What would be the result if you asked AI to write a story about zip collars, just nudging it along the way with some details?
Well, here is a story written entirely by AI with some guidance from me:
Anya gripped the chunky, cold metal pull tab of her zipper. With a satisfyingly loud zzzzzzip, the heavy-duty teeth meshed together, stopping precisely below her nose. The substantial collar of her vintage Olimpas track jacket, a deep burgundy, stood stiffly around the lower half of her face. Above it, only her bright, pale blue eyes were visible, observing the crisp Moscow morning as she headed towards her shkola.
This was Anya’s signature look, an aesthetic obsession she pursued with dedication. She adored the feeling of the high collar zipped all the way up, the slight enclosure it provided. It wasn’t about hiding; it was about a specific kind of cool she admired – detached, focused, slightly mysterious, reminiscent of old spy films or the stark style of 70s athletes. The prominent metal zipper was part of the appeal; its solid, industrial look added to the jacket’s character.
Her collection focused on jackets with presence – both in collar height and zipper hardware. She hunted for 70s track jackets, favouring brands like Olimpas and Adidas known for their generous collars and robust metal zippers. Nylon bombers were also essential, but only if they featured oversized collars and equally impressive zippers that could withstand being pulled up high day after day. She had a navy blue bomber with a collar that nearly brushed her eyelashes and a bright yellow track jacket whose gleaming silver zipper was almost a statement piece in itself.
On days when even a bomber felt too bulky, she had another trick: zip-through turtlenecks. She’d wear them not with the neck folded down, but unfolded, letting the soft fabric stand tall. Then, she’d pull the zipper right up, creating the same face-obscuring effect, the line of the zipper tracing its way towards her nose. It felt sleek, minimalist, yet achieved the same cool, high-collared silhouette she loved.
Naturally, the look drew comments. Her babushka would sigh about “proper breathing,” her eyes lingering on the zipper parked so high. Classmates sometimes joked, calling her “Zipper-face” or asking if she was testing cosmonaut gear. Anya met their teasing with a steady gaze from above her fabric shield. The slight inconveniences were nothing compared to the feeling of sharp-edged coolness the high zip gave her.
Stepping onto the school grounds, the burgundy collar a familiar barrier, Anya felt centred and confident. The world felt slightly filtered, her presence defined by the strong line of the collar and the zipper ascending towards her observant eyes. It was her armour, her statement, her unique way of facing the world – zipped up tight and undeniably cool.
She spotted her best friend, Lena, near the bike racks, adjusting the bright pink scarf tied around her backpack strap. Lena, with her expressive face and love for colourful accessories, was Anya’s complete opposite in style, but their friendship was solid.
“Anya! Finally!” Lena called out, waving. “Did you see the assignment for literature? Another epic poem analysis.”
Anya nodded, her voice slightly muffled by the collar. “Da. Looks long.”
Lena stepped closer, her eyes crinkling in amusement as she surveyed Anya’s zipped-up state. “Ready for Arctic winds today, are we? Or just avoiding talking about the poem?”
“Neither,” Anya replied, her blue eyes meeting Lena’s brown ones directly. “It’s the look, Lena. You know that.” She paused, then added, “You should try it.”
Lena laughed. “Me? Zip my face away? Why would I do that? I like smiling at people.” She gestured vaguely at her own unobscured face. “And besides, it looks… intense.”
“Exactly!” Anya insisted, her eyes lighting up above the burgundy fabric. “It is intense. It’s cool. It makes people look twice. It’s not about hiding, it’s about… projecting something. Confidence. Mystery.” She tapped the sturdy metal zipper pull resting under her nose. “And it makes your eyes stand out. All the focus goes right here.” She gestured towards her own eyes.
“My eyes stand out anyway,” Lena retorted playfully, batting her eyelashes. “And I like my jackets open. Or at least, not zipped into my nostrils.”
“Just try it once,” Anya pressed. “That black jacket you have, the one with the slightly bigger collar? Zip it. All the way. See how it feels. See how it looks. It changes how you hold yourself. Makes you feel… sharper.” She searched for the right word. “More deliberate.”
Lena considered Anya’s partially hidden face, the intensity clear in her visible eyes. She fiddled with her scarf. “Sharper, huh? Like a spy?” She still looked skeptical, but a hint of curiosity softened her expression. “Maybe. If I’m feeling particularly mysterious one day. But don’t expect me to ditch the scarves for zippers entirely.”
Anya allowed a small crinkle at the corners of her eyes, the closest she came to a smile while zipped up. “Just think about it,” she said. Maybe, just maybe, Lena would see the cool factor eventually.
The next morning, Anya arrived at their usual meeting spot near the entrance, her own collar zipped high as always. She scanned the arriving students, her eyes automatically searching for Lena’s usual bright colours. Instead, a figure in sleek black caught her attention.
It was Lena. She was wearing a black track jacket, not unlike Anya’s own preferred style, but brand new. And the collar – a substantial, ribbed affair – was zipped up high, obscuring everything below her eyes. The zipper pull, a simple silver tab, rested just under Lena’s nose, mirroring Anya’s own look almost perfectly. Even the usual colourful scarf was absent from her backpack.
Anya stopped, momentarily stunned. Lena turned, and her brown eyes, now the only visible feature on her face, met Anya’s. They crinkled in a way that Anya recognized as a smile.
“Morning, Agent Anya,” Lena’s voice was muffled, just like Anya’s often was.
Anya couldn’t help the slight widening of her own eyes above her collar. “Lena? You… you did it.”
Lena nodded, the movement small and contained within the high collar. “You were right about one thing,” she admitted, her voice still slightly distorted by the fabric. “It does make you feel different. Sharper, like you said. And maybe,” her eyes twinkled, “a little mysterious.” She tilted her head slightly. “How do I look?”
Anya surveyed her friend. The black jacket, zipped high, gave Lena an unexpected edge, a stark contrast to her usual bubbly appearance. It did frame her eyes, making their warm brown colour seem more intense.
“Cool,” Anya stated simply, the highest compliment in her vocabulary. “Very cool, Lena.”
A small, muffled laugh came from behind Lena’s collar. “Good. But don’t expect this every day. It’s surprisingly hard to drink kefir through a straw like this.”
Anya’s eyes crinkled again. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who understood the appeal of the high zip after all.
A few days later, Anya was waiting by the entrance again, her own navy bomber zipped high against a brisk wind. Lena had reverted to her usual colourful, unzipped style since her black jacket debut, and Anya assumed the experiment was over. She scanned the approaching crowd.
Then she saw it – a flash of brilliant, almost blinding red. It wasn’t just red; it was shiny red, the kind of fabric that seemed to catch and reflect every bit of light. And it was moving towards her.
As the figure got closer, Anya realised it was Lena. She was wearing a brand-new track jacket, this one in a gleaming, satiny red material. And just like before, the large collar was zipped all the way up, the zipper pull nestled firmly under her nose, leaving only her expressive brown eyes visible. The effect was even more striking than the black jacket – bold, confident, and utterly unexpected.
