Everything, for the Revolution [Lev/Public]

"Students of Vienna, please open your eyes!"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave--"

"There is suffering and oppression all around us, but you are not powerless to stop it! If you value righteous ideals, then fight for them!"

"Sir, please get off of that table--"

"You are the vanguards of revolution! Do not sit back and allow the people to be exploited and treated like servants to the upper class!"

"You are disturbing the students--"

"THE STUDENTS HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW WHEN THERE IS INJUSTICE IN THE WORLD, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, HERR PROFESSOR."

"I'm going to call security, if you don't leave, right now."

"Do your worst; you can't silence truth!"

They did their worst. It silenced him.

Groaning after being bodily dragged and thrown out of the building, as a result of refusing to cooperate, Lev picked himself up off of the street. His shoulder ached where it'd hit the cobblestone, but that was the least of his worries. Dazed (Did he hit his head?), he watched in a stupor for a moment as all of the revolutionary essays (some written by him, but most were works by other liberal writers) he carried scattered across the ground. For the past few days (Or was it weeks?), he'd been bringing them everywhere with him, having convinced himself that the secret police was searching his apartment for evidence while he was out. He knew--his landlord had been giving him funny looks, lately. (And it was certainly not because he was way behind on his rent.)

But now that they were effectively out of his hands, they could easily end up in anyone else's. And it would be more than enough evidence to have him sent off to some labor camp. Not to mention, people were stepping on them, and he didn't appreciate that.

Scrambling to his feet, he scooped up the ones that had fallen closest to him, and made a mad dash after the rest. Much to his dismay, far fewer people helped to pick them up than they did smear the ink with their footprints. Eventually, he gave up with pleading for them to stop and resorted to pushing them out of the way, instead. Lev was nothing if not good at angering people. More so than he was at reasoning with them, anyways, if his past attempts to rouse rebellion were any indication.

Miraculously, though, he did manage to retrieve all of the incriminating papers--all but one, that had been carried some distance on the wind. He wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, so he didn't know where he was, at the moment. Behind him, he'd left a trail of very unhappy people. And there was about to be one more, because someone was approaching the last essay. He could almost see their foot in slow-motion, about to come down on that last sacred sheet of higher thinking. So he did what he had to.

He tackled them onto the street at full speed. Anything and everything for the revolution.


((/short, whatever Who did he tackle? Where are they, now? Totally up to you-- XD))

Therese had been innocuously walking, doing her usual best not to look anyone on the walk in the eye. To remain peacefully inconspicuous where she usually (or so she thought) stook out like a sore thumb. Really, the more she took radical steps to avoid recognition and interaction, the more people stared.

But at the moment, all was where it should be-- she was where she liked to be. Away from most everyone else. She failed to realize she was practically rubbing herself against the stone of the ring's buildings as she pressed against it to give herself adequate space. She was going to make it home alive (every time she left the house she knew in the back of her mind that death was always around the corner and each day out might be her last. She felt considerably proud of her bravery, most days).

She also failed to realize her foot was about to come down on a certain paper. Then again she didn't have the time to, as she was forcibly removed from the sidewalk and landed with a thud and ruffle of petticoat on the street, where carriages narrowly avoided running her over. She lay there for a moment, wheezing unceremoniously, having the wind knocked out of her and having corsetry that all but prevented it from getting back in. It also prevented her from realizing that her skirt had been repositioned and her stockings were on display-- on further inspection, her bustle cage seemed to have busted to pieces as well.

She should have prepared for something like this to happen, her conscience declared as she stared wide-eyed and panicked into the crowd, too paralyzed to even fox her clothes. Everything that can go wrong, will. Therese just hadn't prepared for this particular incidence.

Finally she looked to her side-- who had doomed her to a breakdown today?-- and saw... The Russian nut-job.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" She shrieked, scrambling to stand. "I'M GOING TO CALL THE POLICE--FOR STALKING!" For the life of her she couldn't figure out why he even would. But he seemed to be. Seeing the paper at her feet, she picked it up in a fervor. It was probably a list of things she had been doing that day, since he was following her. Probably. Plausibly. Possibly.

Death was probable, plausible, and possible and she prepared for it every day (perhaps she was just simply waiting for it).

In retrospect, it had perhaps been poor decision-making on his part to consign himself to the cobblestone again, since it nearly made him drop everything, for a second time. But then, he did have a tendency towards impulsiveness. 

When he was screamed at in an all-too-familiar voice, though, he found himself very seriously considering being more cautious in the future. Of all people, it would have to be the uppity rich girl from the other day. The very type of person he was campaigning against. Or worse, the very type of person he suspected of being a personal threat to his freedom. He hadn't confirmed that yet, but this certainly didn't help his suspicions.

"Who's stalking!? I think you're the suspicious one, here! Or was it just sheer coincidence that you happened to very nearly intersect my personal papers--the very papers that could be used against me? And I'll have that back, thank you very much." He snatched the no-longer-so-secretly incriminating essay back from her, accusingly, as if she was the one who'd pushed him to the ground, in the first place. ...Or at least, he tried to snatch it. About half of it ripped away, in his hand, leaving her with the other half. In the height of his paranoia, he didn't even notice. He did notice, however, that people were stopping to stare.

