Nizhneyansk Industrial Gulag [IC/Attn LoM]

[Blakullar]

(Click the image to go to the OOC page.)

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Approximately 2 miles from Nizhneyansk Corrective Labour Camp - Industrial, Mechanocratic Russia.
DAY 1 IN THE GULAG.

The Mecharussian labour camp, where men, women and machines all fear to tread, was not too far away from the prisoner transfer point. As a matter of fact, the latest delivery was just down the road, visible by the snipers mounted in the guard towers. The distant grumble of a maglev train carrying prisoners could be heard from the facility.

Aboard the train itself, nine internees, all from different partitions of the Multiverse, were kept in check with strong metal shackles and wire hand restraints. This wasn't the only carriage-full of prisoners, but it was surely the most colourful. In fact, the two guards aboard the carriage, assigned to watch over the payload, only recognised one native - a female, somewhat haggard, but otherwise looking healthy and youthful. This entire setup was because of an experiment - the Mecharussian Government, ever-keener to search for labour to fuel its slavery-driven economy, had begun to take on extrauniversal prisoners as well. This group was the first.

It wasn't long before some individuals began to chatter amongst themselves, whether it was out of anticipation, boredom or simply an opportunity to get to know each other before they arrived at the Gulag.

[Singaporean Transhumans]

The train to Nizhneyansk
Background

"Ah, so here's our Nova Prospekt." one of the masked prisoners said as he looked outside. This man was already a semi-celebrity back in the PTFS for doing something considered 'legendary', being the only Singaporean that managed to fire one effective shot on General Trotskaya, otherwise deified in the PTFS with even a song dedicated. Such a feat made him immediately subject of trial when PROMEK forces advanced into Kuala Lumpur (following the city defense network's destruction by saboteurs and Trotskaya) and he was lucky enough for a 'legend' to receive the deportation treatment. Back home, rumours have spread that over the years a total of one billion people have been deported to the Mechanocracy through the PTFS, its primary slave supplier, though where those one billion ended up were largely undisclosed - conspiracy theories suggested that most were used for weapons experiments, immoral social experiments or just tossed into the void on the road. Baasim felt lucky to not become one of these people who didn't end up as supposed.

He noticed someone else on the train wearing a PTFS citizen uniform for baseliners, and made the chance to chat immediately. "Hey, you from the PTFS? What's your name?"

The guy he was talking to, was, well, also a 'legend' by standards back home. "Mieczyslaw Kubit, aka SakredKubit."

Baasim was surprised. "WHAT???!! SO YOU'RE THE GUY THAT MADE THE PERCEPTION HOLE SERIES???!!!" he yelled very disturbingly in joy. The guards, giving him the looks (though of course they were masked too), were clearly not happy with that. And of course, he lowered his voice for the next sentence. "Well, looks like we both got what we deserved! I'm Baasim Zein, the 'Shotgunner Dude' that was the only Singaporean to fire an effective shot on General Trotskaya!" he said as if it was a great honor. Kubit also had a change of face once learning that. "Oh, must have took you quite an effort to perform that feat AND survive to here!" he chuckled.

Kubit was the greatest baseliner GMOD animator of his generation: his Perception Hole series involving just about every multiversal notable character made him an elder within the Garry's Mod community. However, the series featured, inevitably (as all Singaporean animations and machinimas do), Trotskaya doing various things not too edgy or obscene but still, 'inappropriate' that got it censored in the Mechanocracy (if they watch Singaporean videos at all) and since then Kubit was under state surveillance. One day, he exceeded the 'state machinima production quota' by uploading twenty videos in a day, and then went on his road to corrective labour.

The buildings in the distance got closer and closer, and the wait became more and more unnerving...

[The Confederal Republic]

While a few of the inmates around him were practically yelling, James sat in relative silence. He didn't recognize any of the nations or uniforms in the traincar, with the obvious exception of the Mecharussians'. The soldiers watching him looked eerily reminescent of Republican troopers, but without the stahlhelms and with totally different weaponry. He took a mental note not to mess with them too much, lest he get 7 warning shots to the back.

James was a government man- once a soldier, he became a research-spy of sorts after his military service, but without most of the spying. His job was to research how things ran under Mecharussian rule, the quality of life, and things of that nature. But a few vodkas can make a man say anything. He ended up stating his job description a bit too loud, and the authorites weren't too fond of what he had to say. Luckily, since he wasn't an actual spy, he didn't get shot, but instead send to some kind of weird gulag.