Lena stopped in front of Anya, her eyes dancing with amusement above the shiny red collar.
“Surprise,” Lena’s muffled voice announced.
Anya stared, genuinely taken aback this time. The black jacket had been a surprise, but this felt like a statement. “Wow, Lena. Another one?”
Lena nodded, the shiny fabric crinkling slightly around her neck. “Found this one yesterday. Liked the colour. And,” she added, her eyes crinkling, “I decided the ‘mysterious agent’ look isn’t so bad after all. Especially when it annoys Sasha Petrov.” She glanced over Anya’s shoulder towards a group of boys known for their teasing.
Anya followed her gaze, then looked back at Lena’s red-clad, zipped-up form. The bright colour combined with the high collar was undeniably eye-catching.
“Red suits you,” Anya said, her voice conveying genuine approval. “Very… assertive.”
“That’s the idea,” Lena replied, her voice full of muffled confidence. “Ready for literature class, partner?”
Anya allowed another rare, small crinkle around her eyes. “Da. Let’s go.” Side by side, one in burgundy, one in shiny red, both zipped high, they walked into the school. It seemed Agent Anya had recruited a partner after all.
Lena’s comment about not expecting it every day turned out to be misleading. The shiny red jacket reappeared the next day, zipped just as high. And the day after that, she wore the black one again, collar up, zipper nestled under her nose. Then came a dark green bomber jacket Anya hadn’t seen before, its thick collar forming a formidable shield around Lena’s lower face.
It wasn’t an experiment anymore; it was Lena’s new normal. Every morning, Anya would find her friend waiting, a different high-collared jacket zipped to maximum height, her expressive brown eyes peering out over the fabric barrier. The colourful scarves were gone, replaced by a collection of track jackets and bombers that rivaled Anya’s own.
Anya watched the transformation with a quiet sense of satisfaction, mixed with a little surprise at Lena’s complete commitment. Her usually expressive friend now communicated primarily through the intensity or amusement in her eyes, much like Anya herself.
The teasing from classmates shifted. Instead of just targeting Anya, comments were now directed at the pair. “Look, the Zipper Twins!” Sasha Petrov called out one morning as they walked past.
Lena, zipped high in her green bomber, didn’t even turn her head. “Ignore him,” she mumbled to Anya, her voice muffled but firm. “He’s just jealous he can’t pull off the look.”
Anya glanced at Lena, seeing the newfound confidence in her friend’s eyes. It wasn’t just about annoyance anymore; Lena seemed to genuinely embrace the sharp, focused feeling the high collar provided.
“He couldn’t find a collar big enough anyway,” Anya replied dryly, her own eyes crinkling slightly above her navy blue bomber.
They walked on, two figures moving through the crowded hallway, defined by their high collars and observant eyes. Anya’s unique obsession was now a shared style, a silent statement made together. It felt, Anya had to admit, even cooler that way.
That Friday, as the final bell rang, Lena turned to Anya, her eyes bright above the collar of her shiny red jacket. “Shopping?” she asked, her muffled voice full of anticipation. “There’s that vintage place near Arbatskaya Metro I wanted to check out. Heard they sometimes get old sports gear.”
Anya, zipped high in her yellow track jacket, nodded immediately. “Da. Let’s go.” Hunting for new high-collared treasures was always a good idea, and doing it with Lena, who now shared the obsession, felt even better.
The shop was small and crammed with clothes, a treasure trove of forgotten fashion. Almost immediately, Lena gravitated towards a rack of jackets. Anya followed, her eyes scanning methodically. They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, fingers flicking through hangers, assessing collar height and zipper quality.
“Ooh, Anya, look,” Lena’s muffled voice broke the silence. She held up a vibrant turquoise track jacket with white stripes down the sleeves. The collar looked promisingly substantial, and it had a satisfyingly chunky white plastic zipper.
Anya examined it critically. “Good collar,” she approved. “Zipper looks strong. Try it.”
Lena ducked behind a rack to shrug off her red jacket and try on the turquoise one. She zipped it up, the white pull tab stopping just below her nose. She turned, her brown eyes peering over the bright turquoise fabric. “What do you think?”
“Colour’s good on you,” Anya admitted. “Very 80s, but the collar works.”
“I like it,” Lena decided, admiring herself in a dusty mirror.
Meanwhile, Anya had found something herself – a dark grey nylon bomber, deceptively simple from the front. But the collar was huge, thickly ribbed, and the metal zipper felt heavy and durable. She slipped it on over her yellow jacket, pulling the zipper up high. It easily covered her mouth and nose, the top edge almost reaching her eyes. It felt perfect.
“Found one,” she announced, turning to Lena.
Lena, still in the turquoise jacket, surveyed Anya’s find. “Whoa, that collar is massive! Serious spy vibes, Anya.” Her eyes crinkled. “Definitely cool.”
They left the shop twenty minutes later, Lena clutching a bag with the turquoise jacket, and Anya wearing her new grey bomber, zipped high, her yellow jacket tucked into her backpack. Walking towards the metro station, two figures clad in high-collared jackets, they scanned the crowds, their eyes sharp and observant above their fabric shields. The hunt had been successful.
Over the next week, a new, shared frustration began to surface. Both Anya and Lena had relatively long hair – Anya’s a straight, dark blonde cascade, Lena’s a thick, wavy brown mane. And the hair was becoming a problem. It got caught in the zippers. Strands would tickle their noses above the collars. It ruined the clean, sharp silhouette they were cultivating.
“My hair,” Lena complained one afternoon, pulling a tangled strand out of her zipper teeth after school. She was wearing the turquoise jacket, zipped high. “It keeps getting stuck. And it tickles.”
Anya, zipped into her grey bomber, nodded, her own hair tucked somewhat awkwardly inside the massive collar. “Mine too. It bunches up. Doesn’t look right.”
They were sitting on a bench outside the school, watching other students leave. Lena sighed, the sound muffled by the turquoise fabric. “I tried braiding it, but the braid is too thick for the collar.”
“Ponytail gets in the way too,” Anya added.
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the practical dilemma that clashed with their aesthetic commitment.
“There’s only one real solution,” Anya said finally, her voice quiet but decisive.
Lena turned her head, her brown eyes meeting Anya’s blue ones over their respective collars. Anya didn’t need to elaborate. Lena’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed in consideration.
“You mean…?” Lena began.
Anya gave a single, sharp nod.
Lena was silent for a long moment. Then, a slow smile crinkled her eyes. “No more hair getting caught,” she mused, her muffled voice holding a note of daring excitement. “Perfectly clean line for the collar.”
“Exactly,” Anya confirmed.
The following Monday morning was unusually quiet in the school courtyard. Students milled about, chatting, but a strange hush fell over groups as two figures walked through the main gate.
It was Anya and Lena. Anya wore her burgundy Olimpas jacket, Lena her shiny red one. Both were zipped up to their usual maximum height, collars forming stiff shields around their lower faces. But above the collars, where thick blonde and brown hair usually framed their eyes, there was… nothing.
Both girls had shaved their heads completely bald.