Practically bristling with irrationality, he shouted at the crowd, "DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM!? KEEP WALKING!" They kept walking. Few wanted to try their luck with getting attacked by a lunatic. As for Lev, he did not appreciate people staring at him like he was doing something strange. Because it made him think that they thought he was suspicious. Which only served to make him all the more paranoid and stare-worthy.

When the last startled-looking passerby had cleared off, he rounded back on her and warned, "Don't follow me--if you think I don't know if you are, then you're wrong. And if you aren't, don't get any funny ideas."

"I was following you?!" She repeated incredulously, crumpling the paper in her hands and condemning it to the street. "I was going home! Contrary to what you may think, you aren't exactly suspicion-worthy!"

Suddenly her breath caught in her throat. She had yelled. Yelled that loudly. In public. Suddenly it was a chore to stutter out words. She never would speak in public-- and it very well may have been the first time she raised her voice. So, in the exchange she seemed to lose her voice.

"L-like I would-- would even f-f-follow you!" She squeaked along. "I d-don't have t...t-time to go watch you roll around in horse... Horse p-poo!"

As he walked away, she wondered... Where did a man like that go? Somehow she couldn't even picture him in a home. And she had no notion of what his...passion involved. On an impulse--she didn't know she even had any. It wouldn't make her governess very happy, at any rate-- she shuffled along far behind him. Not for revenge, and completely without malice. She just couldn't imagine where in the world he was going.

He barely heard what she said, after she stated that he wasn't suspicion-worthy. If that's how she felt, that was all he needed to hear. She was no longer a threat, to him. On to more campaigning.

...Unfortunately for him, when someone actually was following him, it usually tended to be the occasion when he didn't notice. Wandering until he found a good place to stand and shout at people, he proceeded to do so...it was something of a miracle that his voice never gave out.

"Citizens of Vienna, you are living with a veil pulled over your eyes! Every day, people are suffering, and you cannot go on ignoring it! Centuries have passed, and yet we still live in a world where an elite minority controls the wealth, and the majority struggles to make ends meet. This 'elite' class may like you to think that it is best for things to always stay the same, but you mustn't believe it! They have a tight grip on this country and the world; of course they want it to stay the same! Of course, they will try to stomp out ideas of change! Of course, they will put you down, and try to keep you down, so long as you threaten to rise!

"But it's not hopeless: no better society was ever built on hopelessness, and no people ever rose to a better place because they felt they couldn't shake their chains! You may think you are powerless to act, but you're not! You are free--completely free! You are free by birth; the very nature of being alive is to be free! Any king or emperor that has the nerve to tell you otherwise is lying! If you want to jump from a building, who can stop you? If you want to speak your mind, who can force you into silence? Only fear of those who rule and of social conformity is what hinders the oppressed, but why should we fear? We have nothing to lose, and everything to gain! If you are tired of your predicament, all you have to do is decide to change it!"

Most people passed by, uninterested. Some gave him dirty or weary or suspicious looks. Few seemed intruiged, but not enough to stick around. But he didn't particularly mind if no one stopped to listen: as long as people heard snippets, that was the main goal. For the seeds of revolution to be planted in as many minds as possible.

She hadn't expected him to just stop in the middle of the square-- she nearly ran into him (a second time). Standing back behind the edge of a wall (more people might have been looking to see why she was doing it than to hear what he was talking about), she listened, at first feeling a bit bad for him that no one was really listening. He had the charisma... But for all his words could not appeal to the rest of the senses. Or did not. She supposed no one was born stinky.

So in thought, she didn't catch the beginning of his speech-- but happened opportunely on words that pried her psyche wide open-- perhaps not wide (she was hesitant to use any kind of hyperbolic adjective-- she didn't like the intensity).

"But it's not hopeless: no better society was ever built on hopelessness, and no people ever rose to a better place because they felt they couldn't shake their chains! You may think you are powerless to act, but you're not! You are free--completely free! You are free by birth; the very nature of being alive is to be free!

Slowly as he kept speaking, she inched out of the corner to a place where she could really hear him. She didn't realize that by then, she was standing right in front of him.

"why should we fear?"

Therese couldn't say she knew the plight of anyone lower than she-- except for the servants, and they lived and slept and were taken care of in-house. On the contrary, she was the one who feared the majority. She just hadn't caught the part where he encouraged them to rise.

"Is all that true?" She asked quietly after a moment. "Or are you lying?"

But what if he said it was the truth... But was really lying?

So wrapped up he was in the rhetoric, that he likely wouldn't have noticed if an entire crowd had gathered to listen to him, let alone an audience of one. It was when he paused to catch a breath, that he heard the meek voice--practically the opposite of his (awfully shouty) tone.

"Of course it's true!" He began, automatically, empathetically--until he realized who he was talking to.