He recalled his home. He missed his lofty apartment, and his dogs, and his rifle... Oh, and how he missed his wife and child! James felt like weeping, but that would surely be suicide in a prison such as this one. All of this because of a stupid research project, and because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut...

"Hey, hey you. Bearded guy." He was a bit surprised to find one of the inmates speaking to him.
"Yeah?"
"Where you from? I haven't seen a uniform like yours before."
"Oh, I'm from the Republic of... well, the Confederal Republic."
"Where? Never heard of it."
"Wouldn't expect you to. We only came in contact with the Mecharussians a few months prior. I'm one of the first here."
"I see. What you do to get in a place like this?"
"Said a bit too much, did a bit too little. Didn't heed any warnings. Any idea where we're headed, by the way?"
"Heard it was some kinda experimental labor camp. Really, I don't think any of us know for sure"
"Well isn't that lovely."
By the sounds of it, he's never gonna see the walls of his apartment again.

[Crysuko]

Samiere sat in the car silently, the shackles around his wrists and ankles chafing slightly, the cold metal clinging closely to his skin. He still vividly remembered his crime, he knew he would end up in a place like this or dead but decided to take a weapon and attack a registration office, the very one he had been working at not long before.

he had fired an old rocket launcher at the front of the building, blasting some of it away, leaving 8 dead. His mark was made well enough, and he had hardly put up a fight for the police. He wounded a droid, but not seriously.

He awoke in a cell, with an officer standing over him. "your trial went well, you've been sentenced to an industrial gulag. be grateful, they wanted to kill you" he had explained. And so, here he was. on his way to likely be worked to death by mass production.

[Allancia]

Yusuf scratched his beard, and nervously eyed everyone else. He had thought this multiple times before, and would do so multiple times again, but he regretted ever leaving Allancia. Sure, it was cold and dirty and the secret police were everywhere, but at least in Allancia he didn't have to feel like an outsider. To him, Konstantinopel had been home, where he knew people and people knew him. Ever since he'd moved to the Mechanocracy, everything had fallen apart.

Well, it was too late now anyways. He'd been found been found carrying a few books by Gordan Mann and Z. Maglos on public transit, an inexcusable crime.
He'd been arrested on the next stop and sent to a detention center. While awaiting this train, his guards had joked that the Reich had sent a letter of congratulation to OTAN a few hours after his arrest was publicized. And now, on the train to hell, his only possessions were a Turkish wool hat and boots he'd bought in Allancia, different only in that they had new rubber soles. He had no doubt these would be taken from him. He looked around the carriage, hoping to find some potential friends. Well, not friends. No one here was a friend. Maybe allies. Yusuf scratched his beard and nervously eyed everyone else. He had thought this multiple times before, and would do so multiple times again, but he regretted ever leaving Allancia.

[New Frenco Empire]

Maglev Train, several miles outside Nizhneyansk Complex

...It was just a magazine.

Sofia had always imagined the sights and smells of the west. Oh, the Frenkish people knew how to dress! They were always beautiful, what with their elaborate makeup and colored hair and vibrant tastes in fashion! And the nights she dreamed of dining in Paris or dancing in the streets of Venice! She could envision herself seeing the sights in London or going on a weekend romp in World City! Truth be told, she never really regretted being a Russian. Her home city of Sverdlovsk was just...so dull. She was a pleasure seeker and cosmopolitan by nature. She wanted to see the world and indulge. Unfortunately, her type just didn't get along well in Mecharussian culture. The Mechanocracy preached that the west was doomed to failure. The decadent Frenks spent too much time gorging on luxurious feasts and corrupting themselves senseless media to see the world for what it was, and none of that even compared to the amount of time they spent on their backs, moaning and exchanging bodily fluids. To top it all off, the collapsing Europe actually followed these savages while the brave Russian people breathed down their necks!

She sighed thinking about it all. It was just a damn magazine! Still...it was the most glorious magazine she ever got the privilege of reading. It was a magazine from the Frenkish Empire, detailing the culture and film scene of Hollywoodland. It wasn't anything relevant, as she was pretty sure the cover said "MAY 2139", but she didn't care. She didn't know English, so actually reading the thing was out of the question, but the pictures and holograms* that dotted the pages within made it all worth it. She picked it up on her way home from her work as an office secretary after some shady fellow in an alley waved her in. Looking back, it wasn't the best idea. He might have wanted to assault or rape her, but she was a Class C Mecharussian while the guy was only organicheskiy. She was confident the organics were smart enough not to mess with her.