The smooth skin gleamed faintly under the morning light. Without hair, their eyes seemed even larger, more intense, dominating their visible features. The high collars now met the clean line of their scalps, creating an even starker, more dramatic silhouette than before.
Gasps were audible. Fingers pointed. Whispers erupted like wildfire. Sasha Petrov and his friends stood frozen, mouths agape. Even the teachers supervising the entrance did double-takes, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief.
Anya and Lena walked steadily through the stunned crowd, their eyes fixed forward. They didn’t acknowledge the stares or the whispers.
“Well,” Lena murmured, her voice muffled by the red collar but carrying a distinct note of satisfaction. “I think we surprised them.”
Anya’s eyes crinkled above her burgundy collar. “The line is perfect now,” she stated simply.
They reached their usual spot near the entrance, turning to survey the courtyard. The sea of shocked faces staring back confirmed their impact. Zipped high, heads shaved smooth, they felt sharper, bolder, and cooler than ever before. The final obstacle to their aesthetic had been removed.
The shaved heads solved the hair problem, but Anya felt a new plateau had been reached. Zipping the collar just below the nose, even with the clean line of a bald head, felt… incomplete. There was still that visible strip of face, those expressive eyes. Could the look be pushed further?
She brought it up with Lena during lunch break a few days later. They sat slightly apart from the others in the noisy cafeteria, Anya in her grey bomber, Lena in her turquoise track jacket, both zipped high, smooth scalps gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
“Lena,” Anya began, her voice muffled. “The collars. They’re good. High. But…”
Lena tilted her head, her brown eyes questioning above the turquoise fabric. “But what?”
“Is it… high enough?” Anya asked, her blue eyes intense. “We still see. People still see us.”
Lena considered this, her gaze distant for a moment. She understood Anya’s relentless pursuit of the ultimate cool, the ultimate detachment. “You mean… higher?” Her muffled voice held a note of intrigue. “Like… over the head?”
Anya nodded slowly. “Total enclosure. Just the jacket.”
Lena was silent. The idea was extreme, even for them. Complete anonymity. No visible features at all. Just the shape of the jacket, the texture, the colour.
“Where would we even find jackets like that?” Lena wondered aloud. “Collars that big?”
“Online,” Anya stated confidently. “Specialty clothing. Maybe experimental fashion sites. Or even gear… like for extreme cold, maybe?”
That night, they dove into the depths of the internet. They bypassed mainstream retailers, searching obscure forums, import sites, and sellers of technical gear. They encountered bizarre ski masks, integrated helmet-hoods, and diving equipment before finally hitting a potential lead: a small European company designing “conceptual outerwear.”
Amongst avant-garde raincoats and asymmetrical parkas, they found it: the “Cocoon Bomber.” It was described as having an “integrated, fully zippable head enclosure” designed for “sensory limitation and personal space definition.” The photos showed sleek, minimalist bombers in black and silver, with enormous, padded collars that clearly zipped completely over the wearer’s head. Crucially, the description mentioned “discreet, mesh-covered ocular ports” integrated into the fabric just above where the nose would be. The zippers were thick, industrial metal.
“Anya, look,” Lena breathed, pointing at the screen. “Ocular ports.”
Anya leaned closer, her eyes scanning the description and images. “Total enclosure… but we can see,” she murmured, a thrill running through her. “This is it.”
The price was steep, far more than their vintage finds. But the allure was irresistible. They pooled their savings, Anya choosing the black, Lena the silver. After an agonizing week of waiting for international shipping, two identical packages arrived at Anya’s apartment on a Saturday afternoon.
They carefully slit the tape on the boxes, anticipation thrumming between them. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay the jackets. Anya lifted the black one. The nylon felt smooth, cool, and surprisingly substantial. The collar was immense, heavily padded, and structured. She located the small, dark mesh panels near the top front of the collar – the ocular ports. Lena unwrapped the silver one, its metallic sheen catching the light, finding the matching mesh panels.
“They’re… impressive,” Lena whispered, running a hand over the thick padding of the collar.
“Let’s try them,” Anya said, her voice low.
They slipped into the jackets. The fit was snug but comfortable around the body. The unzipped collars stood massively around their necks and bald heads, like futuristic armour. They looked at each other, then at their reflections in Anya’s hallway mirror. Even unzipped, the effect was dramatic.
Anya reached for the heavy metal zipper pull on her black jacket. It felt cold and solid in her fingers. She took a breath and began to pull it upwards. The zipper moved with a smooth, heavy zzzzzzzzip, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. Past her chin, past her nose… the fabric closed over her face. She kept pulling until the zipper reached the very top, closing the padded dome completely over her head.
Inside, the world became muffled, dim, strangely peaceful. The air was still, smelling faintly of new fabric. She blinked, adjusting her gaze through the fine black mesh of the ocular ports. She could see the apartment hallway, albeit slightly darkened and textured by the mesh. She could see Lena standing opposite her. She was entirely encased, yet still connected to the visual world.
She heard another heavy zzzzzzzzip as Lena zipped up the silver jacket. A moment of silence hung in the air.
“Anya?” Lena’s voice sounded distant, heavily muffled from within the silver cocoon. “Can you see me?”
“Da,” Anya replied, her own voice sounding strange and contained inside the black dome. “Through the mesh. I can see you.”
“Me too!” Lena sounded thrilled. “It’s… total, but not blind. It’s like looking through a screen.”
“Perfect,” Anya stated. She raised her arms slightly, feeling the smooth fabric move with her. This was it. The ultimate expression of their style. Complete anonymity, pure form, but with vision.
They stood there for a minute, two featureless shapes, one black, one silver, peering out through their hidden mesh ports, getting accustomed to the sensation. It felt powerful. It felt cool.
The next Monday, they didn’t just cause a hush in the school courtyard; they brought it to a standstill.
Anya and Lena walked side-by-side through the gates. Anya wore the black Cocoon Bomber, Lena the silver. Both jackets were zipped up not just to their noses, but completely, entirely over their heads. The massive, padded collars formed smooth, featureless domes where their heads should be. There were no eyes visible, no faces, nothing… or so it seemed at first glance. Just two figures, one black, one silver, moving with a strange, deliberate grace, encased head-to-shoulder in futuristic fabric. The only sound was the faint rustle of nylon and the soft tread of their shoes.
They stopped at their usual spot, two anonymous, jacketed forms. The silence around them was absolute, thick with disbelief. But this time, there was an added layer of unease. While no faces were visible, anyone looking closely might notice the faint, dark mesh panels near the top of the domes. And behind those panels, unseen but undoubtedly present, were watching eyes. They had achieved the ultimate high-collar look: complete disappearance, yet retaining the power of observation. It was undeniably cool, utterly detached, and perhaps even more unsettling than before.
The following day, Anya and Lena decided to add another layer to their statement. Before donning the Cocoon Bombers, Anya zipped up her burgundy Olimpas track jacket, pulling the collar high to cover her mouth and nose. Lena did the same with her shiny red track jacket. Then, they put on the bombers, pulling the heavy zippers all the way up, encasing their already partially masked faces and bald heads within the padded domes.