Clutching his heart, which he could have sworn skipped a beat, he very nearly made a run for it. Because if this wasn't the final, clinching proof that she was a spy, then nothing was. But...he glanced around her (literally, he looked around her), as if someone was hiding in wait behind her skirts, but... No secret police. No one preparing to leap out and drag him back to Russia. And she wasn't making a face like a triumphant spy, catching her victim in the act that would be his downfall.

Still, if she was a spy, then she surely suspected him, at this point. There was only one solution: lead on like he'd guessed nothing. If he caught any more undeniable evidence that she was out to get him, he'd flee the country. If not...well, it never hurt to have another person turned over to the cause.

"Well, of course, there's no such thing as 'truth'," he continued, slipping into a more colloquial, philisophical tone: lower, contemplative, but with some secret self-assurance. As though he were casting a spell on reality itself--if only to his own eyes. 

"'Truth' is relative; what's real to me may not be real to other people. Not that that's a bad thing! You can create your own truth, whenever you want, regardless of what anyone wants you to believe." He shrugged one shoulder, "That's why we debate and make speeches, because we want to convince people--we can't force them to believe us. At least, not if they know they have an option."

Good, good, he was remaining relatively calm--or at least, as calm as he was when he didn't have paranoia boiling inside him. ...Rather than just simmering, as it usually was.

Was he having a stroke? If she was afraid for herself dying, she was even more afraid that somehow, she might inadvertently cause the death of someone else. This was another reason why she avoided social interaction-- if someone was distracted for even a moment it could change the course of their day and possibly if it ended with them alive or dead. This was how she spent her time. The only one she really confided in was her maid-- and she had expressly told her (many times) that she didn't want to hear of it. She certainly wouldnt hear that she spent the rest of her day with a possibly homeless smelly Russian... She didn't know what, at any rate.

And maybe not the rest of her day-- the way he was eyeing her and... Well, circling her like a shark was making her eyes more wide with fright than they usually were.

Even more than that when he explained his words.

"...If nothing is real... If reality is just what people think-- then... " She couldn't find the right word. "Then what... What is this all for?"

She had never decided to contemplate her own life before she'd gotten engaged. And the more she thought about it, the more depressed and fearful she became. There were too many questions in life and she felt like there was no time to find the answers. Maybe she would just get them from someone else.

Maybe she also shouldn't have expected an answer to such a question right off the bat.

If she'd told him that she thought he was possibly homeless, he might have been mildly surprised. And if she told him he smelled bad, well... He was usually so caught up in his philosophy that he forgot to attend to himself. Not just with personal hygiene and clothes-washing, but with eating and sleeping, too. If he got too lost in his thoughts, he could be wandering around the city for over a day and a half without being fully aware of the physical world.

That said, he was certainly quick to explain that world.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, he rocked back and forth on his heels, "Well, it's like that time in your life when you stood on top of a building and were afraid to fall off. But you weren't only afraid of falling, were you? You're also afraid that you could throw yourself off. It would only take a second, and no one could stop you once you're falling, not even yourself. That's freedom. But even if you recognize that you have freedom, that doesn't necessarily mean that you jump, because of it."

"It's a similar thing, here," he gestured out at the passerby, as if to indicate that all of Vienna was his (intended) audience, "People should know that they can better their government and society and way of thinking, if they'd only realize they have the option, by birthright. But that's the thing: most people don't know that, because they're always being told what to do. You have to open their eyes to the oppression." He opened his own eyes wider, as if to demonstrate. It only served to make him look slightly more unhinged than normal.

It was here that he waited to see what kind of reaction he'd get. If she were a spy, she'd leave, to get someone to arrest him. And he'd run in the opposite direction and never stop, until he found a safer place to peddle his ideals.

Flashing his gap-toothed grin, he couldn't help (really, he could go on talking forever, if no one stopped him) but add, "Unless by 'this', you mean life, because then, the answer is 'nothing'. That's another thing you're free to do: create meaning."

"I've n-never stood on top of a... b-building." She lied carefully, as if he actually knew the truth. People just like her-- young aristocrats, socialites (maybe not just like her), people with promising futures had been jumping from buildings, from bridges... Anything that was high enough to end a life without meaning in a ceremony that might mean something imperative, but it's executor had already died. In a place where one couldn't keep secrets it was their secret to the world.

She had stood over a building once, and looked down at the sidewalk where people shuffled by, completely unaware of their future, and thus, afraid of it. She was, anyway. Of some dramatic irony of passing life that only her god knew, she was afraid. And she was even becoming suspicious of Him... So what really controlled things? What was the ultimate goal in life? If death was the reward then she'd rather finish it as quick as she could, herself. But when she had stood there, one foot on the edge, she felt more afraid than ever, and had ended up just falling back into her balcony and crawling back into her bed in cowardice. She was too afraid to live her life, and too afraid toilet go of it. So what did she really have to fear? Many, many things she hadn't found names for, yet.

"I think you're wrong that only some people are oppressed." She though aloud. "You weren't always poor, you should know." It didn't seem logical that he would always be poor. Education didn't come from being a serf. Some people took disillusionment more proactively than she.

