Guangzhou Province Detention Center 104,
The SPR of Pyotograd, Atlas
Comrade Vasily Chuikov hated the cold. He hated it, despised it, rejected it, whatever. There was absolutely nothing that Vasily hated more than feeling his trembling fingers under layers of wool and synthetic fabric, simply frustrated that he couldn’t make himself any warmer, every morning. It was tragically--and morbidly--ironic, then, that he lived in perhaps one of the coldest regions in Atlas. The Guangzhou Province of the Socialist People’s Republic of Pyotograd. The two--Vasily and the land--were wholly and completely incompatible, like oil and water, mint and oranges, communists and reactionary dogs. He couldn’t leave Guangzhou; he hated and despised it, but it was home. It was his motherland, where his friends and family resided and spend their days going about their daily lives. And Vasily simply wanted to keep them safe. He loved home. He cared nothing for the communist party and it’s never ending stream of five-year programs.
Vasily’s fondest and happiest memories were around the fire, warm and secure within the bosom of his loving mother, grasping for his pacifier as his family weathered the elements within the confines of steel, man-made structures provided by the glorious state. Vasily’s father, a guard at the political education camps in the Guangzhou province, had to make the perilous trek out into the harsh, unforgiving blizzards every morning to resume his duty in furthering the Proletariat revolution. Vasily, after spending two years at the People’s Friendship University of Gwacheon, confined himself to his father’s fate. And here Vasily was, now, ten years later, still doing the exact same thing he had always been doing. Walking around a dumb, rusting fence with an old, ancient rifle, making sure that none of the frail and emaciated prisoners attempted an escape. It was a pathetic job, for sure, but it was the only one that Vasily had ever known.
Vasily sighed heavily, pulling his snow boots from the deep creases they had implanted in otherwise virgin sheets of untarnished snow, taking great efforts to keep his socks from getting soaked in the snow. He hated duty, but duty was the only thing keeping him sane. Without duty, he had no foundation upon which to rest. And Vasily needed a foundation, no matter how much he hated it. He often imagined that he loved everything he hated, and to an extent it was true. He hated duty, hated having to get up in ungodly hours of the morning to go watch a bunch of writers and capitalist-pigs masturbating and moping around a pathetic campground, groveling for scraps of bread from the kitchen staff. But if he didn’t have this duty, Vasily knew that he would cease to function. He hated the cold. But the cold also meant everything to him. He couldn’t explain.
“Well, Comrade Vasily,” Comrade Chiang, a young Asiatic recruit waved, while trying to control a savage siberian husky on a crude, leather leash. Chiang winced as the snow pelted his face with blades of ice, as the dog’s threats bleated throughout the vast, endless snowy-plains. “I take it from your frown that you’re not having a good morning?”
“I suppose, no” Vasily responded, shouldering his Kalashnikov. “I wish this ungodly snow would go away. I swear; the snow will fucking kill me some day. I can’t imagine what anybody would want to live here for. Why do people even come here?”
“Well, isn’t that the point, Comrade?” Chiang responded rather practically, with a wisdom somewhat beyond his un-advanced years ”Isn’t that why this is a detention camp? To make the enemies of the state repent their crimes? It wouldn’t be quite as nice if we just let them do manual labor at some tropical resort, would it?” Chiang chuckled satirically, before noticing that Vasily was wholly unamused. It became deathly still save for the ceaseless snowfall as Chiang’s peals of laughter died out, their echoes cast like ships like ships upon the foaming, unfathomable tides into the endless distance.
Vasily’s fondest and happiest memories were around the fire, warm and secure within the bosom of his loving mother, grasping for his pacifier as his family weathered the elements within the confines of steel, man-made structures provided by the glorious state. Vasily’s father, a guard at the political education camps in the Guangzhou province, had to make the perilous trek out into the harsh, unforgiving blizzards every morning to resume his duty in furthering the Proletariat revolution. Vasily, after spending two years at the People’s Friendship University of Gwacheon, confined himself to his father’s fate. And here Vasily was, now, ten years later, still doing the exact same thing he had always been doing. Walking around a dumb, rusting fence with an old, ancient rifle, making sure that none of the frail and emaciated prisoners attempted an escape. It was a pathetic job, for sure, but it was the only one that Vasily had ever known.