Still, instead of trying to mug her or pin her down and remove her pants, he instead opened his jacket and revealed dozens of trinkets and novelties forbidden within the Mechanocracy's borders. Recreational drugs from Frenk Land, European dime novels and religious symbols from the Nexus just to name a few of the treasures that he kept. Her eyes darted to the magazine, though. She quickly took it and gave the man a handful of ration tickets in return, keeping the magazine hidden under her shirt as she scurried home. She looked at it for about an hour before the CPUs kicked her apartment's door in, rifles drawn. In a panic, she ran for the door, pushing one of the officers down before they tackled her and beat her until she was nearly unconscious. When she came back to her senses, she was already charged with possession of contraband, evading arrest and assault of an officer for that light push she gave one of them. They had also decided to throw a minor subversion charge on her, considering she "conspired" to buy illegal goods from a private vendor. She had no idea if that organicheskiy schmuck was a sting operative or not, but ultimately, it didn't matter.

And there she sat, shackles on her legs, cybernetic inhibitor screwed to her neck and locked away on a train headed for a gulag where she would spend the next two years of her life...if the experience didn't kill her before then. It was considered a nightmare to be sentenced to one of the remote Siberian facilities, even if the CPUs kept assuring her that she was "extremely lucky" to get away with such a short sentence. Still, she was sure she wouldn't last long. If the stories were to be believed, women that had more teeth than they did scars never did last long in the gulags. They would always be passed around like pieces of tasty meat by the toughest prisoners until the moment they snapped. When that happened, they either became unresponsive zombies or ended up with their skull caved in for refusing to submit to a skinhead's fetish. The guards were hardly any better, but at least with them, they carried the firepower that deterred the other, crueler inmates from touching them. As bad as it sounded, her plan was to sell herself to someone in exchange for protection. She would prefer a guard, but she would settle with any tough-looking female skinhead gang that might have been roaming the yard. She wasn't picky (she couldn't afford to be in this scenario anyway), but her tastes generally shifted towards women. She considered it a trait from her Frenkophilia.

Sofia herself was originally designated for another camp in the Chelyabinsk Oblast. However, after word was received that the camp was already well above capacity, she was redirected to to Nizhneyansk at the last minute. She didn't know what to think of the change, though she was sure it wasn't going to be optimal. She had heard that the Chelyabinsk prison wasn't too bad. For the most part, it housed only minor offenders. Teenagers who felt the need to spraypaint buildings, shoplifters and minor political prisoners (such as herself). The guards are apparently not too harsh, and the prisoners had access to a few luxuries, such as toilets and showers with privacy stalls and the occasional public showing of a film of some sort. That facility mostly oversaw to the final stages of producing T-100 tanks before shipping them off to the Red Army. That kind of work wasn't glamorous, but it wouldn't break your back.

Nizhneyansk...was more of a mystery. Rumors stated that this particular gulag was where the state performed many of it's social experiments, and the interactions between the inmates themselves were a more important resource than the industrial material it produced. Regardless, her future was decided. Here she was, on a train loaded with the most peculiar group of people she'd ever seen, headed to the latest, most gruesome chapter of her life. All she could do was hope it wouldn't be her last...

*=(uses the stupidly intricate technology seen in that one business card in CoD:AW.

[Blakullar]

Aboard the train...

It wasn't long at all until the noise of the train began to rapidly decrease in pitch. Their journey was over, and a bright blue light pierced the narrow slits that were passed off as windows. The carriages were being scanned to ensure that all prisoners aboard the train were accounted for.

It was at summer dawn when they arrived, the orange sky veiled by dense black clouds of antiquated nuclear fallout. When the bombs that heralded the doom of the Soviet Union fell 74 years ago, great cyclones formed from the shockwaves of the blasts and threw huge amounts of debris into the air. Kept aloft by the mountain winds, they stood upon the empyreal expanse as dark reminders of that fateful day and would do so for at least 200 years more.