And as for meaning to her life... There was none. "I'm getting married soon-- I think. I h-hope. I asked my mother... What do I do, to be a wife?" She bit her lip, wanting to laugh at the anecdote but finding the whole thing too heavy on her lungs. "She told me the same things I always did. I said 'M-Mama I've done nothing'. Then she said she had something to do and... l-left.

"Haven't you? Well, you should try it. It's one of those life experiences," he replied, as though it were anything as innocent as a first crush, or riding a horse. A rite of passage, with no wrong or right outcome.

He did not, however, enjoy talking about himself when he'd first stood on the proverbial ledge. "Middle class," he informed her bluntly, "It was what we call an 'inauthentic' lifestyle, so I gave it up." Truthfully, he had given his fate to the cause, knowing that he could very well lose everything for it. And he had, in a sense. His home, his money, and even his family, he was willing to let go of...but it would have been a lie to say he wouldn't have liked to finish his education. 

"'Inauthentic' means living as 'one' should--a way of life predetermined by anyone other than oneself--and instead of how you should. The class system creates inauthenticity: I was born into the middle class, but so what? I wanted to be something else. Of course, there's limitations to freedom--I'd also like to try being a bat, you know, but it's proven to be impossible."

He was beginning to see that she was probably not anyone he should have been weary of. Just a...well, he didn't know what. Perhaps a person on the cusp of change. She was young, so it was likely that she was at that age, when one started to realize that they were going to have to live their own life, soon. That was the age when he'd decided that his life wasn't authentic.

He shrugged, hands still in his pockets, "So if you don't like nothing, then do something." A pause. Then, without warning, and partly just to see her reaction, he declared, "I think I fancy standing on a ledge. Do you know if there's one closeby?"

She only shrugged a bit at his suggestion, as if she was simply considering a crush or riding a horse. Probably not the best reaction, if she was trying to pass it off as being never experienced.

Only middle class? What middle class? And besides that, she still didn't understand his logic. "You gave up living... Pretty well, to...." She looked him up and down, as if she was afraid maybe he didn't notice how much he'd fallen to disrepair. Did he realize no one would take him seriously? The rest of what he was saying made some kind of sense but... How would she ever want to be anything but upper class? Yet, it had it's own limitations, but she always felt they were better to bear than a lower standard of living. Maybe she was wrong.

Before she could ask him what he would suggest to do in place of nothing (she was stuck in a limbo-- afraid for and against most things, and unsure of what she wanted or if she even wanted anything more from an already disappointing and frightening life at all), he asked her for a ledge.

"You can't just get up on a public ledge," She said without thinking, possibly betraying her experience. "They arrest people before they can, so many people try nowadays." And she didn't want to get into trouble at home for apparently trying to commit suicide. A pitiful thing to be afraid of. Just as suddenly as he had suggested it, she mumbled, "If you mean it, follow me." Maybe he would understand.

And so she walked the way to the apartments, hugging close to the wall and periodically pausing and glancing around with wide eyes as if to make sure everything was the way it supposed to be-- change was a formidable foe to her. Finally getting to a large set of doors, she nodded towards her russian... Friend to the doorman and went inside. It most definitely wasn't a middle class home. Glancing down with quiet disdain from the hallways and stairways were large portraits of her brothers, he sisters, her father, her father's father, and the father of his father, and so on. "We all get another when we're married." She noted absently as almost reassurance to herself, looking up briefly at the portrait of her, no older than 10, and considerably more healthy. "Don't wear a hat inside, remember?" As if he'd suddenly gotten amnesia about being not poor.

"Get someone to take your coat, too."

She sure did know a lot about it, for someone who'd never tried it. Perhaps it was her hobby to study such things, but she didn't want to experience it, herself. Which would have been a shame, since he was of the opinion that one could never truly understand what they studied unless they tried it, firsthand. You couldn't truly know a book from a summary; you had to read it yourself. You couldn't understand how to treat sick people if you never took a patient. The liar paradox didn't mean anything until you wrote it on a napkin in a cafe.

Or perhaps she wasn't being honest. That was always possible, too.

Nevertheless, he followed her, walking in his own peculiar fashion, and giving the butler a distrustful look when they arrived at the destination. Already, he didn't like her house. He could practically smell the old money, and it made him ill--but he wasn't here to quarrel over her social standing and how it was wrong. She likely had no say in choice of housing, anyways.

That didn't stop him, however, from making faces at the paintings on the wall when she wasn't looking.

He took his hat and coat off (of course, he knew proper etiquette and could have followed it, if he chose to), but held onto them with an iron grip (because he usually didn't choose to), "No, I think I'll hang on to it, myself." He didn't leave any room for compromise. Even if he was going to temporarily put aside his views and be a guest of the bourgeoisie, there was no way he was going to act the part, too. Besides, he didn't trust anyone with his coat; his essays were inside of it.

It occurred to him maybe a little too late, as he was sticking his tongue out at a particularly grim-looking portrait: why were they in her house, anyways, if they were just looking for a ledge? A staircase, perhaps? A window? He hadn't the slightest clue.

Every once in a while she would glance back to make sure he wasn't stealing. Why was he making faces? How old was he, anyways? Nevertheless she kept moving, pausing at the ends of hallways to make sure she didn't see anyone-- or, a certain person. It was unclear. Her siblings no longer lived there, and her parents liked to socialize... More than she.