Vasily sighed heavily, pulling his snow boots from the deep creases they had implanted in otherwise virgin sheets of untarnished snow, taking great efforts to keep his socks from getting soaked in the snow. He hated duty, but duty was the only thing keeping him sane. Without duty, he had no foundation upon which to rest. And Vasily needed a foundation, no matter how much he hated it. He often imagined that he loved everything he hated, and to an extent it was true. He hated duty, hated having to get up in ungodly hours of the morning to go watch a bunch of writers and capitalist-pigs masturbating and moping around a pathetic campground, groveling for scraps of bread from the kitchen staff. But if he didn’t have this duty, Vasily knew that he would cease to function. He hated the cold. But the cold also meant everything to him. He couldn’t explain.
“Well, Comrade Vasily,” Comrade Chiang, a young Asiatic recruit waved, while trying to control a savage siberian husky on a crude, leather leash. Chiang winced as the snow pelted his face with blades of ice, as the dog’s threats bleated throughout the vast, endless snowy-plains. “I take it from your frown that you’re not having a good morning?”
“I suppose, no” Vasily responded, shouldering his Kalashnikov. “I wish this ungodly snow would go away. I swear; the snow will fucking kill me some day. I can’t imagine what anybody would want to live here for. Why do people even come here?”
“Well, isn’t that the point, Comrade?” Chiang responded rather practically, with a wisdom somewhat beyond his un-advanced years ”Isn’t that why this is a detention camp? To make the enemies of the state repent their crimes? It wouldn’t be quite as nice if we just let them do manual labor at some tropical resort, would it?” Chiang chuckled satirically, before noticing that Vasily was wholly unamused. It became deathly still save for the ceaseless snowfall as Chiang’s peals of laughter died out, their echoes cast like ships like ships upon the foaming, unfathomable tides into the endless distance.
Guangzhou Province Detention Center 104,
The SPR of Pyotograd, Atlas
Vasily stared through the fence gates, into the eyes of the prisoners; men like him who had dared to defy the social order and, in the face of authority, flout the very institutions that upheld the structural order with which they had thrived. Now, the self-same order oppressed and tormented him. He stared into the eyes of an old, wizened Arab, a man with cruel eyes that elicited sympathy and compassion from even the most iron-gated heart, a man who had for some unknown slight, been dragged off to this immeasurable hell to suffer at the behest of the state. Vasily knew the fundamental truth of social order; that the state wasn’t an institution. It was God, and it could sentence men to hell and bless them with prosperity. The State was God.
“Well,” Vasily spoke after some moments of silence, desperate to break the silence and break eye-contact with the shaggy prisoner, “Come now. This snow is killing me, and our shift ends in about three minutes. You want to head inside?” Chiang merely responded with a curt nod of his head. No words were needed out here.
As the pair of guards turned to head into the guard shack where hot tea and cards awaited them, they head the rare sound of a jeep roaring into life behind them. As they turned, the jeep continued barrelling towards them, stopping just meters short as a plump, moustachioed Commissar hopped out, extricating himself from the small seats of the military grade vehicle, flanked by two People’s Republican Guardsmen; the elite soldiers of Pyotograd. The Commissar's weight and evident lack of muscular features were pronounced in the company of such intimidating figures, powerfully built fanatics in service of the Premier himself.
“Ahem,” the Commissar approached them expectantly. The two men simply stared at him in silence, and he continued to strut about.
“Do you need anything Comrade Commissar…?” Vasily queried.
“Ah, yes. I thought you would never ask.” The Commissar responded in an annoying, whiny voice. “As it so happens, the National People’s Congress has pardoned war-criminal, Park Hye-Rin. I would ask you to bring her out.”
“We don’t handle extractions and release,” Vasily responded with bead of slight trepidation beginning to form upon his furrowed brow. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to contact the main office. Were the appropriate channels of authorization..?”
