Moscow, Russian Federation, April 27, 2027.
The Kremlin was bathed in the soft light of the April evening. Outside, the last remnants of snow were melting, leaving puddles on the cobblestones of Red Square, while the first green shoots were pushing through the damp earth in Alexander Garden. Moscow was alive with the anticipation of the upcoming May holidays: tricolor flags fluttered on Tverskaya Street, banners reading "Happy Victory Day!" swayed above the streets, and traffic jams on the Garden Ring thickened due to the rehearsals for the parade. The city hummed, preparing for the festivities, and the air was filled with the scent of fresh paint from the newly renovated facades. In the president's office, a busy atmosphere reigned: the desk was piled with folders marked "Top Secret", the laptop screen flickered with reports from the General Staff about the readiness of military equipment, and the antique clock in the corner — a gift from Kazan — ticked steadily, counting down the time to the meeting with the governors.
Mikhail Viktorovich, who had taken office two months ago after the March elections, sat in a large chair, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the leather armrest. His face, still unmarked by the weight of long-term leadership, expressed a mixture of concentration and slight irritation: preparations for the holidays were running into delays — one moment, the delivery of flowers for wreaths was late, the next, the mayor's office had requested an extra billion for the fireworks. He wore a dark blue suit with a neat tie, but his jacket hung carelessly on the back of the chair — a sign that he was already feeling at home in the Kremlin.
The office door swung open with a sharp creak, making Mikhail Viktorovich wince. His assistant, Andrei — young, about thirty, in a formal suit from "Bolshyevichka", with messy hair and eyes full of anxiety — rushed in. In his hands, he gripped the latest model tablet issued by the Presidential Administration, its screen flashing red notifications from the emergency alert system.
"Mikhail Viktorovich!" — Andrei's voice trembled with excitement. "Sorry for not knocking, but this can't wait!"
The president set down his pen with the golden emblem, which he had been using to underline a line in the rehearsal schedule, and lifted his gaze, his brow furrowed slightly.
"What is it now, Andrei?" he asked calmly, but with a barely perceptible hint of wariness. "Is the mayor's office at it again with parade ideas?"
"No, it's... something else," Andrei exhaled, stepping closer and nearly dropping the tablet onto the carpet with the Kremlin's pattern. "Roscosmos reported: an anomaly has started in the north and is spreading across Russia. Only on our territory — south, west, and east!"
Mikhail Viktorovich slowly rose, straightening his shoulders. His gaze became sharp, like that of someone used to assessing a threat instantly.
"Anomaly?" he asked, stepping toward the window with a view of the Spasskaya Tower. "Is this a technological failure? Space debris? Speak clearly."
Andrei swallowed, trying to steady his trembling hands, and hurriedly scrolled through the data on the screen, which displayed satellite images and graphs.
"Mr. President, it began four hours ago, at 3:07 PM Moscow time, near the New Land. At first, Roscosmos thought it was a malfunction — the station in Arkhangelsk picked up a strange signal. But then the GLONASS satellites and Kosmos-2589 were brought in. There are unexplained distortions in the atmosphere. Radio communication is crackling, like during a massive solar storm, but worse. People on the ground are seeing flickering in the sky — as if the air is trembling. Power grids are failing. The zone is expanding in all directions, but strictly within Russia's borders — Finland, Norway, and China are untouched. Murmansk, Vologda, and Yekaterinburg are already affected. If the pace continues, within a day, it will reach Moscow and then extend to Vladivostok, Krasnodar, and Kaliningrad."
A heavy silence hung in the office, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Mikhail Viktorovich turned to his assistant, his eyebrows meeting over his nose.
"Why am I just hearing about this now?" His voice had hardened, and steel seeped through, familiar to those who had known him in the Security Council. "Where are the reports from the Ministry of Emergency Situations? The FSB?"
"It all happened too quickly," Andrei stammered, nervously tugging at his jacket sleeve. "Roscosmos tried to handle it on their own, but an hour ago, they passed the data to the General Staff and us. Dr. Kolychev, the chief astrophysicist from Korolev, is on the line. He's ready to report in person."
The black phone on the desk — with a direct line — rang sharply. Mikhail Viktorovich returned to his seat, picked up the receiver, and switched on the speakerphone so Andrei could hear.
"This is the president speaking," he said briefly.
A restrained yet tense voice answered from the other end, that of a scientist accustomed to precision.
"Mikhail Viktorovich, this is Kolychev from Roscosmos, Institute of Space Research. We are observing the anomaly that began in the north, and it... defies explanation. It is not a technological failure, not a storm, not a catastrophe. Satellites are detecting energy bursts in the atmosphere, and radio waves are distorting as if something is breaking their structure. The zone is expanding in all directions — south, west, east, but only within the borders of Russia, as if confined to our borders. From New Land to the Urals and Volga in a matter of hours. If it continues, within 28 hours, it will reach Moscow, and then cover the whole country."
The president was silent for a moment, processing the information, then leaned closer to the phone, resting his hands on the table.
"Bursts?" he asked. "Is this a weapon? A space experiment? Give me something to work with, Kolychev."
"We don't know," the scientist admitted, his voice tinged with confusion. "There are no signs of radiation, electromagnetic pulses, or chemicals. It doesn't seem like a natural phenomenon either. Ground stations in Murmansk, Syktyvkar, and Perm are reporting visual effects: the sky is flickering like a mirage, objects on the horizon are distorting. Power stations are shutting down, mobile networks are going down — towers are silent within a 300-kilometer radius of the epicenter. And also..." he hesitated, "people are reporting strange sensations. As if the space around them is either compressing or stretching."
Mikhail Viktorovich glanced at Andrei, who was standing, gripping the tablet so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"Sensations?" the president asked again, his voice growing heavier. "Is this mass panic?"
"Maybe," Kolychev replied. "But the data confirms: the anomaly is altering the environment. In Vologda, cameras recorded buildings on the horizon shaking, as if reflected in water. In Yekaterinburg, witnesses saw cars on the road... freeze in place, as if time had stopped. And all this is strictly within our borders — nothing like this is happening abroad."
"Alright," Mikhail Viktorovich said, his tone resolute, like that of a man accustomed to taking control in a crisis. "Andrei, mobilize everyone: the Ministry of Defense, Ministry of Emergency Situations, the FSB, and the National Guard. A meeting in the Council Hall in one hour. Kolychev, report every half hour — and no more 'we don't know.' I need theories: what is this, how do we stop it, what are the consequences. If we lose contact with the regions, prepare a plan to evacuate cities in the path of the anomaly."
"Understood," Kolychev responded. "The group in Korolev is working, we're connecting with Novosibirsk and Moscow State University. The next report is at 7:00 PM."
The line clicked off with a sharp snap. Mikhail Viktorovich walked to the window and looked out at Moscow. Tourists were photographing themselves by the Tsar Cannon near the Kremlin walls, schoolchildren with flags were rehearsing the parade. No one suspected that an anomaly, distorting reality like a mirage, was spreading from the icy expanses of the north, across forests and steppes, throughout Russia.
"Distortions..." he whispered, clenching his fist so tightly his joints cracked. "Alright. We'll figure this out."
Outside, the sun gilded the domes of the cathedrals, but the shadow of the anomaly was already stretching across the country, from the Arctic to the southern borders, from Kaliningrad to Kamchatka, signaling that even the Victory Day Parade this year might remain nothing more than a plan.