The carriage with the foreigners was the first to be herded onto the unloading area, ready to march in single file to the reception with guards bearing witness to their every move. Since they were all kept in numerical order, the first to reach the reception was Samiere Miersken. In front of him was a desk, with two trays on it and a large, unblinking red eye above it that watched his every move. The eye spoke to him from a ventilated speaker piece just beneath it. "INSERT OFFICIAL IDENTIFICATION INTO TRAY ONE," it droned in a monotone.

When he did as instructed, the machine spoke back to him. "PRISONER NUMBER TWO-FIFTY-ONE, PLACE RIGHT ARM ON TRAY TWO AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS." Upon doing that, his arm was clasped into place, and a mechanical arm arose from the desk. It painfully embedded a barcode on his forearm with a powerful laser before releasing him again. "GO THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO YOUR RIGHT AND ASSEMBLE AT THE COURTYARD." This process was repeated with each and every one of the incoming prisoners, until forty newcomers were fully processed and ordered through the door.

Soon the courtyard (to which the way was shown by a group of guards that acted as a barrier) was packed with new prisoners awaiting inspection, all standing close together like sardines. Ahead of them to their right was the guardhouse, the place where the Gulag's overseers all worked, ate and slept. The door leading to the courtyard was guarded by a BMP-A combat drone, ensuring the safety of what or whoever was inside. Soon, it groaned open, and out stepped a tough-looking individual, wearing a uniform that looked very similar to that of Grand Curator Prokhor Stahlrim's. The only exception was the lack of a gas mask, his iron face branded with two slits for eyes from where a red glow penetrated the frigid air. Sewn onto his jacket's shoulder was the State Emblem, with the words Министерство Труда below it. This indicated his position as a Political Commissar of the Mechanocratic Ministry of Labour.

"Stand to attention!" a guard yelled at the massed prisoners, and they all snapped up straight as a ruler. "At ease," the Commissar began his homily, pacing up and down the line as he spoke with sharp abrasiveness. "You all know why you are here, and that reason is because you have all wronged your motherland in some way or another! A few of you will only be staying for a short few months, but many of you will be here for years, decades even. Your stays will be hard, and some of you will only be leaving this camp as a soda bottle."

He meant that in a very literal way. Both factories had onsite carbon recyclers waiting to devour corpses and prepare the materials for plastic synthesis.

"But for those of you that survive, this stay will be an opportunity for you to start over. Turn a new leaf, if you will. You are not here to suffer, you are here for re-education. My solemn promise to everyone here is that no man, woman or machine that survives their sentence will have to come back here again. You will leave here with skills, experiences, and hope. But for now, it is necessary for you to learn the skills required for your trade. This Industrial Gulag manufactures dining utensils. Bowls, plates, knives, forks and spoons, and just about every other tool known to man that somebody who wants a decent dinner with their family may wish to use. Here you will learn your trade quickly, because if you do not, you are in a heap of trouble. Because starting tomorrow, your production quotas will be set. Failure to meet this quota will result in punishment as my men and I see fit. However, exceeding that quota will produce rewards. A production line in Factory One has been set for your initiation. You will go there now and report to the Overseer responsible for your training!"

And with that, he motioned the guard to the right to lead them to the farthest of the two, almost cylindrical, behemoth constructs ahead of them...

[Crysuko]

Samiere filed towards the towers along with the other prisoners, wondering what awaited him in these towers. Is this some kind of eleborate execution? a factory entrance? it wasn't obvious from how metallic and drab the buildings looked. "Well, here we go" he sighed inwardly, waiting for the many trials that awaited him. "i've worked in a factory before" he thought, still shuffling on "how hard could it be?"

[The Andromeda Confederation]

300 years.

300 years alive, working for the Vox. Plopped straight out of a Project Afterlife Station, assigned as Dr. Kota Wallace, of Head of Cyberwarfare. Listening to her whine. By the Artisan, was she a demanding mistress. Creating the darkest, most sinister viruses to ever exist, being the sole man responsible for the creation of Death Incarnate.

And then it happened.

He didn't even know whether it was intentional or not. But the next he knew, over 100 consciousnesses were deleted and he was here, in Nizhneyansk, with a 20 year sentence slapped on him and the guarantee of a mindwipe once he returned home. He didn't say a word. If he was lucky, he would die and he would have time to relax before he was sent here, again, in another body for the remainder of his sentence. 20 years isn't too bad for an Andromedian, it was the mindwipe he was afraid of. He had the privilege to witness one. It was at the very least gruesome. As long as he was here, he would see what he could do about reaching out. Perhaps he could make do. Then when he was done, he would just simply not report for the wipe. Maybe. Maybe.