After walking under countless Venetian glass lights and up staircases, she reached the top floor, and, after checking the hallway one more time, pushed open the doors to her room without saying anything. It didn't seem right but... There wasn't another safe place to possibly risk one's life. It was the room of a youngest child-- swaddled in fantasy and creature comforts, but no real reality. Nit was possible that as neurotic as she was, the sheltering was meant to help, but it did quite the opposite. Walking to the glass doors that led to the balcony, she told him, "You need to open this door and then climb up the rain spout to the roof as fast as you can." Her room overlooked a courtyard and not a street but one couldn't be too careful.

It was lucky for her that he was too preoccupied with being...well, himself, to think about taking advantage of the situation. Especially being a member of a terrorist organization willing to do just about anything to bring her kind down, this would have been an opportune moment to hold her hostage, slit her throat, or otherwise hurt her. Examples had to be made, sometimes. If nothing else, being a man, he could have, if nothing else, raped her.

As it was, he just found himself grimacing inwardly with disgust at the room. Good god, how the other half lived.

When she indicated where to go, he let himself over, taking the initiative to open the doors. Glancing out and up said rain spout, he questioned, "Oh, are you not coming? I don't know if I'm comfortable with walking around someone else's house...even if it's the roof. It's the principle of it, you know?"

Striding outside onto the balcony, he peered down, "What's wrong with this ledge? Couldn't you just--" Lifting himself up, he demonstrated by balancing precariously on the railing. A gust of wind blew through, and he wobbled slightly, but retained his balance.

"It's terrifying!" He informed her in something that sounded more like bemused good cheer than terror. "Funny, how freedom can do that to you--"


Annelie was out shopping for hairpins--not altogether unusual, as it was, after all, her job. What was unusual, however, was what she saw when she was on her way back home. By sheer chance, she'd happened to glance upwards where the mistress's window was, and was greeted with a very startling sight.

What was more disturbing, the fact that he was a stranger, a man (in the mistress's room), or ready to fall to his death? She honestly wasn't sure. But she wasted no time mulling over it.

Breaking into a sprint, she charged past the butler inside and up the stairs and down the halls, never slowing down until she made it to Therese's room. Normally, she knew better than to just barge in loudly and unexpectedly on it's jittery occupant, but...this was an exceptional case.

"Mistress!" She exclaimed, as she threw the door open, out of breath and fully prepared to throw the shabby-looking man (if she'd had time to notice, she would have been appalled by his entire being) off of the balcony, herself, if he'd so much as touched a hair on the young comtesse's head.

As fearful as she was of everything else, her parents took great care to make sure she never knew enough about blatant violence to really be worried. Jack the Ripper had been running rampant through London, was the talk of Vienna, yet she wasn't familiar with the name. If it was in the newspaper, the servants were ordered to cut it out. And she didn't talk to enough people to hear about it. She worried about dying in all different ways... Except being deliberately executed by someone else. There weren't enough cases to convince her that it could happen to anyone at anytime and that for bad luck, she was usually that anyone.

She would have gone with him to the roof, had he not decided to change course and be more public about it. Her face paled-- she was really more afraid of getting in trouble than him dying-- and stared in shock for a moment before she surprised even herself and started laughing. Slowly, shakily at first, it quickly became genuine. She was usually too on edge to really laugh, but just the fact that he hadn't even checked to see if anyone was looking, or even hesitated... It wasn't exactly 'funny', per se, but somehow relieving. He was in charge of his own destiny-- chance wasn't going to send him over a ledge he chose to be on.

That is, until she heard heels clicking faster on the cement below them echo off the buildings. Someone had seen him there? She rushed to the railing and looked down, immediately panicking. Annelie. "Get down...!" She squeaked in a hushed voice, as if it was some secret. Finally deciding she had no choice (ugh, what was on his sleeves--) she grabbed him by the arm and pulled as hard as she could, falling on the tile in the process. The maid was one of her only friends, and she'd confided everything to her but... She didn't want to make it seem like she was going to contemplate a jump again.

"Mistress!"

"H-here..." She mumbled sheepishly, half hoping she wasn't heard.

On the flip side, in the past decade or so of his life, he'd been involved in a group so violent that it'd become somewhat infamous all over Europe--not just in Russia. It was a violence driven by technically good intentions, but was violence, nonetheless. And then it all culminated in attempt after attempt, and finally--assassination. Thousands of people were brought to trial, and Lev had to flee the country. Everything they'd worked for had backfired: the violence was crushed by an iron fist. By more violence. Yet he still believed in the cause. Everything, anything, for the revolution.

He wasn't sure why she was laughing, but it was a somewhat refreshing thing to hear from such a high-strung person (not that he could talk). It ended quickly, though, when she suddenly yanked him off of the railing. He found himself landing forcefully on the ground for the second time that day--well, half on the ground, half on her. Too dazed to really notice, all he could wonder was why on earth she'd done it.

The answer came in the form of a heeled shoe kicking him roughly in the ribs, pushing him off. His complaints fell on deaf ears.

