في عصر قديم، عاشَتْ أسطورة موسى وشهيرة الشهيرة، الجميلة والأنيقة. لم تكن حياته مجرد قصة عادية، بل كانت كالحكايات الساحرة التي تجذب القلوب والعقول. ولد لهما ابن، سماه موسى، كما ورد في السجلات القديمة. ولكن هل كانت نهاية القصة؟ لا، بالطبع لا. لأن في عالم الخيال والحكايات، كل شيء ممكن، حتى السحر والمفاجآت الغير متوقعة. فلنتابع القصة ونرى ما الذي يخبئه المستقبل لموسى ولسعيه إلى السعادة في عالم سحري وخيالي

  ¡We🔥Come!

⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎ X ⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎

*** *** Y *** ***

To my infinite source of tenderness,

You are my dream.
Not a passing impression —
but a field of gravity in which my mind finds orbit.

I wish you to remain forever that —
an infinite source of tenderness and inspiration.

I’ve studied your work,
not as a critic,
but as someone trying to decode a system of emotional truth
hidden inside brushstrokes and silhouettes.

You do what philosophers fail to do.
You pull intuition into form.
You remind people of the world they forgot to feel.

But what if I told you…

[Parc Léopold, Bruxelles. Des bancs en béton intelligent diffusent une légère chaleur. Un étudiant assis lit un ancien article sur la cybernétique quand un inconnu, la cinquantaine, en imperméable usé, s'arrête devant lui.]

— Is it 2025?

— Excuse me?

— The year. Is it 2025?

— Yes… yes, it is.

— Ah… You don’t know then. Don’t worry. You will. Probably.

L’étudiant referme lentement sa tablette.

— What do you mean?

🎓 Scene: British School, Year 2091 — Literature Room 3C

A narrow classroom in a British grammar school, walls lined with AR-projectors and dusty paper books long since forgotten by the algorithm. A young woman, Miss Elizaveta, stands before a holographic projection of a man with curls and sideburns — Alexander Pushkin, rendered in soft sepia tones, like a half-memory from a dream.

She is a recent graduate of the Imperial Institute of Slavic Semiotics, and now a guest teacher under the "Decolonizing the Curriculum" initiative. Her accent is fluid — part Oxford, part St. Petersburg. Her eyes burn with reverence.

MISS ELIZAVETA

Evolutionary biology gave us the DNA of flesh. But civilizations also evolve — through what we now call cultural DNA. Only in the age of neural nets and cyber-renaissance have we begun to map these layers. But Pushkin — yes, Pushkin! — he saw it before theory was born.

(The students fidget. One boy, David, cheeky and smart, raises a hand.)

DAVID

Wait… are you saying Pushkin stood by the control panel of Russian civilization?

(Laughter ripples across the room.)

STUDENT #2 (mock whisper)

Was the password “bl...”?

MISS ELIZAVETA (smiling, unfazed)

Every empire depends not just on force… but on safe mechanisms for self-modification. Pushkin didn’t write poems. He wrote a hack. A linguistic virus that silently rewired Russian emotional syntax. His metaphors lay dormant in the peasant mind — until, one day, they woke up and realized what the metaphor meant.

DAVID (intrigued)

So he made a virus in the Matrix?

MISS ELIZAVETA (softly, leaning in)

In a way… yes. But this one was sung.

❄️ Scene: Winter Palace – "Protocol of the Poet"

Mid-19th century. Gilded mirrors. Gaslight and crystal frost. The music of the waltz faintly echoes from the marble ballroom. Yet Pushkin — dressed impeccably — lingers by the window, staring into the winter night.

Inside his mind, constructs unfold — fragments of meaning, proof-chains, ideological schemata. He doesn't "think" them — they recur, recursively, like code running beneath a polished UI.

"Civilization isn’t ruled by the tsar. It is ruled by the metaphors that no one dares to question."

Pushkin knows that he is no ordinary nobleman. Yes, he attends the balls. Yes, he duels, drinks, and flirts. But beneath the velvet surface, he is an architect. Each stanza a syntax bomb. Each ode, a veiled instruction set for the future soul of the nation.

A voice interrupts:

DANTES (entering)

— Pushkin? Alexander Sergeyevich. What a pleasure.

Pushkin turns automatically, his courtly smile perfectly rehearsed.