Their entrance into the school courtyard was met with the now-familiar stunned silence, followed by uneasy whispers. The two featureless figures, black and silver, seemed even more alien today. They moved towards the main building, their vision slightly dimmed through the mesh ocular ports.
As they approached the doors, a stern figure blocked their path. It was Mrs. Petrova, the deputy headmistress, a woman known for her strict adherence to school rules and her low tolerance for eccentricities.
“Anya? Lena? Is that you under there?” Mrs. Petrova demanded, her arms crossed, her expression severe.
Two muffled affirmations came from within the black and silver domes.
“This… attire… is completely inappropriate for school,” Mrs. Petrova stated sharply. “It is disruptive and frankly, quite unnerving. You cannot walk around completely covered like this. Unzip those jackets immediately.”
Anya and Lena exchanged glances, visible only to each other through the mesh panels. Without a word, they both reached for the heavy metal zipper pulls of their Cocoon Bombers. Slowly, deliberately, they pulled the zippers down. The zzzzzzzzip sound was loud in the tense silence.
The padded domes fell away, revealing… not their full faces, but their bald heads and the high-zipped collars of their track jackets beneath. Anya’s burgundy collar sat snugly under her nose, her pale blue eyes staring coolly from above it. Lena’s shiny red collar did the same, her brown eyes meeting the deputy headmistress’s gaze with a hint of defiance.
A collective gasp went through the students who had gathered to watch. Mrs. Petrova stared, momentarily speechless. She had expected to see their faces, perhaps looking defiant or embarrassed. She had not expected another layer of zipped-up concealment.
“Well?” Anya’s voice, muffled by the burgundy collar but clear enough to be heard, broke the silence.
Mrs. Petrova blinked, flustered. “But… you’re still… your faces are still covered!”
“Only partially,” Lena pointed out, her voice similarly muffled by the red fabric. “This is just a track jacket. Like many students wear.”
The deputy headmistress looked from Anya’s masked face to Lena’s, then back again. She seemed unsure how to proceed. They weren’t fully covered anymore, but the spirit of her command had clearly been circumvented. The sheer audacity of the layered concealment left her momentarily adrift.
Anya and Lena simply stood there, their eyes steady above their zipped collars, waiting. The power dynamic had subtly shifted. They had complied, yet they had conceded nothing. The cool factor, Anya thought, had just reached a new level.
Mrs. Petrova, however, was not one to be easily defeated. The next day, Anya and Lena arrived in the same layered configuration – track jackets zipped high, Cocoon Bombers zipped higher, completely enclosing their heads. They hadn’t evenmade it to their usual spot before Mrs. Petrova intercepted them, her face set like stone.
“Anya, Lena. My office. Now,” she commanded, leaving no room for argument.
Inside her cramped office, Mrs. Petrova gestured towards two chairs. Anya and Lena sat, their movements slightly restricted by the bulky jackets. They remained fully zipped.
“I have contacted your parents,” Mrs. Petrova announced, folding her hands on her desk. “They will be here shortly. This absurdity must end. School is a place for learning, not for hiding inside… cocoons.”
Anya and Lena waited in silence, peering out through their mesh panels. Soon, there was a knock. Anya’s mother, a pragmatic engineer with a no-nonsense air, entered, followed by Lena’s father, an artist with a perpetually paint-splattered sweater and kind eyes.
Mrs. Petrova launched into her explanation, detailing the girls’ escalating eccentricities – the high collars, the shaved heads, and now, the head-enclosing bombers worn over other high-collared jackets. “It violates the spirit of the dress code, it’s disruptive, and frankly, it prevents proper identification and interaction!” she concluded, looking expectantly at the parents.
Anya’s mother listened patiently, her expression unreadable. Lena’s father observed his daughter’s silver-domed form with a thoughtful frown.
When Mrs. Petrova finished, Anya’s mother spoke first. “Deputy Headmistress,” she said calmly, “while I may not personally understand Anya’s current aesthetic choices, are they actually breaking any specific written rule?”
Mrs. Petrova hesitated. “Well, no, not explicitly, but the dress code implies…”
“And are they failing their classes? Causing violence? Vandalizing property?” Anya’s mother continued, ticking points off on her fingers.
“No, but…”
“Then,” Anya’s mother stated firmly, “I fail to see the problem. They are expressing themselves. It might be unusual, but it’s harmless. If it makes them feel confident, perhaps that focus helps their studies.”
Lena’s father chimed in, his voice gentle but firm. “Lena has always been creative. This feels like… performance art, almost. A statement. As long as she can see where she’s going,” he glanced at the mesh panel on the silver dome, “and isn’t hurting anyone, I support her right to explore her identity, even if it involves… excessive zippers.”
Mrs. Petrova stared at the parents, utterly dumbfounded. This was not the outraged support she had anticipated. She had expected allies in enforcing conformity, not defenders of zippered anonymity and bald heads.
“But… but it’s bizarre!” she sputtered.
“Perhaps,” agreed Anya’s mother coolly. “But ‘bizarre’ is not against school regulations. Unless you can cite a specific rule they are breaking, Mrs. Petrova, I suggest we let the girls continue their… experiment.”
Defeated, cornered by unexpected parental solidarity and the lack of a concrete rule violation, Mrs. Petrova slumped slightly in her chair. She looked at the two silent, zipped-up figures sitting opposite her, then at the equally resolute parents.
“Very well,” she sighed, the reluctance heavy in her voice. “For now. But any disruption, any safety issue…”
“Of course,” Anya’s mother nodded crisply.
Anya and Lena remained still, but inside their respective cocoons, they exchanged triumphant glances through the mesh. They had won. Their right to pursue the ultimate high-collar coolness, in all its layered, zipped-up glory, had been defended. They stood up, nodded almost imperceptibly towards the deputy headmistress, and walked out of the office, two anonymous domes moving in perfect sync, ready to face the rest of the school day.
Their victory over Mrs. Petrova felt good, but for Anya, the pursuit of the ultimate zipped aesthetic was never truly finished. That weekend, while browsing a sportswear shop with Lena (both clad in their Cocoon Bombers over single zipped track jackets), Anya had an idea.
“Lena,” she said, her voice muffled inside the black dome, nodding towards a display of thinner, brightly coloured track tops. “What if…”
Lena turned her silver dome towards Anya, peering through the mesh. “What if what?”
“Layers,” Anya stated simply. “More layers.”
Lena tilted her head. “Under the bomber?”
“Under the first track jacket,” Anya clarified. “Two track jackets. Both zipped high. Then the bomber.”
Lena considered this. The logistics were getting complex. Three layers of jackets, two zipped high over the face, one zipped completely over the head. It would be bulky, warm, and push the boundaries even further. Her eyes crinkled behind the mesh – a sure sign of intrigue.
“Double masking,” Lena murmured, the muffled words filled with appreciation for the concept. “Maximum concealment upon reveal. I like it.”
They each selected a thin, second track jacket – Anya chose a plain black one to go under her burgundy Olimpas, Lena picked a vibrant yellow one to contrast under her shiny red.