"PRISONER NUMBER TWO-FIFTY-SEVEN, PLACE RIGHT ARM ON TRAY TWO AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS."

Soon he was barcoded. It didn't hurt, not as much as he expected. He stepped forward when it was done. Looking at the two in front of him, he could tell they were some sort of Singaporean, the baseliner's civvies giving it away. Huh. Of course this was an international program. Misery loves company. And from remembering the rather loud conversation aboard the train, the one directly in front of him was a 'Mieczyslaw Kubit.'

"SacredKubit, huh?"

[New Frenco Empire]

Nizhneyansk Complex Unloading Area

As soon as the creepy foreigner in front of her finished up, it was Sofia's turn.
"INSERT OFFICIAL IDENTIFICATION INTO TRAY ONE." The AI commanded. She did as she was told, putting the card she was issued into the tray. As the machine quickly processed it, it barked another command.
"PRISONER NUMBER TWO-FIFTY-EIGHT, PLACE RIGHT ARM ON TRAY TWO AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS."
She hesitantly did so, flinching a bit as the mechanical arm popped out. The pain receptors on her arm flared up a bit, but it didn't hurt as bad as it looked. It seemed the laser was designed to be as gentle as possible to cybernetic limbs, only scratching the surface. She felt sorry for any of the organicheskiy that had to go through with this.
"GO THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO YOUR RIGHT AND ASSEMBLE AT THE COURTYARD."

Alrighty. Nothing too bad yet. She casually walked through the doorway and stood among the rest of the prisoners, trying her best not to make eye contact. When she reached the courtyard, she was greeted by a crowd of inmates being herded into a square by guards with shields and cattle prods. The snipers in the two watchtowers that loomed over the courtyard had their eyes firmly planted on the crowd, looking for any signs of trouble. The regular CPU guards were lined along the sides of the fence, while all the exits were guarded by at least one sentry wearing heavy armor. On top of all of that, a tall combat drone stood watch outside the guardhouse, it's weapons trained on the crowd. It was apparent that large gatherings like these had a tendency to spark riots, and with the new batch of prisoners, it usually paid off to flaunt the gulag's security detail in full force the minute they walked in.

"Stand to attention!" One of CPU NCOs suddenly barked from the concrete stage outside the guardhouse. Nearly everyone was caught off guard by the order, but eventually stood straight, eyes forward. Except for Sofia, whose head was still darting around to fully comprehend the situation.
"Attention, girly!" One of the prod-toting guards yelled towards her, menacingly pointing his electrified baton at her.
"Uhh...yes sir..." She muttered meekly, quickly straightening up in a position that would make any general proud.
"Good..." The guard said before checking out the other prisoners.
As she stood, a tall, lean man dressed in a decorative military longcoat stepped out of the guardhouse. He was probably the most augmented man Sofia had ever seen. He didn't have a trace of skin anywhere on his body...not even anything artificial. Instead, his body was cold, grey iron. He didn't even have a traditional face, instead hosting two small, reddish slits in place of the eyes and a metal respirator grill in place of a mouth. After observing the crowd for a minute, he gave the "at ease" order and began his speech.

So far so...Sofia didn't want to say "good". The Commissar's assurance that a fair few of them would be leaving as plastic bottles didn't put her at ease, but at least the presence of a strict commandant relieved some of her worries. If this guy's ship was as tight as he let on, she might just make it. She wasn't eager to put her holes on the market if she didn't have to. And...kitchenware? It seemed odd. She always assumed that gulags produced things like raw materials and weapons and such. I guess it was true that almost literally everything in the Mechanocracy went through a gulag at one point or another. She wasn't complaining, though. It was unlikely she would break her back with heavy lifting or slip into a pit of molten steel if all she would be doing was making spoons and cutting boards. She was sure it wouldn't be answering phone calls and writing financial records for some mid-level Bureaucrat back in Sverdlovsk, but as far as forced labor went, this couldn't be that bad...

The commissar eventually dismissed them for training. Sofia strayed behind the main group, (again) wishing to avoid trouble whenever she bumped into a dark-skinned man with a thick, graying mustache.
"Oh, um...pardon me..."