“Pish posh,” the Commissar responded haughtily. “That’s all been handled already.” He ruffled his coat, and beamed callously through his tiny pig-like eyes. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I have a prisoner to pardon and retrieve. By God’s sake, we’ve done enough chattering. I need to get out of this damned cold. I should have brought a thicker coat.” He shivered angrily. “Well, then, come on Dmitry!” he shouted at his guards. “We haven’t all day, you know! Let’s go!” The procession moved towards the main administrative offices with great speed.
“Park...Hye-Rin...” Chiang whispered after they had left. “Can they possibly mean..?”
“Yes.” Vasily affirmed, staring off into the endless snow fields. “The Political reformer...”
“That means...” Chiang gulped.
“Yes.” Vasily affirmed, once again. “There has been a coup. The Populist Reformer’s Party is no longer in control. Change has come from above...”
“Well,” Vasily spoke after some moments of silence, desperate to break the silence and break eye-contact with the shaggy prisoner, “Come now. This snow is killing me, and our shift ends in about three minutes. You want to head inside?” Chiang merely responded with a curt nod of his head. No words were needed out here.
As the pair of guards turned to head into the guard shack where hot tea and cards awaited them, they head the rare sound of a jeep roaring into life behind them. As they turned, the jeep continued barrelling towards them, stopping just meters short as a plump, moustachioed Commissar hopped out, extricating himself from the small seats of the military grade vehicle, flanked by two People’s Republican Guardsmen; the elite soldiers of Pyotograd. The Commissar's weight and evident lack of muscular features were pronounced in the company of such intimidating figures, powerfully built fanatics in service of the Premier himself.
“Ahem,” the Commissar approached them expectantly. The two men simply stared at him in silence, and he continued to strut about.
“Do you need anything Comrade Commissar…?” Vasily queried.
“Ah, yes. I thought you would never ask.” The Commissar responded in an annoying, whiny voice. “As it so happens, the National People’s Congress has pardoned war-criminal, Park Hye-Rin. I would ask you to bring her out.”
“We don’t handle extractions and release,” Vasily responded with bead of slight trepidation beginning to form upon his furrowed brow. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to contact the main office. Were the appropriate channels of authorization..?”
“Pish posh,” the Commissar responded haughtily. “That’s all been handled already.” He ruffled his coat, and beamed callously through his tiny pig-like eyes. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I have a prisoner to pardon and retrieve. By God’s sake, we’ve done enough chattering. I need to get out of this damned cold. I should have brought a thicker coat.” He shivered angrily. “Well, then, come on Dmitry!” he shouted at his guards. “We haven’t all day, you know! Let’s go!” The procession moved towards the main administrative offices with great speed.
“Park...Hye-Rin...” Chiang whispered after they had left. “Can they possibly mean..?”
“Yes.” Vasily affirmed, staring off into the endless snow fields. “The Political reformer...”
“That means...” Chiang gulped.
“Yes.” Vasily affirmed, once again. “There has been a coup. The Populist Reformer’s Party is no longer in control. Change has come from above...”
The Gwachon People's Politburo Palace,
Pyotograd, Atlas
From outside, and in the eyes of the international community, the People’s National Congress was simply in operation. Guards stood attentively at the doors, bureaucrats shuffled in and out, and as far as anybody was concerned, absolutely nothing had happened or changed. It was a day just like any other. However, looks can be deceiving, as the adage goes, and everything was most certainly not alright. Earlier that morning, a section of Republican Guards had trooped through the double doors pressing an exclusive warrant signed by the Comrade Minister of State Defense into the face of the bewildered guards. They took their rifles and military-gear inside, unchallenged and unquestioned. They had never marched back out.
The Premier’s office was stained with a small pool of caked, dry blood on the white, tiger fur carpet. The room was occupied by soldiers who had tied, gagged and bound Premier Kutzenov with ropes. His secretary formerly a young Ukrainian woman, lay sprawled upon the floor, the back of her head blown to a pulp, its mess still sliding off the walls. The Republican Red Guards pressed their boots on Kutzenov back, inciting tiny squeaks of fear and intimidation; the mighty Premier was terrified, like a baby, like a child, fearful for his pathetic little life. Here was the mighty reformer, and the man who had pocketed billions of dollars of state funds in the hopes that nobody would notice, or that they would be too frightened to challenge him.