Monday morning arrived. The routine was becoming intricate. First, Anya zipped up the thin black track jacket, pulling its collar high until the zipper pull rested firmly over the tip of her nose, the fabric pressing lightly against her nostrils. Then, she put on the burgundy Olimpas, zipping its substantial collar up even higher, completely covering the first jacket’s collar and zipper, the second zipper pull also landing decisively over the tip of her nose. Breathing required conscious effort through the mouth. Finally, she donned the black Cocoon Bomber, pulling the heavy zipper all the way up, encasing everything in the padded dome. Lena performed a similar ritual: yellow jacket zipped over the nose, red jacket zipped over that one, also over the nose, silver Cocoon Bomber zipped over everything.
The added bulk was significant now, and the double layer of fabric pressing over their noses made the world feel even more distant. Walking to school, their movements were deliberate, the air inside the multiple layers growing warm quickly.
Their arrival caused the usual stir, perhaps with an added element of confusion – did they look… thicker today? They proceeded towards the entrance, ignoring the stares. Mrs. Petrova was standing near the doors, watching them approach, her expression resigned but wary. She didn’t stop them this time, merely narrowing her eyes as the black and silver domes passed her by.
Later, in history class, Mr. Ivanov, a notoriously laid-back teacher, peered at them over his glasses. “Anya, Lena,” he said mildly. “Could you perhaps… unzip the outer layer? Just so I know you’re actually conscious in there.”
Following their established protocol, Anya and Lena reached up and slowly unzipped the Cocoon Bombers. The padded domes fell back.
And the class gasped, louder this time.
Instead of revealing faces masked just below the nose, the sight was even more extreme. Both girls had two distinct track jacket collars zipped completely over their noses. Anya’s burgundy Olimpas collar formed the outer layer of concealment, zipped high, and visible just beneath its edge was the black collar of the inner jacket, also zipped equally high, both pressing against the bridge of their noses. Lena mirrored the look with her red and yellow jackets. Only their pale blue and brown eyes stared out impassively from the narrow gap between the top edge of the collars and their smooth scalps.
Mr. Ivanov blinked rapidly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Ah… right,” he stammered, clearly taken aback by this new level of facial obscurity. “Two jackets… both… quite high today. Excellent… insulation, I imagine.” He cleared his throat loudly and turned abruptly back to the blackboard, deciding faster than ever that this was a phenomenon best left unexamined.
Anya and Lena looked at each other, the collars of their now-unzipped bombers resting on their shoulders like capes. The double-over-the-nose reveal was a definitive statement. Inside the stifling layers, Anya took a slow, deliberate breath through her mouth, the double thickness of fabric pressing against her nose. She registered Mr. Ivanov’s flustered reaction, the class’s stunned silence. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod to herself. This was control. This was dedication. This was control. This was the aesthetic pushed to its limit.
The next afternoon, as Anya and Lena were leaving school, layered up but with the Cocoon Bombers unzipped for the walk home, a hesitant voice called out behind them.
“Anya? Lena?”
They turned, their eyes peering out over their double-zipped collars. It was Katya, a quiet girl from their math class, known for her neat braids and unassuming cardigans. She clutched her books nervously.
“Hi,” Katya said, her gaze flicking between Anya’s burgundy/black combination and Lena’s red/yellow. “I… I really like your jackets.”
Anya and Lena remained silent, observing her. Compliments were rare; usually, they just got stares or teasing.
“Specifically,” Katya continued, gathering courage, “how you zip them up so high. Over your… you know.” She gestured vaguely towards her own nose. “It looks… really cool. Strong.”
Anya tilted her head slightly. Lena’s eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly above her red collar.
“I was wondering,” Katya rushed on, “where do you find jackets like that? With collars big enough? I looked in the department store, but everything stops at the chin.”
Lena spoke first, her voice muffled by two layers of fabric. “Department stores are useless for this. You need vintage. Or specific brands.”
“Seventies track jackets often have good collars,” Anya added, her voice equally muffled. “Olimpas, some Adidas models. You have to check the structure. And the zipper length.”
Katya nodded eagerly, absorbing the information. “Right. Vintage. Are there… shops you know?”
Anya and Lena exchanged a look. A potential recruit? Someone who actually got it?
“There’s a place near Arbatskaya,” Anya said. “We could show you. Saturday?”
Katya’s face lit up. “Really? You would? That would be amazing! Thank you!”
So, on Saturday, Anya and Lena, clad in their fully zipped Cocoon Bombers (because shopping required focus), met Katya near the metro station. Katya looked almost overwhelmed by their featureless black and silver forms.
“Ready?” Anya’s muffled voice asked from within the black dome.
“Da,” Katya squeaked.
They led her to the small vintage shop, the bell jingling as the three entered. Inside the Cocoon Bombers, Anya and Lena’s vision was slightly dimmed by the mesh, but they navigated the crammed aisles with practiced ease. Katya followed, wide-eyed.
“Okay,” Lena’s voice echoed slightly inside her silver dome. “Focus on track jackets first. Feel the collars. Check the zipper track – make sure it goes all the way to the top edge.”
They started searching. Katya hesitantly began flicking through hangers, mimicking Anya and Lena’s methodical approach. After about fifteen minutes, Katya pulled out a navy blue track jacket with orange stripes. It looked promising.
“What about this one?” she asked nervously.
Anya, peering through her mesh, assessed it. “Collar looks decent. Ribbed. Try the zipper.”
Katya carefully pulled the zipper up. It slid smoothly, right to the very top of the collar. “It works!”
“Put it on,” Anya instructed.
Katya slipped it on. It fit well. She looked at Anya and Lena’s imposing, zipped-up forms, took a deep breath, and slowly pulled the zipper upwards. Past her chin… past her mouth… she hesitated for a second, then pulled it the rest of the way until the metal tab pressed firmly over the tip of her nose, just like theirs.
She stood there, breathing through her mouth, her wide brown eyes peering over the navy blue collar.
“How… how does it look?” she asked, her voice muffled for the first time.
From within their respective cocoons, Anya and Lena observed their protégée. The high zip transformed Katya’s hesitant demeanor into something sharper, more focused. Her eyes, framed by the collar, looked determined.
“Cool,” Lena’s muffled voice declared.
“Very cool,” Anya’s muffled voice agreed.
Katya beamed behind her newly zipped collar, a convert to the high-zip aesthetic. The Zipper Twins were now, potentially, the Zipper Trio.
Katya didn’t just dip her toe into the high-zip aesthetic; she plunged in headfirst. The following Monday, she arrived at school in her new navy blue track jacket, the collar zipped firmly over the tip of her nose, her neat braids tucked carefully inside. She found Anya and Lena at their usual spot, both already in their layered track jackets and fully zipped Cocoon Bombers.
“Morning,” Katya said, her voice muffled but clear, a newfound confidence in her tone. Her brown eyes, now the most prominent feature of her visible face, scanned the courtyard with an observant air that mirrored Anya’s.