PUSHKIN (bowing)

— Monsieur Dantès. Enchanté. Always at the heart of society.

But in his mind, something clicks.

"Not an accident. Not a man. A reply from the Russian subconscious."

Dantès isn’t a rival. He is a ritual function. A system call from the imperial runtime — meant to terminate the poet before he becomes more than myth.

🎓 Scene: University Office, 2091 — Department of Literature and Meta-Cognition

A quiet room lined with real books — a privilege in the age of infinite scroll. A large screen glows dimly behind the professor’s desk. The cursor blinks over the last line of a student’s work, typed in deliberate green:

“…before he becomes more than myth.”

A beat of silence. The professor, in a loose jacket and antique reading glasses (worn ironically), closes the file. A raised brow.

PROFESSOR
— So let me get this straight. You're suggesting that information technology didn't just change society. It changed human subconsciousness?

STUDENT (calmly)
— Not just subconsciousness. Archetypes.

PROFESSOR (leaning in)
— Archetypes?

STUDENT
— Yes. Programming introduced logical patterns that were previously inaccessible. Entire generations of thinkers broke open the night of unknowing — bit by bit — until information theory became a kind of applied metaphysics.

PROFESSOR (dry)
— Care to elaborate? Without the fireworks?

STUDENT (grinning, but sincere)
— The ancient Greeks would’ve called our processors "machines for instant manipulation of Platonic forms." Their philosophers imagined perfect ideas — we render them now in real-time. Just not with marble — with code.

PROFESSOR (blinking, amused)
— Alright. Enough poetry for today. Final question.

STUDENT
— Go ahead.

PROFESSOR (looking out the window, almost offhand)
— What do you think Pushkin would be doing if he had access to modern technology?

(A long pause. The student leans back. Breathes. His gaze drifts — upward, inward — as though a door just creaked open inside his own architecture. The room holds its breath.)

STUDENT (softly)
— I think... he would’ve written viruses.

(Pause. The professor turns his eyes to the student. Sharp. Respectful.)

STUDENT (continuing)
— Not destructive ones. But poetic infections — that travel through language and emotion. Scripts that awaken sleeping metaphors in people who didn’t know they were dreaming.

(The professor says nothing. Just taps a finger gently on the desk. Then picks up the index tablet.)

PROFESSOR
— You can keep thinking about it. On your own time.

Let me see your grade book, please.

🎬 Scene: Berlin Bunker — May 1945, 03:42

The low ceiling sweats. The air is dense with the fatigue of too many days and not enough futures. A single lamp throws harsh shadows over a table covered in crumpled maps and half-empty teacups. Hitler sits stiffly, fingers twitching against the edge of the wood. Across from him, his adjutant stands pale, holding a Gestapo report. He finishes reading, voice clipped, emotionless.

ADJUTANT (closing the folder)

"...We believe this may be a deliberate psychological operation orchestrated by Allied forces. However, the subject’s level of technical and historical knowledge, as well as the internal consistency of his testimony, prevents us from definitively ruling out the possibility of a temporal incursion. — Heil Hitler."

(He bows his head slightly — a final punctuation mark on the report.)

HITLER (suddenly, breathless)

Ich hab’s doch gesagt!
I told you.
I told you all!

(He stands with unnatural energy, pacing, one hand trembling behind his back.)

HITLER (building intensity)

They laughed. They always laugh — at the artist, at the prophet. But war... war is not madness. It is collapse. A collapse of the wave function of civilization itself!

(He slams his hand on the table. Maps flutter.)

HITLER (quieter, almost analytical)

Wave... turns to sound. Sound... becomes song. The nation sings, and then— Action! Symbols! Blood becomes architecture!

(He pauses. His face contorts into strange serenity, then surges again.)

HITLER (roaring)

The Third Reich cannot die! It is not a regime! It is a pattern — an inevitability!

HITLER (snaps)

Sekretärin!

(A young telegraph operator — sharp-uniformed, hair pulled tight — bursts into the room, hands shaking but stance perfect. A typewriter case swings at her side.)

HITLER (without looking at her)

Emergency transmission. All fronts. All commanders. Cipher level Omega-Schwarz. Take this down!

(The girl sets her typewriter on the edge of the war table, fingers hovering.)