Fretting, Annelie took Therese under the shoulders and hoisted her to her feet, standing between her and the Russian, as though she expected him to pull a knife on them. "What's he done to you, miss? Did he hurt you? I'll call one of the boys, they'll throw him out--" Struggling to his hands and knees, Lev clutched his side with one hand and groaned loudly at the prospect of being thrown to the ground for a third time. The maid shot him a look even dirtier than his clothes.

She'd be hard pressed to come up with an answer to "What's outside of Austria?". She didn't know anything specific. It didn't mean she never wanted to know... Though it would probably terrify her.

When he landed on her, the air left her lungs once again. She could almost vomit-- she was wheezing in his stench. Struggling to speak through her coughing, she finally caught her breath and mumbled timidly, "He wasn't doing anything, he..."

What was she going to say? That she'd invited a man up to her room to stand on ledges? And dirty and poor or not, it didn't feel right to falsely accuse him so she wouldn't get in trouble. ...But it did feel right to not get in trouble. But suddenly his words passed through her head-- What do we have to fear?

She sucked in a breath (not much of one) and told her, voice slowly getting more confident. "I was speaking to him-- and it was a mistake to bring him up here, I didn't know." She took another look at him. No one would take him seriously-- and the butler wouldn't let him in again-- if he looked like that. "Please get one of my brothers' extra suits and fit him for it. Oh, and if he likes, get someone to get a bath for him." Turning her gaze back to him, she smiled slightly. "He's very smart, and no one will hear him. I think I should."

He'd struggled to his feet, rubbing his side--no doubt, there'd be a bruise there, in the morning. And already, he'd been getting mentally prepared to collect more. It wasn't like he was going to bother defending himself; what would be the point? It's not like they would believe him, if he tried.

But to his genuine surprise, he wasn't framed. And for once, he was speechless, when she declared that he was an intellectual.

However wide his eyes were, though, they were no match for Annelie's. She was easily a hundred times more surprised. Where had this sudden burst of confidence come from? She wasn't even sure what to think, except to follow orders. "Yes, mistress," she complied, sounding almost breathless with shock.
Ducking out of the door for a moment, she called for some of the lower servants to prepare a bath (yes, she'd said 'if he likes', but if he was going to be so charitably put into one of the young master's suits, he'd better start  liking being less filthy) and some clothes.

Lev was still considerably taken aback. By the time he opened his mouth to say something, the household employees had rushed in to whisk him away.

Closing the door behind them, the lady's maid turned back to face her lady, and asked uncertainly, "Is there anything else you need, miss?" She was dying to know what had brought about the sudden change, but it wasn't entirely her place to ask directly. Besides, she shouldn't like to risk ruining it by pointing it out.


Lev felt...strange. He'd been wearing the same student's coat ever since he'd left the university (honestly, it was probably starting to decay), and now suddenly he'd been put into clothing of a higher quality than he'd ever worn in his life. He wasn't sure if he felt comfortable with it, but...he didn't want to get thrown out, either. Best just to accept the hospitality with good grace.

Once he'd been cleaned, shaved, and suited up, he was finally escorted back to the bedroom, clutching his small stack of essays. He insisted on keeping his old clothes, so they were being put through the wash. And he wouldn't let anyone else lay a finger on even one of the papers. Wondering if he looked just as bewildered as he felt (there was probably a theory to explain his current state of mind, but he couldn't recall it--), he was allowed inside by Annelie, who quickly stepped back to sit in a strategically placed stool so that she was present, but out of sight. She respected the mistress's privacy (or at least, she tried to--sometimes, it was hard to when she got a little overbearing), but it would be scandalous to just leave them alone. And truthfully, she was curious to see what this man was like.

Finding himself just kind of standing in the middle of the room, fiddling with the edges of his papers, he addressed the comtesse, "Um...thank you. You didn't have to do that, but...thanks." He wasn't very good at being polite.

No one had yelled at her, but their surprise alone made her shrink back into herself. But still she had to smile-- nothing like that had ever happened before. She couldn't say for sure if she liked speaking like that, where so many people pay attention, but she didn't exactly hate it.

Did she need anything? Not realizing at all what her guardian might think of it, she (now that the man was gone) pulled the broken bustle cage out from under her dress. "He knocked me down in the street... It broke." She looked lost. And she definitely would have been, without her maid. "...What do I do with it?"

She went back to quietly mumbling. She was even too quiet to remind Annelie she'd rather be called "Therese" than mistress, but it was too informal with other people around.

She shuffled too the sitting area and sat down to wait (incidentally, sitting was much more enjoyable without a bustle cage--). When he finally appeared, she could help but laugh again. Now that she was in her home-- considerably less dangerous than outside) she wasn't so stressed. "If younwerent clean, you couldn't be on the furniture." It seemed callous if one didn't see all that was on his clothes. "You can keep it," She replied to his gratitude. "My brother doesn't live here anymore."