Anya, through the mesh of her black bomber, gave a slight nod. Lena’s silver dome tilted in acknowledgment.
Throughout the day, Katya maintained the look. She navigated the hallways with a new sense of purpose, her head held high, the navy collar a constant shield. In math class, she answered questions with her usual quiet intelligence, but her voice, slightly distorted by the fabric, seemed to carry more weight. The other students, initially surprised, soon began to accept this new, zipped-up Katya. Sasha Petrov even tried a “Look, it’s the Zipper Apprentice!” but Katya, like Anya and Lena, simply ignored him, her focus unwavering.
Anya noticed that Katya’s posture had changed. She stood taller, moved with more deliberation. The high collar seemed to provide not just physical concealment, but a mental armour as well.
During lunch, as the three sat slightly apart, Katya spoke. “It feels… different,” she admitted, her eyes looking from Anya’s black dome to Lena’s silver one, then down at her own navy-blue-clad chest. “Good different. Like I can focus better. People don’t… interrupt my thoughts as much.”
“Exactly,” Anya’s muffled voice replied from within her bomber. “It’s control.”
“And it’s definitely cool,” Lena added, her silver dome bobbing slightly.
The next day, Katya arrived with her braids gone. Her dark hair was now cut into a short, severe bob that didn’t interfere with the collar line at all. A week later, inspired by Anya and Lena, she took the plunge and shaved her head completely smooth. The navy blue collar against her newly bald scalp created a striking, sharp silhouette.
She didn’t stop there. Soon, Katya was experimenting with layers. She acquired a thin, dark grey track jacket to wear under her navy blue one, both zipped high over her nose. She even started saving up for her own Cocoon Bomber, discussing colour choices with Anya and Lena – she was leaning towards a deep forest green.
Mrs. Petrova, seeing a third student adopt the extreme zippered style, simply sighed and shook her head when she passed them in the hallway, but said nothing. The battle had been fought, and a precedent set.
The “Zipper Twins” had officially become the “Zipper Trio.” Three figures, distinct in their chosen jacket colours but united in their dedication to the high-zip aesthetic, moved through the school like a silent, focused unit. Their coolness was undeniable, their anonymity a shared strength. And Anya knew, with a deep sense of satisfaction, that their influence was just beginning.
It took Katya another month of meticulous saving, forgoing her usual after-school pastries and diligently doing extra chores for her parents. Finally, the day arrived when a package, identical in shape and size to the ones Anya and Lena had received, landed on her doorstep.
She invited Anya and Lena over that Saturday. The anticipation was palpable. Katya carefully unwrapped the forest green Cocoon Bomber. The nylon was sleek, the padding substantial, the mesh ocular ports perfectly integrated.
“It’s perfect,” Katya breathed, her eyes shining.
Following the now-established ritual, she first zipped up her thin, dark grey track jacket, pulling the collar firmly over her nose. Then came the navy blue track jacket, its collar also zipped high over the first. Finally, with Anya and Lena watching – their own black and silver domes already in place – Katya slipped on the green Cocoon Bomber. Her hands, slightly trembling, found the heavy metal zipper.
Zzzzzzzzzip.
The green dome closed over her head, sealing her into the muffled, mesh-filtered world. She stood for a moment, adjusting to the sensation.
“Well?” Anya’s voice came from the black dome.
“Complete,” Katya’s voice replied from within the green. “And I can see.”
The next Monday, the school courtyard didn’t just fall silent; it practically froze. Three featureless domes – one black, one silver, one deep forest green – glided through the gates in perfect formation. The Zipper Trio was now fully operational, each member encased in their chosen conceptual outerwear, peering out at the world through hidden mesh.
When Mr. Ivanov asked them to unzip their outer layers in history class, the reveal was even more potent. Three bald heads, three sets of watchful eyes peering over two layers of track jacket collars, each zipped high over their noses. Anya in black over burgundy, Lena in silver over red and yellow, and now Katya, in forest green over navy and grey.
Mr. Ivanov just sighed, a sound barely audible over the collective intake of breath from the rest of the class. “Right then,” he mumbled, turning towards the blackboard with a speed that suggested he wished he taught any other subject, in any other school.
The Zipper Trio had reached peak aesthetic. Their commitment was absolute, their coolness legendary. And as they sat there, encased in multiple layers of fabric and zippers, observing the world from their self-made fortresses of cool, they knew they were just getting started.
The “getting started” phase, for Anya, always meant pushing further. Two track jackets under the Cocoon Bomber felt like a statement, but was it the ultimate statement?
“Lena. Katya,” Anya addressed them one afternoon as they sat in their usual slightly-apart spot in the cafeteria. All three were in their Cocoon Bombers, unzipped for the relative ease of eating, revealing their double-layered, over-the-nose track jacket collars. Their bald heads gleamed.
Lena, mid-way through carefully maneuvering a spoonful of soup past her red and yellow collars, paused. Katya looked up from her textbook, her navy and grey collars a stark frame for her observant eyes.
“The double layer is good,” Anya stated, her voice muffled by her own burgundy and black setup. “But there’s… space.”
Lena raised a questioning eyebrow above her red collar. Katya tilted her head.
“Space for what?” Lena managed, her voice thick with fabric.
“Another one,” Anya said simply. “A third track jacket. The thinnest one, at the very base. All three zipped over the nose.”
Katya’s eyes widened slightly. “Three? Under the bomber?” The idea of the sheer bulk, the pressure of three collars stacked and zipped high, was daunting.
Lena, however, slowly chewed her soup, a thoughtful expression in her visible eyes. The challenge, the sheer audacity of it, appealed to her. “Triple masking,” she mused, the words barely audible. “The reveal would be… monumental.”
“It would be definitive,” Anya corrected, her blue eyes intense. “No question of commitment.”
Finding three track jackets thin enough to layer comfortably yet still possessing collars robust enough for the over-the-nose zip took another dedicated weekend of scouring vintage shops and obscure online sportswear retailers. Anya found an ultra-thin, almost translucent grey windbreaker. Lena opted for a sleek, silver one that would gleam under her red and yellow. Katya chose a muted dark blue, almost black, to form the base of her navy and grey layers.
The following Monday morning, the ritual of dressing became an exercise in precision engineering.
Anya first pulled on the translucent grey windbreaker, zipping its minimal collar as high as it would go, the fabric a mere whisper over her nose. Next came the thin black track jacket, its collar pulled firmly over the grey one, adding another layer of pressure. Then, the burgundy Olimpas, its substantial collar encasing the previous two, the zipper pull joining the others in a tight formation over the tip of her nose. Breathing was now a very conscious, mouth-only activity. Finally, the black Cocoon Bomber was zipped up, sealing the entire construction into a featureless dome.
Lena and Katya performed their own meticulous triple-layering, emerging as slightly bulkier silver and green domes respectively. The sheer thickness around their necks and heads was undeniable. Movement was more restricted, the world outside their mesh ocular ports felt even more distant, and the internal warmth was considerable, despite the lingering chill of the Moscow morning.
