by a lake; the colors had faded somewhat. In the corner was a black-and-white television, next to which was a bookshelf with several hardcover books and a stack of newspapers.

The kitchen was small, with an old-fashioned gas stove and several aluminum pots and enamel basins next to it. The refrigerator was a domestic brand, humming loudly. When I opened it, I found half a sausage, a piece of butter, a few eggs, and a bottle of milk inside.

Neither bedroom was large, each containing a single bed, a wardrobe, and a small table. Plain-colored sheets covered the beds, with a blanket folded over them.

“The conditions are alright,” Director Nian said, leaning against the door frame and looking around. “Better than I expected.”

Slava secretly rejoiced that the KGB hadn't given them a double bed, since it would have been quite awkward to share a bed with his system on his very first day after transmigrating.

“If you told me this house had to be bought, I might hesitate, but if you told me it was allocated for free, then I have to say this house is amazing.” Slava opened the window to let the room air out and took out the cups to wash them.

"It wasn't distributed to everyone. In the 60s, less than a third of the entire Alliance's population received housing—but considering that the Alliance still had a large rural population, that percentage was actually quite high." Director Nian casually opened the refrigerator and placed the milk next to the stove.

“Praise the Alliance.” Slava smiled, poured a glass of milk for Director Nian, and then poured one for himself.

“Praise the Alliance.” The two clinked glasses and stood by the window, sipping milk and looking out.

The window faces the courtyard below, where several children are playing football, and two elderly women are chatting on a nearby bench. In the distance, you can see the balcony of another building, filled with clothes and sheets hanging out to dry.

An ordinary residential area. Ordinary life.

He turned around and asked in a low voice, "Do you think there are listening devices here?"

Director Nian didn't answer. Instead, she walked over to the television, bent down to look behind it, and then touched the bottom of the bookshelf. Then she walked to the sofa, lifted the cushion, and took a look.

“There definitely is,” she said, her voice low, “but I can’t find it. These days, wiretapping devices are smaller than you think. You would never imagine that the bald eagle badge hanging in the presidential office across the street contains a battery-free wiretapping device.”

"Then let's talk..."

“Just say it normally,” Director Nian sat down on the sofa, crossed his legs, and said, “Let them listen if they want to. Anyway, there’s nothing we can’t let them know.”

Slava thought about it and agreed. He had already revealed quite a bit to Sherov, so there was no point in hiding anything anymore. He sat down on the sofa and suddenly felt very tired. From yesterday's transmigration until now, he had experienced interrogation, homelessness on the streets, a state-run canteen, and another interrogation. Now he finally had a place where he could sit down and catch his breath.

"What's next? My dear NPC comrade, could you give this expert player some quest hints?" he asked.

"Let's wait and see how they decide what to do with us." Director Nian picked up a newspaper from the coffee table and flipped through it casually. "What you just said has definitely been reported—Xunzong is too busy to hear it, but I reckon the higher-ups in the Special Operations Department will hear it. Now we'll see what they think."

What do you think will happen?

“There are only two possibilities,” Director Nian said while looking at the newspaper. “One, they think you are a valuable talent and decide to recruit you; two, they think you are a dangerous madman and send you to a mental hospital or prison.”

Is there a third possibility?

"That means they can't make up their minds, so they're making you wait here until you go crazy first."

Slava sighed, "Then I'd better just fly my plane and crash it into the Pentagon beforehand."

Director Nian handed him the newspaper, and Slava took it without hesitation: "Take a look and learn about this era."

It was a copy of yesterday's Pravda, dated July 7st. The main content on the front page was about the Olympics, saying that all preparations were complete and the grand opening was scheduled for July 19th. The accompanying picture was a panoramic view of the Luzhniki Stadium, which looked magnificent.

Next to it was an editorial titled "The Olympic Spirit Must Not Be Desecrated," condemning the United States and other countries for politicizing sports in an attempt to undermine the Games. The article was strongly worded, saying that the United States had exposed its ugly imperialist face to the whole world.

Slava knew the reality. More than 60 countries boycotted the Games, including the United States, West Germany, and Japan—making it the Games with the fewest participating countries since 1956.

He flipped to the international section and saw several news articles:

The first article is about Afghanistan. The title is "Afghan People's Army Achieves Major Victory with Coalition Internationalist Assistance," stating that government troops repelled an attack by imperialist mercenaries and counter-revolutionary gangs in a certain province. The accompanying picture shows several Afghan soldiers in uniform holding guns, with a Coalition flag in the background.

Slava knew the war would last ten years, and the Alliance would eventually humiliately withdraw. But it was 1980, only six months into the war, and the Alliance was still confidently proclaiming victory.