It’s a funny thing, really, that even the most powerful men are quite weak and pathetic. Such was the case with the Premier; his legions of tanks and fleets of helicopters and endless political sway did him no good at the present moment as he lay helpless to the mercy of the armed Republican Red Guards who hurled insults and abuse at him. And he could do nothing but whine and cry, his tears soaking the red cloth tied about his eyes, as they continued to cackle about him. He had never been so terrified in his life, and chances are, he would never be again.
They hurled and dragged him into the back of a car, still bound, and began to drive him through the streets. Republican Red Guards began unfurling banners projecting powerful images of Park Hye-rin through the streets, her domineering features staring directly into the souls of the Proletariat masses as his car passed by. Republican Red Guards were everywhere, now. The sworn elect few to safeguard the revolution, the Red Guard had betrayed Kutzenov to uphold their oaths to defend the revolution and safeguard it from threats; within and without. Few dared to question their authority. Not when Park Hye-Rin had seized power.
Kutzenov was dragged forcibly from the car, and hurled into a cess-pit full of human feces and contaminated water dripping from a dirty pipe. The blind was removed from his eyes, but the gag remained. Kutzenov whimpered and scrambled about the pit on all fours, sludging through the endless swamps of excrement and fear as he whined and begged God to save him. But God wasn’t here to save him. The State was God. And the State had turned its back upon him, and now Kutzenov’s life was at the mercy of brutes, of strong-men and soldiers and a Commissar who now began reading a proclamation that he couldn’t understand as one loaded a rifle. And as he continued to thrash in the mud, he heard, imperceptibly, about crimes against the people of Pyotograd. His eyes widened, he thrashed, uncontrollably, begging for divine intervention, for justice, for redemption, for any word that would preserve his-
He knew no more.
The Premier’s office was stained with a small pool of caked, dry blood on the white, tiger fur carpet. The room was occupied by soldiers who had tied, gagged and bound Premier Kutzenov with ropes. His secretary formerly a young Ukrainian woman, lay sprawled upon the floor, the back of her head blown to a pulp, its mess still sliding off the walls. The Republican Red Guards pressed their boots on Kutzenov back, inciting tiny squeaks of fear and intimidation; the mighty Premier was terrified, like a baby, like a child, fearful for his pathetic little life. Here was the mighty reformer, and the man who had pocketed billions of dollars of state funds in the hopes that nobody would notice, or that they would be too frightened to challenge him.
It’s a funny thing, really, that even the most powerful men are quite weak and pathetic. Such was the case with the Premier; his legions of tanks and fleets of helicopters and endless political sway did him no good at the present moment as he lay helpless to the mercy of the armed Republican Red Guards who hurled insults and abuse at him. And he could do nothing but whine and cry, his tears soaking the red cloth tied about his eyes, as they continued to cackle about him. He had never been so terrified in his life, and chances are, he would never be again.
They hurled and dragged him into the back of a car, still bound, and began to drive him through the streets. Republican Red Guards began unfurling banners projecting powerful images of Park Hye-rin through the streets, her domineering features staring directly into the souls of the Proletariat masses as his car passed by. Republican Red Guards were everywhere, now. The sworn elect few to safeguard the revolution, the Red Guard had betrayed Kutzenov to uphold their oaths to defend the revolution and safeguard it from threats; within and without. Few dared to question their authority. Not when Park Hye-Rin had seized power.
Kutzenov was dragged forcibly from the car, and hurled into a cess-pit full of human feces and contaminated water dripping from a dirty pipe. The blind was removed from his eyes, but the gag remained. Kutzenov whimpered and scrambled about the pit on all fours, sludging through the endless swamps of excrement and fear as he whined and begged God to save him. But God wasn’t here to save him. The State was God. And the State had turned its back upon him, and now Kutzenov’s life was at the mercy of brutes, of strong-men and soldiers and a Commissar who now began reading a proclamation that he couldn’t understand as one loaded a rifle. And as he continued to thrash in the mud, he heard, imperceptibly, about crimes against the people of Pyotograd. His eyes widened, he thrashed, uncontrollably, begging for divine intervention, for justice, for redemption, for any word that would preserve his-
He knew no more.