Their entrance into the school courtyard created a ripple of fresh bewilderment. The Zipper Trio looked… larger. More imposing. Mrs. Petrova, on duty by the doors, simply stared, her face a mask of utter disbelief, then turned away, seemingly deciding some battles were not only lost but perhaps beyond her comprehension.
The true test came, as always, in Mr. Ivanov’s history class. He looked at the three domes, which seemed to take up even more space than usual.
“Alright, ladies,” he said, a note of weary curiosity in his voice. “The usual, if you please. Let’s see what we’re working with today.”
With synchronized movements, Anya, Lena, and Katya reached up and pulled down the heavy zippers of their Cocoon Bombers. The padded collars fell back.
The class didn’t just gasp. Several students audibly choked. One girl dropped her pen with a clatter.
There, revealed in all their glory, were not one, not two, but three distinct layers of track jacket collars, each one zipped firmly and precisely over the tips of their noses.
Anya: burgundy over black over translucent grey.
Lena: shiny red over bright yellow over sleek silver.
Katya: navy blue over dark grey over muted dark blue.
The effect was staggering. The sheer dedication to the aesthetic, the commitment to such an uncomfortable and extreme level of layering and facial concealment, was beyond anything the school had witnessed. Only their eyes, narrowed in focus and perhaps a little strained from the pressure, were visible in the tiny gaps above the mountain of fabric.
Mr. Ivanov stared. His mouth opened, then closed. He took off his glasses, polished them slowly, put them back on, and stared again.
“Three,” he finally whispered, more to himself than to the class. “Three jackets. All… all the way up.” He shook his head, a dazed expression on his face. “Right. Well. Carry on.” He turned to the blackboard and began to write, though his hand seemed a little unsteady.
Anya, Lena, and Katya exchanged almost imperceptible nods. The air inside their triple-layered cocoons was hot and close, breathing was a conscious effort, but the sense of triumph, of having pushed their unique aesthetic to its absolute zenith, was exhilarating. They were untouchable, unknowable, undeniably, monumentally cool.
The triple-layered track jackets under the fully zipped Cocoon Bombers became the Zipper Trio’s standard uniform. The initial shockwave through the school settled into a kind of grudging awe. They were an accepted, if bizarre, fixture of school life.
One Tuesday afternoon, as the Trio sat at their usual cafeteria table, unzipped only to the triple-over-the-nose track jacket level for eating, a figure approached hesitantly. It was Svetlana, a girl known for her artistic talent and quiet intensity, often seen sketching in notebooks. She wasn’t usually one to interact much outside her small circle of art friends.
Svetlana stopped a few feet from their table, her dark eyes wide as she took in the three figures – Anya’s burgundy/black/grey layers, Lena’s red/yellow/silver, Katya’s navy/grey/dark blue, all zipped high over their noses, framing their impassive eyes and smooth scalps.
“Excuse me,” Svetlana said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Anya, Lena, and Katya slowly turned their heads in unison, their eyes fixing on her.
Svetlana swallowed nervously. “I… I’ve been watching you. Your… look.” She gestured towards their jackets. “It’s incredible. The layers, the structure, the… anonymity. It’s like walking sculpture.”
This was different from Katya’s approach. Katya had focused on the coolness, the strength. Svetlana saw art.
Lena tilted her head, her eyes crinkling slightly above the red collar. Katya observed Svetlana with quiet curiosity. Anya remained perfectly still, assessing.
“It’s a very powerful statement,” Svetlana continued, gaining a little confidence. “The way you control what people see. The dedication… it’s inspiring, actually.” She paused, taking a breath. “I want to understand it better. I want… I think I want to try it.”
Anya, Lena, and Katya exchanged glances. Another one? And someone who saw the aesthetic dimension, not just the rebellion or the coolness?
“It requires commitment,” Anya stated flatly, her voice muffled by three layers.
“And the right gear,” Lena added, her voice equally distorted.
“And you have to be okay with people staring,” Katya chimed in, her muffled voice surprisingly firm.
Svetlana nodded seriously. “I understand. I’ve thought about it. I want that… focus. That control.” Her dark eyes met Anya’s blue ones. “Can you… help me? Like you helped Katya?”
Anya considered Svetlana. She seemed genuine, thoughtful. Not just jumping on a trend, but appreciating the core concept.
“Saturday,” Anya said after a moment. “Arbatskaya. The vintage shop. Be ready.”
Svetlana’s face broke into a relieved, grateful smile. “Thank you! I will be.”
As Svetlana walked away, Lena looked at Anya and Katya, her eyes gleaming above her collars. “Sculpture, huh?” she mumbled. “I like that.”
Katya nodded in agreement. Anya felt a flicker of something new. Their aesthetic wasn’t just cool; it was art. And it seemed their gallery was about to gain another exhibit. The Zipper Quartet was on the horizon.
The initiation of Svetlana followed the established pattern, but with her artistic eye, she brought a new dimension. On their shopping trip (Anya, Lena, and Katya fully cocooned, Svetlana initially overwhelmed but quickly focused), Svetlana wasn’t just looking for high collars; she was considering colour palettes and textures. She selected a charcoal grey vintage track jacket with a surprisingly soft, high collar.
The following Monday, Svetlana arrived zipped over the nose in her new jacket, her long, dark, artistic hair already pulled back severely. She met the Trio, nodding with quiet determination. Throughout the week, she proved her commitment, ignoring stares and adapting quickly to the muffled communication and mouth-breathing.
True to her artistic nature, Svetlana documented her experience in her sketchbook – quick, intense drawings of high-zipped collars, studies of the way fabric folded, abstract representations of the feeling of enclosure and focus. She showed her sketches to Anya, Lena, and Katya during lunch one day, her eyes bright above her charcoal collar.
“It changes your perception,” Svetlana explained, her voice muffled. “The world becomes a framed composition. Sounds are different. It forces an internal perspective.”
Anya, Lena, and Katya examined the sketches, impressed. Svetlana hadn’t just adopted the look; she was analyzing it, interpreting it.
Within two weeks, Svetlana’s long hair was gone, replaced by the same smooth scalp as the others, making her dark eyes even more striking above the charcoal grey collar. She quickly progressed to layering, finding a thin black jacket and then an even thinner white one, meticulously arranging her charcoal/black/white combination zipped high over her nose.
She started saving for her Cocoon Bomber immediately, deciding on a stark white one to complete her monochrome palette. When it finally arrived, she zipped it up over her triple-layered track jackets with the same quiet intensity she applied to her art.
The arrival of the fourth dome – pristine white – alongside the black, silver, and green ones caused yet another ripple through the school. Four featureless figures now moved through the hallways, a silent, coordinated unit. The Zipper Quartet was complete.
In history class, Mr. Ivanov didn’t even ask them to unzip anymore. He simply addressed the four domes collectively, occasionally peering towards the mesh panels as if hoping for some sign of life within.
Their presence was undeniable. They were four distinct individuals expressed through colour and subtle variations in their jackets, yet united by the extreme commitment to their shared aesthetic: the shaved heads, the triple-layered track jackets zipped over their noses, and the final, enclosing layer of the Cocoon Bomber. They were walking sculpture, a statement on anonymity, control, and the power of a really high zipper. And Anya, observing her Quartet, knew their performance had only just begun.
