Comrade Gloria

Even though George was born in the quiet suburbs of Iowa, his soul had always yearned for something more. He grew up in a typical middle-class family: his father worked in an Amazon warehouse, and his mother was a cashier at Walmart. George watched his parents wear themselves out just to pay rent, insurance, food — and all of it just to end the month with almost nothing left.

– This isn't how people should live, – he told himself, scrolling through yet another Reddit thread about Marxism. – It's the system. We're slaves — just without chains.

He was nineteen when he joined his first protest. At first, it was just a demonstration against rising tuition fees, but signs like "Education is a right, not a privilege!" quickly turned into something more radical: "Abolish capitalism!" "Seize the means of production!"

That’s where he met Nina — an overly passionate history student, with a Che tattoo on her shoulder and the charm of a hurricane. She was the first one to tell him about the theory of alternate realities, where “things turned out differently.”

– You know, George, if Lenin hadn’t died in 1924... if Trotsky had beaten Stalin... do you realize, it could’ve been a totally different world. Maybe even a perfect one.

Inspired by that idea, George began studying esotericism. It sounded like bullshit, but he was ready to try anything just to escape his boring, powerless life. He read not only Marx and Engels, but also crackpot manuscripts about “mental gates to the multiverse.” And at some point... it worked.

It happened on a completely ordinary weekend, when he was standing by the window of his tiny room, reading some Soviet propaganda booklet he’d found on eBay, mumbling strange phrases in broken Russian, when suddenly the air in the room began to hum.

He jumped back from the window. It felt like the vibrations weren’t coming from outside, but from within, as if the space itself was trembling. The booklet in his hands began to glow with a faint reddish light. The words on the yellowed pages seemed to pulse, coming alive with the rhythm of his breathing.

– Hey... – he muttered. – What the hell...?

He tried to put the booklet down, but his fingers wouldn’t move. And then he caught a sharp, sickly-sweet scent in his nose, like he was standing in the middle of... a blooming alley? At that moment, a breeze — as if to mess with him — brushed against his legs, and for some reason, he could feel it just as clearly and vividly as the touch of a skirt.

– What the... – George stopped short. His voice sounded... higher?

He suddenly looked down — and froze. Instead of his usual “Eat the rich” T-shirt, he was now wearing a neatly pressed white blouse with a small red tie, carefully knotted under the collar. The light, thin fabric was stretched slightly over unfamiliar, rounded shapes. It was a pair of breasts. Small, but noticeable and unmistakably female. He jerked, instinctively grabbing them — and immediately cried out in shock. His hands were thin and delicate, with short, manicured nails.

– No... no, no, no!

But instead of the familiar “George,” he heard from behind:

– Comrade Gloria, what are you doing?! – came a stern voice from behind him.

He — or rather now she — spun around sharply. In front of her stood a girl of about twenty, her chestnut hair pulled into a tight bun, wearing a perfectly ironed uniform with a red armband. She had the same white blouse, but across her chest gleamed a large emblem with a golden hammer and sickle, and next to it — a name: Inspector Carmen Baylor, District Patrol of the Red Youth.

– What?.. I... – Gloria tried to take a step back but stumbled over her own foot — and only then did she realize how strange it felt to move in this new body. The weight on her chest gave off a light tingling with every movement. The skirt — which she hadn’t even noticed before — suddenly lifted in the wind, revealing pale knees. Tiny earrings jingled in her ears. And all of it felt so... real.

– Are you feeling alright, Comrade Gloria? – Carmen leaned in, peering into her eyes with concern.

Gloria opened her mouth in a daze, but not a single coherent thought came to mind. She felt a thin stream of sweat running down her back — sticky, cold — and for some reason especially disgusting under the strap of the bra. Her bra.

– I... – she swallowed hard. – This... this isn't... Where even am I?

The inspector frowned in confusion.

Carmen gave her a long, suspicious look.

– You’re on the campus of the Rosa Luxemburg School of Leadership. City of Liberty, State of the Great Collective, United Soviet States of America. And now explain to me, clearly, why you’re holding your breasts and, – Carmen narrowed her eyes for emphasis, – why you’re doing that in front of the entire shift?

Gloria immediately dropped her hands, realizing she hadn’t even noticed that she’d been holding her… tits this whole time.

– Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is this?! – Gloria said, feeling a wave of panic… and was immediately hit by a sharp, almost military bark:

– What did you just say?! – Carmen straightened up, her eyes blazing. – There are no “gods” in the United Soviet States of America! That’s ideological deviation, comrade. Or do you think you’re above the Declaration of Unity?

Gloria swallowed again, her throat tight.

– I... I didn’t mean it like that... I... I just... What the fuck is going on?! Are we seriously in America and it’s communist?! And I... I’m a girl?!?! But why?!

Carmen gave her a look filled with irritation, suspicion, and… a faint shadow of concern.

– Comrade Rivers, your behavior is beyond acceptable limits. You’ve been appointed Senior Pioneer, you’re undergoing Party admission training, and you’re acting like… like a melodramatic heroine from bourgeois theater. What’s with all this “girl” talk? What do you mean “why”? – She stepped closer, staring intently into Gloria’s face. – Do you really have amnesia? Or are you just pretending?

Gloria, clutching the hem of her skirt in a panic, sat back down on the bench. The dizziness came in waves. She felt the fabric tighten under her knees, the skirt riding up slightly, revealing her pale, smooth... female legs. It was humiliating — and that was the most vivid thing in her mind.

‘Okay, calm down, George. Just calm down. Breathe deep and think. This isn’t some psychotic break, this is… this is... teleportation? Alternate reality shift? A dream? Hell, maybe a goddamn coma from getting knocked out!’ — screamed George in her mind — no, now it was Gloria. Small, fragile, neatly groomed Gloria, in a pioneer uniform, in a skirt, with tits, earrings, and... that nasty feeling of tight bra fabric squeezing her new body that came along with the fulfillment of her dream.

Carmen sat down beside her.

– Maybe the infirmary? – said Carmen, this time with less force, almost with a hint of care, which felt out of place coming from the strictly composed image of a Red Youth inspector.

– Yeah... – Gloria exhaled, afraid to even stand. – Maybe... yeah... I feel sick...

– Alright, – Carmen nodded and stood up, offering her a hand. – I’ll take you. I hope they explain your behavior there, otherwise you’ll have to write a report. Now… let’s go.

Gloria hesitantly took her hand. The grip of their fingers felt way too soft, too girly. As she stood, she stumbled slightly: the sensation of the skirt sliding over her thighs was monstrously awkward. Everything felt too exposed, too vulnerable.

– Gloria... – she muttered, – what a stupid name...

Carmen turned her head sharply toward her, frowning with obvious indignation.

– What do you mean “stupid”? You were named after Gloria Edwards, the heroine of the Great Socialist Uprising. We’re all proud of that name, Gloria. You always said it was a name that carried weight — especially since you were born on Labor Victory Day, just like a future pioneer leader should be. Don’t you dare talk that way about your name.

Gloria just nodded blankly, feeling her cheeks burn and too afraid to say anything else. ‘This isn’t real, this is insane, just go with it, pretend…’ — she thought, her fingers gripping the hem of her skirt.

And nearby — in this strange, utopian-communist campus, where Americans lived in pavilions, but instead of flags there were red banners, instead of a national anthem — “Forward, Young Builders!” — her new day was slowly beginning.