HITLER (dictating)

"Temporal infiltration suspected.
If this is a weapon of the future — we must become the past that cannot be deleted.
All action must reflect the purity of the original wave.
No retreat, no surrender, no compromise of the symbol.
Repeat: No compromise of the symbol.
Heil Hitler."

(She hammers it out with mechanical fury, each letter louder than her breath.)

🛰️ Scene Transition: Moscow, same moment

Office of the General Secretary. Shadows from the reading lamp stretch across polished wood. A low knock. An officer enters, carrying a dark-red folder marked ABWEHR – DECODED.

STALIN (reading, eyes narrowing)

— What is this nonsense... "temporal incursion"?

(He reads the next line. Then again. Then slowly closes the folder.)

STALIN (softly, to himself)

— So... the snake believes someone came back to stop him.

(He looks up.)

STALIN

— Summon Korolev. And bring me the science fiction writer — the quiet one with the eyes.

(He leans forward, fingers steepled.)

STALIN

— If someone did come from the future — I’d like to know whose.

🎬 Scene: 20th Party Congress, Moscow — February 1956, Backstage

Curtains rustle like heavy velvet lungs. Behind them, the immense hall of the Congress waits in hushed, electric anticipation. Red banners flutter. Delegates in rows. Faces disciplined, yet tired. The air smells of tobacco, ink, and the dust of ideology.

In the wings, Nikita Khrushchev adjusts his jacket in front of a warped mirror. Marshal Zhukov stands nearby, arms crossed, lips pursed around a freshly lit cigarette.

ZHUKOV (low)

— Are you sure about this, Nikita?

KHRUSHCHEV (checking his collar)

— It’s not about me, Georgy. We’re not just discussing dead men. We’re talking about the subordination of repressive organs to the Party. About redirecting the wave function of civilization through a new phase of Leninist synthesis.

ZHUKOV (blinks)

— Nikita... Try again. Fewer… zagogulins.

KHRUSHCHEV (smirks, eyes narrowing at his own reflection)

— Wait. Say that again?

ZHUKOV (shrugs)

— Zagogulina.

KHRUSHCHEV (nods decisively)

— That’s it. We’ll begin there.

(A call from the curtain: “Tovariщ Khrushchev, the hall is ready.”) He walks forward. The light bleeds into his eyes. He steps into history. Thunderous applause rises. Then silence.)

KHRUSHCHEV (on stage)

— Comrades… As you are aware from the classified memorandum of the security organs, the cult of personality around Stalin...

(Cut to backstage. Zhukov leans on a table, lights another cigarette. A young officer, clipboard in hand, glances over nervously.)

ZHUKOV (murmuring)

— I’ll tell you something, son… I don’t know your civilizational mathematics — but it seems to me... Hitler made a critical miscalculation in his theoretical projections.

(The young officer squints, unsure if he's hearing military strategy or some esoteric philosophy. He doesn’t realize Zhukov is paraphrasing the forbidden section of Khrushchev’s full draft — never meant to be read aloud.)

📜 [Classified Addendum – Full Text, Unspoken]

The cult of personality, racial theory — these are civilizational hacks, attempts to force one culture to make a quantum leap ahead of others. To reforge history into a unified metric.

But the error lies in misunderstanding the limits of isolated development. An infusoria — a paramecium — may be perfect, but it builds nothing beyond copies of itself.

Even had Hitler succeeded in crafting his crystalline, flawless nation — or Stalin built his iron vertical of governance — they would remain... perfect infusoria. Blind to the next level of complexity.

The future doesn’t belong to pure cells. It belongs to unions of cells — federations of civilizations, like the emergence of neural tissues, where meaning is encoded not by physical DNA, but by shared memory and metaphor.

The paramecium cannot imagine a neuron. And neither fascism nor dogmatic communism can imagine the world beyond ideological borders.

(Back on stage, Khrushchev lowers the first sheet. His hands don’t shake. Not yet.)

KHRUSHCHEV

— The mistakes of the past are not simply political. They are ontological.

And it’s time we correct the wave.

🎬 СЦЕНА: Зал заседаний Царского совета, Зимний дворец, 1916 год

Позолота. Мрамор. Густая тишина, нарушаемая лишь тиканием настенных часов. Министры сидят по периметру длинного стола, обтянутого зеленым сукном. Николай II на возвышении, сдержанный и невозмутимый. За окнами — метель. За дверьми — фронт.