The performance, however, still felt… temporary to Anya. The jackets, the layers, even the shaved heads – these could all be changed, removed. The commitment, while extreme, wasn’t indelible.
She broached the subject one Friday evening as the Quartet gathered in Lena’s father’s art studio, a space they sometimes used for its privacy and acceptance of the unusual. They sat on paint-splattered stools, Cocoon Bombers unzipped and resting on their shoulders, revealing the triple-layered track jacket collars zipped high over their noses.
“The look is strong,” Anya began, her voice muffled but carrying in the quiet studio. “But it’s still… external.”
Lena, examining a tube of cobalt blue paint, paused. Katya looked up from adjusting her navy collar. Svetlana stopped sketching in her notebook.
“External?” Lena asked, her eyes questioning above her red collar.
“We take the jackets off at home,” Anya elaborated. “The statement isn’t permanent. It’s not part of us.”
Katya frowned slightly behind her grey collar. “What more could we do?”
“A permanent mark,” Anya stated, her blue eyes intense. “Something that shows our dedication, even when the jackets are off.”
Svetlana’s dark eyes lit up with understanding. “Like branding? A symbol?”
“Exactly,” Anya nodded. “A tattoo.”
Lena grinned, the idea clearly appealing to her sense of boldness. “A tattoo! Where?”
“Where it’s visible,” Anya said, tapping her smooth scalp just above her zipped collars. “Right here. On our heads.”
Katya hesitated. “A head tattoo? That’s… very permanent.”
“That’s the point,” Anya replied coolly. “Total commitment.”
“What would it say?” Svetlana asked, already envisioning the design possibilities.
They discussed it. Symbols seemed too ambiguous. Initials felt too personal, contrary to their unified anonymity. Then Lena, with a flash of inspiration, suggested it.
“Zip Collar Queen,” she said, her muffled voice full of conviction. “It says exactly what we are.”
Anya considered it. Simple, direct, declarative. Katya nodded slowly, the boldness winning over her hesitation. Svetlana smiled. “Yes. Clean font. Stark. Perfect.”
Finding a tattoo artist willing and skilled enough to tattoo four young women’s scalps took some research, but Lena, ever resourceful, found a reputable studio known for bold, custom work. They booked appointments for the following Saturday.
The experience itself was intense – the buzz of the needle, the slight pain, the knowledge of the permanent change they were making. They went one by one, the other three waiting, encased in their zipped-up jackets, offering silent support.
By Saturday evening, it was done. Four bald heads, each now adorned with crisp, black lettering just above the hairline, positioned to be perfectly visible above their zipped collars: Zip Collar Queen.
Monday morning arrived. This time, the Quartet chose a different approach for their entrance. They left the Cocoon Bombers at home.
They walked through the school gates side-by-side, four figures united in their extreme layering:
Anya: Burgundy Olimpas over black track jacket over translucent grey windbreaker.
Lena: Shiny red over bright yellow over sleek silver.
Katya: Navy blue over dark grey over muted dark blue.
Svetlana: Charcoal grey over black over stark white.
All three track jackets on each girl were zipped firmly, precisely over the tips of their noses. Their smooth scalps gleamed in the morning sun. And there, starkly visible against the pale skin, positioned like crowns just above the top edge of their highest collars, were the identical tattoos: Zip Collar Queen.
The reaction in the courtyard surpassed all previous ones. It wasn’t just shock or confusion anymore; it was stunned silence bordering on disbelief. The shaved heads had been radical, the Cocoon Bombers bizarre, the triple layering extreme. But the tattoos – permanent, bold declarations inked onto their very skin – signified a level of commitment that was almost frightening.
Sasha Petrov and his friends didn’t utter a word, simply staring with wide eyes. Mrs. Petrova, standing by the entrance, saw them approach, registered the tattoos, turned pale, and abruptly walked back into the school building without a word. Even Mr. Ivanov, when they entered history class, took one look at the inked words above their triple-zipped collars and simply said, “Please take your seats,” avoiding eye contact entirely for the rest of the lesson.
The Quartet sat at their desks, the slight discomfort of the fresh tattoos overshadowed by a profound sense of finality and shared identity. They didn’t need the Cocoon Bombers today. The message was clear, permanently etched. They were the Zip Collar Queens. The aesthetic wasn’t just something they wore; it was who they were.
It was the last day of the term. Exams were finished, lessons were perfunctory, and an air of restless anticipation filled the school. For the Zip Collar Queens, it was an occasion demanding a special kind of statement, a departure from the now-familiar layers of track jackets, yet still embodying their core aesthetic.
They had planned it meticulously. The bulky layers of sportswear were left at home. Instead, meeting before school, they helped each other into identical, custom-made outfits: sleek, tight-fitting catsuits of gleaming black leather. The material clung to their forms, a stark contrast to the usual concealing bulk. But the defining feature remained: the collars. Exceptionally tall, structured, and made of the same black leather, these collars rose high, designed specifically to encase the lower face. Each suit featured a prominent, heavy-duty metal zipper running from the waist right up the front, bisecting the tall collar.
One by one, they zipped up. The thick metal zippers slid smoothly over the leather, the sound a deep, resonant zzzzzzzzip. Past the chin, past the mouth, stopping only when the zipper pulls rested firmly against the tips of their noses, pressing the stiff leather collars tight. Breathing became instantly shallow, restricted solely to careful mouth breaths.
They stood side-by-side, four figures clad in black leather, smooth bald heads gleaming above the towering collars. The Zip Collar Queen tattoos were starkly visible against their skin, just above the top edge of the leather. The look was different – less anonymous bulk, more sharp-edged, intimidating chic – but the essential elements remained: the complete facial concealment below the eyes, the prominent zipper, the unwavering commitment.
Their entrance into the school courtyard that morning eclipsed even the tattoo reveal. Jaws didn’t just drop; they seemed to unhinge. The usual end-of-term chatter died instantly, replaced by a stunned, absolute silence. Four figures in skintight black leather, zipped over their noses, tattoos proclaiming their reign – it was a vision simultaneously terrifying and mesmerizingly cool.
They moved with a fluid grace the bulky layers hadn’t allowed, the leather creaking faintly with each step. Their eyes – blue, brown, brown, dark – scanned the courtyard from above the black leather barriers, impassive and assessing.
Sasha Petrov, usually so quick with a jeer, backed away instinctively as they passed. Mrs. Petrova was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Ivanov, spotting them through his classroom window, visibly flinched and seemed to find something intensely interesting on his desk.
The Quartet reached their usual spot, four identical silhouettes in black leather, united by their high-zipped collars and inked crowns. They didn’t need the Cocoon Bombers or the triple layers today. The catsuits were a different kind of statement – sleek, powerful, and utterly uncompromising. It was the perfect closing act for the term, a final, definitive declaration of their unique, zippered sovereignty. The Zip Collar Queens had arrived, and their reign was absolute.