Oliver, Black Canary, and Natasha hid in a storeroom at the very corner of the staff corridor, watching through a small porthole as another dark shadow fell straight into the chilly sea, blood reddening the surface.
As far as the eye could see, the surrounding sea had been dyed blood-red, with hundreds of such corpses floating atop the bloody waters, made even more pallid by the moonlight, like fragments of melting icebergs.
After their deaths, their connection to one another seemed even tighter, as almost every person extended their arms and opened their embraces as if they had never before opened their chests so wide, welcoming the sky as though hands joined hands, forming a vast, serene, and tranquil net.
The three people in the room all knew they could not get out.
As time passed, Shiller was growing stronger, and the anchor point they had previously surmised was completely ineffective. He no longer followed any rules, simply appearing indiscriminately behind everyone, turning them into a corpse and tossing them into the sea.
Oliver didn't know how many people were left outside; he only knew that if they went out now, they were very likely to become another piece of floating ice.
"Do you still want to die now?" Natasha asked, looking at Oliver.
Oliver rolled his eyes to look at her, the female agent slightly curled up the corners of her mouth, the weak light coming through the porthole casting her sculpted features in an even more solemn light.
"You never told anyone, but you must have thought about it. Just one bullet needed, shattering the irreparable situation, the heavy burden of responsibility, the impossible-to-reverse circumstances, and they would all have nothing to do with you."
Black Canary looked at the silent Oliver with widened eyes, and said in shock and pain, "You want to kill yourself? You can't do that, Oliver, I mean, you should tell me if there's anything wrong, you... you're not alone."
By the end, Black Canary's tone had sunk, knowing how pale and powerless her comfort was. Oliver was alone; all those who seemed to be on the same path as him were not truly walking the same road.
Everyone thought they could establish another Soviet Union in Mexico, as powerful as the Soviet Union and capable of deterring the whole world, even standing up to what seemed like an invincible America to this day.
The Soviet Union was the best future they could imagine.
But Oliver knew that establishing another Soviet Union was a dead end; learning from the Soviet Union of the past, present, and future could never truly make Mexico better.
Of course, the Soviet Union had its good times, albeit short-lived, so pure and noble that even its enemy, America, had to admit that the Soviet Union at that time was an example worth learning from for the whole world.
But unfortunately, whether learning from the Soviet Union or America, neither could save Mexico.
"Mexico needs Mexico," it sounded like a joke, but every country in the world can only take its path that is unique to it. However alike one imitates another, geopolitical factors make it a dead-end path.
So the others were immersed in the fantasy that having the same ideology as the Soviet Union meant they had to follow the same path. They thought the northern bear was declining, but the eagle of the Americas was still rising. They were young, full of vigor and hope, certainly the best successors.
Only Oliver was soberly aware that they didn't need to take over anyone's baton; they had to find their path.
But no one had walked Mexico's path before; they needed to create their path.
And the most difficult part was, too close to America, too far from Heaven.
Mexico's geopolitics doomed it to be a nearly impossible path, scouring all of history for any solution to no avail, the situation like a baby flailing its arms attempting to knock down a champion boxer with a punch, plunging Oliver into profound despair.
But even when he had come to understand the issue, he hadn't given up. He believed that if one was willing to walk, one could always find a way until he was betrayed, expelled, and sent back to his hometown.
"Sometimes I think Mexicans have the right to choose their future," Oliver said, lowering his eyelids. "A race should have the right to decide their path. If they choose they don't need me, then no matter how things develop afterward, it is a consequence of their decision, and no one should interfere."
"Whenever I come to this point, I feel they might think an American rich man's attempt to save them is an act of charity and pity, and someday they will break through and rebel on their own."
Oliver spread his hands and said, "Whether they drove me away truly guided by others, or realized that Mexicans should determine Mexico's future, realizing they no longer needed me."
"If it's the latter, I should be happy, but I still feel the anger and sadness of betrayal, which makes me wonder, am I really as selfless as I imagine myself to be? Or do I actually enjoy power more and rage when I lose it?"
"Do you think your predecessors never faced such problems?" Natasha's tone finally slowed down, finally showing a kindness matching her age.
"So how did they solve it?"
"In fact, they may have thought about it for a moment, but the fundamental reason you have this problem is that you've eaten too much, and so have the Mexicans."
This argument shocked Oliver; he saw Natasha looking straight into his eyes, heard the Slavic woman with a brisk demeanor say to him, "The fundamental reason for the October Revolution was that we were about to die, if we didn't completely overthrow [the old system], our race would have been finished."