[Allancia]

After the bizarre-looking, bald man in front of Yusuf was done, he stepped up to the machine.
"INSERT OFFICIAL IDENTIFICATION INTO TRAY ONE."
He put his documentation into the tray marked "1." Another voice rang out.
"PRISONER NUMBER TWO-FIFTY-TWO, PLACE RIGHT ARM ON TRAY TWO AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS"
Yusuf complied without thinking. The man ahead of him seemed much younger than him, and had much less hair. Yusuf, almost 60, still had about half of his hairline intact.
He winced as the barcode was burnt into his skin. It only appeared to touch the top of the dermal layer, not imprinting on the sub-cutaneous tissue below. He reasoned it would be easy to remove if need be, assuming he had a good enough knife.
"GO THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO YOUR RIGHT AND ASSEMBLE AT THE COURTYARD."
Yusuf followed the bald man before him into what he assumed was the center of the camp, with a squat, fortified building at the front of the square. After some waiting, a man dressed in full regalia emerged and began speaking. Yusuf kept the man's words in the back of his head as he looked around, trying not to attract attention. The guards, predictably, were heavily armored and armed as to dampen prisoner's desire to escape. Yusuf reasoned that their weaponry was probably meant as deterrence more than actual suppression. He vaguely remembered something called a panopticon from school, what seemed like centuries ago. Even when the guard's weapons were unloaded, the prisoners acted like they were loaded with lead shots.
Peki Bok. He muttered.
The leader of the group seemed to wind down, and people began moving towards the factories. Yusuf had believed that things like artillery or lumber were produced in gulags, and not cutlery. That's how it had worked in Allancia, at least. He had been a factory worker in Konstantinopel for several years before emigrating to Russia, and knew a fair deal about industry. He dimly recalled the Reich and the Mechanocracy exchanging technology during a conversion of the League of Mechanocracies several years earlier, so their industrial implements might be similar to the ones he had used while performing various jobs for the State Labor Sector. As Yusuf continued forward, he accidentally bumped into another inmate. They turned around, and he realized that they were actually a young woman, maybe the only one he had seen here.
"Oh, um...pardon me..."
He stared at her nose for a second, thinking, before looking into her eyes and winking before continuing forward.

[Atomic Utopia]

Freest stood in line, waiting, for what he did not know. Well he did know, it was to move with the rest of the line, but the big question was to what. He could not see anything beyond the machines, and while he could clearly see some prisoners that had been there for a while it was always possible that they were only the clean up crew, the group that would dispose of the corpses.

He had been one of those before. When he was identified as a subversive he was apprehended, and rather than being killed on the spot, he was hauled off to the system, something far worse than simple death, something that would break almost anyone. There he was brought through a room, much like this one. They were organised into groups, and then the groups were sent to separate lines. Some would first take a stop at a marking station where they would have a code tattooed on their arm, these ones would survive, the others, those that were in groups that were not tatooed, were killed once out of view from the main body of prisoners.

While in the prison in the USSAU some of his friends gave up their information almost immediately in the hope of being given better rooms, better food, better anything. For giving the government the information they wanted they were sent straight to the killing rooms. He on the other hand had withheld the information regarding what had happened and thus was held there for months, maybe years. It was hard to tell with the constant torture, the constant sleep and sensory deprivation, the constant darkness.

To the end of his stay there they re-positioned him and sent him to clean up the dead in the hope that it would break him, but he attempted to stay strong, attempted to survive throughout the endless darkness. Despite this he could not help but be broken, but be defeated by the ghosts of the dead. In one incident, he did not know if it was preordained by central, his friend was among them, dead. This broke him utterly, how could he keep living, even death would have been better then. So he planned to jump into the macerators on his next shift, to end it.

But central had other plans, apparently they had sent him to some other place than that hell. Why? He did not know, the will of central was impossible to determine. And that is how he ended here, in this strange and cold world full of strange and cold people. But the darkness had still followed him here, he still feared that this was just the place where they disposed of workers.

He attempted to calm himself with reason, with logic; they were being tattooed, resources were being put into them, and thus they would most likely live. Still the darkness creeped in, what if it was simply a ruse, what if the next room was the macerator? His air of calmness was unaffected by this internal struggle, but he felt on the edge. He looked at the guards, saw them, and then he was calm.