The second news item made him glance at it a few more times.

The title is "The Southern Dynasty's Military Poisonous Regime Bloodily Suppresses the Gwangju People's Uprising".

"Great show, and there's also Gwangju no-holds-barred fighting to watch."

"Wow, there's even Running Man to watch here!" Director Nian and Slava, these two bloodthirsty viewers, immediately squeezed together to watch this headline.

The article states that in mid-May, a large-scale democratic movement erupted in Gwangju, South Korea, with hundreds of thousands of citizens and students taking to the streets to demand an end to military rule and democratization. However, with the support of the United States, the Chung-hwan military mobilized troops to brutally suppress the unarmed civilians, resulting in thousands of deaths and injuries.

The newspaper wrote: "American imperialism has once again exposed the hypocrisy of its so-called democracy and human rights. The US military command in South Korea approved the movement of South Korean troops, and the US government bears an unshirkable responsibility for this massacre."

Slava put down the newspaper, remained silent for a while, and suddenly felt that his gloating just now was somewhat unethical.

"What's wrong?" Director Nian asked.

“It’s nothing,” Slava put the newspaper back on the coffee table. “It just feels a bit unreal… that things from history books are suddenly appearing in the newspapers.”

You'll get used to it.

He picked up another newspaper, a copy of Izvestia from a few days prior. It contained a report on Tito's funeral, calling it "the largest state funeral of the 20th century," attended by delegations from 128 countries. There was also a news article about the eradication of smallpox, stating that the World Health Organization had officially declared smallpox extinct from the earth.

Turning to the next section, there was a small news item about France, stating that France announced on June 26 that it had successfully developed a neutron bomb, adding that "NATO continues its nuclear arms race, threatening world peace." There was also a news item about the United States, saying that the US had reinstated its conscription registration system "in preparation for launching a new war of aggression."

If he remembers correctly, the Iran-Iraq War is coming up, and the pro-American Pahlavi dynasty of Iran is about to be forced to retreat to the American mountains of asceticism.

A short message in the corner mentioned that the United States was experiencing a severe heat wave that had caused hundreds of deaths. The wording was brief, but a sense of schadenfreude permeated the message.

Slava put down the newspaper, leaned back on the sofa, and stared blankly at the ceiling. This was the world in 1980, the Cold War raging, two superpowers vying for dominance in every corner of the globe, powder kegs everywhere, war raging everywhere. And he, a time traveler from the future, was now trapped in an apartment in the capital, waiting for the KGB to decide his fate.

"A late-night snack?" Director Nian's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Have a couple of bites."

"Okay, I'll go get something to eat."

Director Nian stood up and went into the kitchen. Soon, the sound of the refrigerator door opening was heard, followed by the clattering of pots and pans.

Slava didn't move. He continued staring at the ceiling, his mind a jumble. He thought about his life before he transmigrated, when he was an ordinary programmer, going to get off work and coming home every day, occasionally scrolling through his phone, reading the news, and arguing with people online. He cared about politics, but only online. He never imagined he would actually get involved.

Now he's been thrown into 1980, into an era he'd only ever read about in books. And not as a bystander, but caught in the eye of the storm.

Secret Service. Andropov. The fate of the Union.

Putting these words together only made him feel absurd.

The sizzling sound of frying eggs came from the kitchen. Director Nian was humming a song, which seemed to be a very new one, supposedly very representative of the 80s.

Slava closed his eyes. The television was broadcasting the news, the announcer reading from his script in that standard accent. The content was similar to what was in the newspapers, all about preparations for the Olympics and the international situation. The scene switched to Luzhniki Stadium, where a group of workers were inspecting the seats and lighting equipment.

Then came a news report about agriculture, saying that a certain collective farm had exceeded its production target for the first half of the year. The footage showed endless wheat fields and farmers operating combine harvesters.

As Slava watched those images, something else was on his mind.

"Year Director".

"Ok?"

"I have a question."

"Ask away."

“You said my mission is to change the course of history,” Slava whispered in Director Nian’s ear, “but how exactly? And in what way?”

Director Nian remained silent for a while.

“I don’t know,” she said. “All I know is that if things had continued on the original trajectory, the league would have broken up in 1991. Your task might be… to prevent it from breaking up? Or to end it in a different way? For example, breaking it up ten years earlier would be changing history.”

Do you know how difficult this is?

"I know."

"The disintegration of the alliance was not due to a single reason, but rather a combination of numerous factors. Economic problems, ethnic issues, rigid systems, bureaucratic corruption, war, the Chernobyl nuclear disaster... and the out-of-control reforms in Gotu. These are not things that one person can change."