"To freeze, starve, be killed by invaders, to completely perish as if we never existed—that was our final battle, win and live, lose and die,"
"You might think from reading history books that the backdrop wasn't so severe, but in truth, every revolution from the bottom up is because the vast majority of those at the bottom can't survive anymore,"
Natasha averted her gaze as she spoke.
"You descended from the heavens to save the peasants of Mexico, not their own organized rebellion, which means this is not a revolution,"
"They weren't pushed to the brink, not in a fight-or-die situation. They might have been miserable, but they could barely get by. When there's still one meal left in their pockets, when the heavy snow will fall tomorrow, people always compromise,"
"You still have the energy to fight amongst yourselves, to pay attention to others, and to indulge in wishful thinking, because you aren't hungry or cold enough. It's the Americas' unique conditions that prevent you from being driven into a corner so easily,"
"The methods they've used on you have also been used on us, but if you had been to Stalingrad, Minsk, or even the mildest Moscow, you would understand why so many who arrive here could not stray into leisure, must immediately commit themselves to production and labor, because we have nothing to eat, and by evening heavy snow might fall,"
"Labor can transform a person. When you're in a harsh environment, desperately carving out a path to survive for yourself, you'll realize that the tasks that brought you here and the not-so-pure intentions are not the right answers for the continuation of the human race. The answer lies with us, in the grains of wheat unearthed from permafrost and in the footsteps hidden by heavy snow,"
"If one witnessed all this, he is very likely to abandon everything and enter the furnace of humanity's greatest solidarity miracle, realizing that contributing to this roaring fire makes him truly alive, like a real person,"
"If they're not hungry enough, not cold enough, not yet scrabbling for scraps or huddling together for warmth, then even if you could go back, lead them again, the tragedy would only recur over and over,"
"But if it gets to that point, many will die," Oliver took a deep breath, his tone almost a sob, clearly the vivid scenes Natasha described replaying over and over in his mind, as he tried to drive the imagined tragedies he could conjure up that had occurred on that cold land out of his head.
"We want to take the initiative, save as many people as possible before things deteriorate so badly, that is our mission,"
"But that is how humans are," Natasha said flatly, showing no anger at such an intense tone—she seemed used to it—"Only when they must unite, do they really come together. All other education, persuasion, and warnings are useless,"
For the first time, Oliver showed a truly despairing expression, and said through clenched teeth, "You mean I sit here watching things get worse step by step, watching innocent people die, doing nothing until they awaken on their own?"
"If they don't awaken themselves, whatever you do is useless,"
Oliver clenched his fists, blood seeping from his palms where the nails had dug in, unnoticed, as Natasha again spoke in a slower tone, "You know, the flame can only be ignited by themselves, but what you've done is not meaningless,"
"When they truly are cornered and begin to awaken, they will realize the path you've taken is right. Those whom you have inspired will become the guiding sparks when another great fire first ignites,"
"Trust me, you've done enough for them, and with such extensive groundwork laid, this blaze is destined to be bigger and brighter than the one at Peter, it might even burn to the end, becoming a miracle to be remembered in the history of human civilization,"
"And those who die…" Oliver sighed heavily.
"Will become the painful history that this nation must remember. Along with you, American Oliver Queen, they will be written into the history books of Mexico, receiving the same praise and criticism, and summarized as part of the same era,"
Oliver's hands loosened.
"If later generations are to sing praises to a hero of this era, then I hope that hero is a Mexican," Oliver's tone finally calmed, yet it was filled with another kind of intense emotion.
"He fought for his country and his race, shed blood and tears for his own land, blazed his own trail for a new great nation, and when the dust settled, he could enjoy his rightful honor without any guilt or regret, his legacy sealed and his glory everlasting,"
"And I am just a spark in the early path, initially guiding their way, and then, if unnecessary, becoming one of the embers of a roaring fire, embers that can drift a thousand miles with the wind, adding but a stroke of ink to history books, offering an insignificant strength to enlighten the people of a new land and their nascent heroes,"
"To help the awakening, still suffering from hunger and cold, find their path sooner," Natasha said.
"Or at least to give them a bit more courage," Oliver added, "For those inspired, not of their race, from other nations, to cast aside their reservations, to set an example,"
The light in Oliver's eyes grew brighter.
"Then, in every place untouched by God, when people feel cold and hungry, they no longer wait, they keep themselves warm, they cook to fill their belly, they take up arms, they follow in the footsteps of their predecessors, they make everything belong to the laborers, so they no longer say 'long live the hero'…"
Oliver and Natasha exchanged glances.
"But say 'long live the laborer'."
"But say 'long live the people'."