She grinned at Annelie. "Doesn't he look better?" Then, to either of them, she looked down at her hands, unsure of the relevance of her opinion. "I think that when people listen, they want to see themselves in who's talking. Poor people don't want promises of riches from someone who looks worse"--and he did--"and rich people don't want to become filthy and poor." She shrugged and laughed a little sadly. "I don't know. No one listens to me, usually, unless they have to."

Finally raising her gaze back to him, she asked, "Is there really nothing in life to be afraid of?" As if he had all the answers.

Annelie clicked her tongue--more infuriated that he would push over a lady than that anything was broken--and inspected the damage. "It's not too badly broken; let's see if I can't fix it." A little fabric tape would likely do the trick, but if the structure was too weakened, she might have to go out and fetch a new one.

Going back to her work after letting the Russian in, she agreed curtly without looking up, "Yes, miss, he does look quite a lot better." She wasn't going to forgive him so easily for knocking Therese over and going into her room, though--both equally terrible social faux pas, in her opinion.

Lev was all but completely oblivious to the chilly reception by the maid. Quickly, he was slipping back into his usual self, new clothes be damned. Helping himself to a seat without being offered one, he reflected on her statement, "That's a fair observation--I do think that people will follow he who they can identify with, and prestige is an important part of crowd manipulation." He thought for a moment, gathering a counter-argument, "But at the same time, it would be patronizing to tell a crowd of workers about the evils of capitalism, while dressed as a capitalist."
Grinning, he added, "If people don't listen, it's because you're not being narcissistic enough. Leadership is simply 'look at me' turning into 'look at my ideals'; that's how people get other people to follow them. Believing strongly that your ideals are the right ones, and delivering them well and enthusiastically--that's all charisma is. ...Not that that's all you need, to pursuade people." There was an entire science behind crowd mentality, and what was unfortunate for Lev was that it was better applied by politicians, not philosophers.

Her next question was a fun one ('fun' in the sense that there were all sorts of debates to make about it), and he had no problem spilling out answer after answer, "Some measure of fear could be called 'healthy', but if you are talented at convincing yourself of things, then you can certainly become fearless."

"For example, a lot of people fear social rejection. But social acceptance is built on the standards set by society, which are built on morals. And as morals are purely of human fabrication--nothing is, after all, inherently 'right' or 'wrong'--they have no basis in fact or reality, and therefore cannot have any effect on your being, if you don't allow them to. But people do allow them to, because we want to be accepted, even if it means compromising our own needs and happiness. Losing the fear of rejection means sacrificing the notion that 'I need to be accepted, in order to accept myself', and living based solely on the ideas that you create for yourself--whether it makes people like you more or not." He shrugged, "Which is difficult, but not impossible."

"If I was a worker," She mumbled back, still thinking. "I wouldn't want to see someone fighting for me look worse than I did. But I think charisma is important... And you do have that." In spades. Too much of it. Enough to scare most people off.

She listened to his next point, and lightly snorted at him. He didn't look so dirty anymore, but when he did, it didn't seem like he was asking people to look at him-- well, look at him in a good way. "Are you saying you're a narcissistic man?" She thought of all the conversations she'd heard between high class men at parties where she could have not even been there for all the difference it made. If narcism was necessary... He wouldn't get past any of them. "Spend a while going where I do and you'll know what that really means." To a point, she was probably more narcissistic than he. She thought she looked good-- at home. In the beginning of the day, with freshly applied makeup and hair that hadn't been frantically been pulled out of it's bun, she thought she looked pretty. But once that was gone in about 3 hours, well, all she had left was the rest of her. Painfully average, in a world where one had to be something else completely to make an impression. She lived to be average. And she was traveling all the way to Portugal to be Mrs. Average... Hopefully. Or not. Needless to say she still wasn't sold on the deal. But she was too average for anything else.

However, his next words blew her self perception right out of the water. Her eyes got wider and wider with each pause between sentences. They seemed less panicked, then, but more crazed. "That's... That's it!!" She exclaimed, standing up. "That's the secret!" As if no one already knew-- but it was all quite novel for her... And she was taking it way too far.

Almost taking her maid by the shoulders, she ended up speechlessly waving her arms around with a grin of abandon before finally saying, "Annelie-- what you're doing right now, stop it. I don't need it, I won't wear it anymore! And you shouldn't work for me anymore-- you can do whateve you want, like me!" Gripping her head for a moment as if she couldn't hold this monuments epiphany, she paced around the room.

"I...I don't want to get married-- it's not how I want to live, I won't do it!" It felt great to finally have a choice. Well... The choice might be short-lived. Sometimes wealth restricted more than helped. "Call father, tell him so!"

"I'm very narcissistic, in a sense," he was always happy to argue, even if it was to make himself look bad, "I think the ideals I adopted are right and are the ones that should be used to govern the world. And I want everyone to acknowledge them." He was not vain or self-centered, but he stubbornly held fast to the belief that there was no better way than that which liberated the working class. And he wanted everyone else to believe it, too. Not just in Russia, not just in Europe, but all of the world.

It wasn't unsafe to say that he'd always liked to have people listen to him--in that manner, he enjoyed being center-stage. Being the middle child in his family, he'd never quite gotten the respect of the eldest or the coddling of the youngest, so he'd learned to receive attention through different means. By loudly and adamantly declaring what he believed to be 'truth'. It was for a good cause (to his mind), but besides perhaps law, it was the best lifestyle for his personality.