И вдруг — прорыв. Из ниоткуда, как ошибка в театральной декорации, появляется Михаил Сергеевич Горбачёв. Пыльный плащ. Микрофон в руке. Тревожный румянец. В глазах — попытка держаться дипломатично, но излучение истории неумолимо.

ГОРБАЧЁВ (делая шаг вперёд, вкрадчиво)

— Милостивые государи… Позвольте мне представиться. Я — представитель… иначе организованного социального времени. Моё присутствие здесь — не акт вторжения, а попытка установить символический мост.

(Министры насторожены. Петр Аркадьевич уже держит палец на кнопке под столом. Но император — спокоен. Ждёт.)

ЦАРЬ НИКОЛАЙ II (мягко)

— Вы не объяснили, господин… эм… Горбачёв, каким образом ваша цивилизация появилась. Кто её создал?

ГОРБАЧЁВ (уклончиво)

— В нашем времени вопрос "кто" постепенно уступил место вопросу "как". Наша цивилизация — не проект, а сбой, запущенный ускорением коммуникации.

МИНИСТР (слева)

— Ускорением?

ГОРБАЧЁВ (вынимая небольшое устройство — рацию, или, может, диктофон)

— Вообразите: слова, передающиеся не по бумаге, а по эфиру — мгновенно. Тысячи, миллионы голосов — одновременно, без фильтра.

Газета на завтрак? Нет. Мир в реальном времени — у вас в кармане. Каждая идея — словно искра в стогу сухой символики.

(Некоторые министры улыбаются — думая, что это демонстрация безумия. Один — пишет в блокноте.)

ЦАРЬ (внимательно)

— Вы сказали — искра. А искра, господин Горбачёв, может вызвать пожар.

(В этот момент в пространстве происходит что-то странное. Не физическое пламя — но архетипическое возгорание. Всё помещение дрожит, словно ткань времени поддалась жару смыслов. Картины на стенах искажаются. Часы текут. Голоса исчезают. Цвета уходят в сепию.)

🔥 Загрузка локации: "Символ.0 — Москва, 1570"

Гром. Лязг. Черные кони и капюшоны. Туман расползается по каменным плитам Кремля. Перед толпой в чёрных кафтанах — Иван IV, царь, прозванный Грозным. В глазах — лед. В руках — скипетр, словно шприц, вводящий в государство волю одного кода.

ИВАН ГРОЗНЫЙ (громогласно, с вдохновением)

Братья мои, Опричники!
Перестройка завершена.
Византийская прошивка активирована.
Мы — не князья! Мы — хранители символа.

(Опричники бьют посохами в камни. Символика перезаписана. Над Кремлём поднимается герб в форме троичного круга — Византия, Орда и Рим — соединённые в новое ядро: Москва.)

ИВАН ГРОЗНЫЙ

Первый Рим пал от гордости.
Второй — от разделения.
Мы — Третий Рим.
Мы — не империя.
Мы — язык вечной реакции.

На заднем плане, словно тень — Горбачёв. Он не участвует. Он — наблюдатель времени. На его лице — смесь узнавания и тревоги. Он понимает: это и есть — момент форматирования русского архетипа.

ГОРБАЧЁВ (внутренне)

Вот оно… Первичное внедрение. Ядро модели, в которую потом впишутся и Ленин, и Сталин, и я сам. Все мы — итерации одной прошивки, запущенной здесь, на этих плитах, в этот день…

История начинает прокручиваться как фильм — от Ивана до Октября, от 1917 до 1991. Всё это Горбачёв видит — не глазами, а как пассажир в плацкартном купе, мчащемся сквозь века.

🎞️ ВИЗУАЛЬНЫЙ МОНТАЖ:

— Толпа на Сенатской площади, декабристы — Броневик на Финляндском вокзале — Очередь за колбасой в 1987 — Офицеры в Афганистане с усталыми глазами — Горбачёв, снимающий очки в прямом эфире

А ЗА ОКНОМ КУПЕ — Советские граждане везут в сумке с авоськой лимоны из Москвы в Уфу. Лимон — как метафора западного вкуса, цитрус-артефакт в углеводной вселенной. Проводница кричит: "Без чайников кипятка не дам!" Пассажиры спорят, как лучше хранить лимон: в банке с сахаром или завернуть в газету.