So you're planning to give up?

“I didn’t say I’m giving up. I just said it’s almost impossible, and you’re overestimating me.”

Director Nian turned to look at him, her rose-red eyes shining brightly in the dim light.

“What you just said to Sherov—about computers, about information systems, about OGAS—may actually be useful.”

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, you don't need to change everything. You just need to find that key point, that point that can create a chain reaction."

"for example?"

"For example... let General An live a few more years? That's better than letting Chernenko launch a counterattack, right? Or let the reformists in the military have more say? And let the alliance not fall too far behind in information technology?"

Slava thought about it and realized that this line of thinking made some sense. The course of history often depends on certain key moments, and if changes can be made at these moments, it might really have a butterfly effect.

He's taking a gamble, hoping to turn a bicycle into a motorcycle. He's currently insignificant and can only indirectly influence history through this method. Who knows, maybe one day he'll really become a leader! Sigh, I'm starting to daydream again.

“I don’t even know if I’ll live to see next week,” he said. “What’s the point of talking about changing history?”

“So focus on doing the things at hand first,” Director Nian said. “Make the Secret Service think you’re useful, and make them willing to protect and train you. We can deal with the rest later. You have to understand that even Putin after the collapse of the alliance came from the Secret Service.”

Slava nodded. It was the only thing he could do at the moment.

The news on TV ended, and a movie started playing. It was black and white, and looked like an old film from the 1950s or 60s, about the Great Patriotic War. They didn't watch it; instead, they each went back to their bedrooms.

Slava lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The sounds of cars passing by outside the window were occasionally mixed with the barking of dogs and the voices of people.

In the capital in July, it gets dark very late. The curtains weren't fully drawn, and a ray of twilight shone through the gaps, casting a long shadow on the wall.

He remembered many things. He remembered the night before he transmigrated; he had worked late and it was already dark when he left the office building. Then a large truck... When he woke up again, he was lying in a small alley, with a silver-haired woman standing next to him, telling him that he had transmigrated.

He thought of his family. He knew he had parents, and maybe siblings, but he couldn't remember their faces. It was a strange feeling, as if someone had dug a hole in his memory, hollowing out all the information about who he was, leaving only scattered pieces of knowledge that weren't part of his personal experience.

What kind of time travel is this? He turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

------

Nothing happened the next day.

Slava and Nian spent the whole day in the apartment. They watched TV, read the newspaper, and ate the leftovers from the refrigerator. In the afternoon, Slava went downstairs to find the building manager, Natasha, and asked if he could buy something. The manager, a plump woman in her fifties, was indifferent and gave him a note saying that he could buy basic necessities at the corner store.

He bought some bread, sausages, tea, and sugar, spending most of the money he had left in his pocket. On his way back, he noticed a man in a gray jacket smoking across the street—an old acquaintance.

On the third day, there was finally a knock on the door.

Standing outside the door was Sherov. He was still wearing the same gray sweater and gold-rimmed glasses, but his expression was more serious than the last time they met. Behind him stood two young men in plainclothes, clearly his subordinates.

"Good evening," Sherov said. "Sorry to bother you."

"Hello, what can I do for you?" Director Nian asked.

Sherov did not answer directly. He looked at the two men and then said, "Pack your things and come with me."

"where to?"

"Someone wants to see you."

Slava's eyes lit up.

Sherov said, "Some people are very interested in what you said last time—about computers, about information systems."

He paused, then said a name.

"Yuri Vladimirovich wants to see you."

Slava was taken aback.

Yuri Vladimirovich—in Russian custom, addressing someone by their first name followed by their patronym is a formal yet respectful way of addressing them. This implies that the person Sherov is referring to is a rather important figure.

Yuri... Vladimirovich... Damn, he remembered, Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, the current head of the Secret Service, and the future supreme leader of the alliance.

Director Nian gently nudged his elbow and said in a voice only he could hear, "Brother Lao, don't just stand there like an idiot. This is the chance you've been waiting for."

Slava took a deep breath and nodded.

"We'll go and pack it up right away."

He turned and went into the bedroom, picking up the crumpled coat. His heart was pounding, but he tried to keep his hands from trembling. The man who succeeded Hoonjong in 1982, attempting reforms but living less than two years, the man many historians considered the last leader of the Union who might have saved the country…

Slava didn't know whether to feel excited or terrified. He left his bedroom and followed Sherov downstairs with Nian Dao. A black luxury Volga was parked downstairs, its engine already running, its headlights shining in the twilight. Sherov opened the back door and gestured for them to get in.