And nothing made him happier than when he successfully convinced someone into an epiphany. It was the greatest feeling ever, after all, for both parties.

Standing up as well (Why not?), he agreed excitedly, "Yes, it's wonderful, isn't it? That's freedom!" Annelie, on the other hand, was considerably startled by Therese's sudden outburst. "Are you sure, mistress...?" Hesitantly, she set the half-repaired bustle down, unsure what to do with it. "I like working you, miss; I shouldn't like to quit my job." Her heart must have skipped several beats--was she being fired?

It had been a bad, bad idea not to throw the Russian out while there'd been a chance. It wasn't good form to say anything against a guest, but she would have liked to strangle him. He'd put all of these crazy ideas into her mistress's head, and as she prepared to throw her life away, he was applauding her the entire time.

"That's right, don't let them dictate your life for you--it's YOUR life!" He was getting just as worked up as her, simply because she was worked up. "Do what you will with it, what right do they have to stop you?"

"You hush!" Annelie finally snapped at him, before leaping to her feet and really taking Therese by the shoulders, "Mistress, please, please think for a moment before you do anything drastic...! Your father will be so angry, and then what will you do?"

Unlike him, she wasn't too keen on making everyone think the way she did (if they did, suicide would be the number one cause of death and no one would leave their homes), she just wanted to completely get away from everyone else and what they thought.

Her crazed epiphany was beginning to be torn down the middle-- consequently making her more crazed in an attempt to repair it. She didn't want to upset Annelie's life, it wasn't really about her. "I...I-- you can come with me!" to where she didn't know. She really had no idea of life beyond the apartment and her family's estate in Styria. "We can live where it's the opposite of all this-- wherever that is!"

Whatever she planned to say was cut off by her maid, who sent a bolt through her whole tirade. "Well... Well what does father care, anyway?" If she had stopped to think, stopped to see the world a little less privileged, she would see that he did care. He was already going to send her away. He was paying for her therapy. He was making sure her life would be comfortable, whether she wanted it or not. Her excitement was replaced by somberness, timidity taking over again. "It's this place, it makes me sick, you know? Inside and out I'm ill, and I don't want to live here. I don't want to be here, I don't want to be me here... I don't want to be anywhere!"

"We need money to live, mistress," she reminded her quietly, "And I'm sure your father cares very much. He's arranging a marriage so that you can be provided for and live happily--"

"'Scuze me," Lev cut in, unable to not interject his opinion, "But I can't help but point out that if she doesn't want to get married, then it's not what's best for her. Therefore, marrying her off would not qualify as looking out for her well-being, in terms of happiness."

Huffing, not bothering to mind her manners (it's not like this young man was anyone important, anyways, no matter how they dressed him up), she demanded, "And what do you know about what's best for a young lady, sir? What business is it of yours, even?" He was the one who had caused all of this, so far as she could see (sometimes it was hard for her to look out for Therese's best interests while still believing that all ladies, regardless of individual personality or disposition or desires, ought to pursue the same destiny--and thus it was hard to believe that she would somehow not grow to accept the marriage and be happy) and now he had the nerve to try and make things worse.

"Nothing, and none," he replied honestly, to each respective question, "But I do know some things, and since I'm here, I might as well have my say-so."

Turning now to Therese, he propositioned, "Of course, I'm just going on what I've gathered so far, but it sounds like you're rather deep in despair, wouldn't you say? 'Despair' means that some defining quality of your identity has been compromised--you think you're meant to be a wife, but you don't want to get married. And because of this contradiction, you're experiencing hopelessness. When you stand on a ledge"--he indicated the balcony--"it seems like all there is, is the ground, and the place you came from." He waved a hand at the room they were in.

"But if the choice is between despair and death, then something is not right! You've recognized you've done nothing, and will continue to do nothing, should you continue with the path you're on. So if you want to have hope, then you should do something different; it's your life, after all!" He was getting worked up again, and this time, it was he who took her shoulders (ignoring the disapproving gasp from the maid), "You say that you don't want to be anywhere, but have you ever looked outward, instead of at the ground, or back at this room? There is so much more than just 'here'!"

He wasn't just making this up on the fly--he spoke from experience. When he'd decided to become a revolutionary, it was when he'd realized that he'd similarly done nothing with his life, and would do nothing with his life, if he continued to live in a middle-class existence. Not high-ranked enough to be accepted by the nobility, but too privileged to feel anything but ashamed to be around the poor. His household had been entirely complacent, well-behaved, and not the type of place one would expect a person involved with a terrorist group to have come from. He'd had a comfortable life, but giving it up meant simultaneously accepting that nothing meant anything, and that discarding hopelessness sometimes meant discarding the way he thought he was meant to live. Because life meant nothing, and therefore he was not 'meant' to live in any way but the way he wanted. He wanted to make her see it, too.

Taking her hand in a rush (another disapproving gasp), he motioned towards the door, "Let's go--you should see it, for yourself!"