If he was dead, if he was killed, then he was dead. They could take nothing from him, he had refused to give up names, to tell central information, and now he was in a new prison. Regardless of what would happen the secrets would die with him, he would be the same person he was before, they had not destroyed him completely in that place, and thus he had won his victory.

It was now nearly his turn. He began doing what he had learned in the USSAU prison, scratching and otherwise irritating his skin in an attempt to appear less pale and thus more healthy. Indeed he was wuite pale, his skin a deathly pallor. He had also lost significant weight since he entered the USSAU prison, nearly fourty kilograms off of his eighty seven kilogram frame. Thus he adjusted his clothing to appear less thin.

It was now his turn for what he assumed was prisoner selection. He stepped up to the massive machine ahead of him. It spoke in an, at least to him, warmingly lay mechanical voice.
"INSERT OFFICIAL IDENTIFICATION INTO TRAY ONE."
He complied with haste and then the machine said another thing.
"PRISONER NUMBER TWO-FIFTY-NINE, PLACE RIGHT ARM ON TRAY TWO AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS"
Freest complied quickly and soon enough the laser burnt the outer layer of his skin into a barcode. It was quite painless, as a drone he had reduced reactions to pain, and he was happy for once. Happy that he had left that hell.
"GO THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO YOUR RIGHT AND ASSEMBLE AT THE COURTYARD."

He complied, moving into the massive open area, now more assured that he was not going to die.

In the courtyard he stood nearly perfectly still, attempting to appear as presentable as possible, he knew that first impressions counted, and if he appeared as a useful worker, he might just survive. But this concentration did not last long, the speech was boring and trite; the experience he was having was entirely new, for the first time he could not see the ceiling. He asked a nearby prisoner the following in a hushed voice.
"Do you know where the ceiling to this area is?"
The other prisoner looked at him funny and said "No, they just project it, there is a ceiling."

Freest could detect the sarcasm, but decided to not inquire more, after all he did not want to make a scene. He heard something about labor and focused on the speech. It appeared that while he was sent here to conduct forced labor they were not going to simply load them full of drugs and use that dased and suggestible state to gain compliance. Instead it appeared they had a reward system set up, which was new for him. They also talked of learning, as though they did not imprint the concepts once the job of the subject was determined. Well this place, whatever it was, seemed to be not near as bad as anywhere in the USSAU.

[Singaporean Transhumans]

Nizhneyansk Complex Unloading Area

Reception areas with massive machines and designators were no foreign subjects to Singaporeans. Baasim had worked in a force-augmentation facility a year (from his perspective, at least) on a planet inhabited by ponies, and how Singaporeans treated equines were literally enough for a World Assembly condemnation twenty times over (though, the 'end products' received far more respect). It did not require a vocal command for Baasim and Mieczyslaw to put the official identifications onto the tray, nor did the process of barcoding them made them uncomfortable at all.

"GO THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO YOUR RIGHT AND ASSEMBLE AT THE COURTYARD." the AI replied. And Mieczyslaw did hear Kota's words, replying in a very calm fashion. "Yes...well no please do not mention Garry's Mod to me right now. Two fifty seven, right? What's your name, and nationality? I think I made myself clear on that train - well, I'm not an ethnic Singaporean but there wasn't such an ethnicity in the first place. Shh, that apparatchik's speaking."

The commissar's speech was also a very familiar one, though this time, being directly the subjects he was speaking to, the feel was far more different. And as usual, the Singaporeans went in the overly critical direction. "Soda bottle, eh? I prefer metal mountain dew cans." Baasim muttered. Of course, he made sure his voice was low, being able to arrive without being requested to remove the gas mask or anything was already considered lucky. Recycling peoples' corpses wasn't even brought up in the PTFS, despite valuing efficiency negative mass, and not recycled plastic, was what most prisoners became if they failed.

The commissar continued to speak of the 'skills' one can learn. Singaporeans, already learning everything they need through downloading and processing of information, were also critical of this one, even Mieczyslaw with no augmentations have gone to the mind information insertion center once and now he knows even how to build a command block (provided materials are there). The natural feel of supremacism, superiority compared to the Mecharussians, came up at that moment, though there was no obvious facial or vocal expression of that emotion. Exceeding quotas have rewards, eh? Baasim thought. Okay then, I'm in, Singapore doesn't reward penal labourers who exceed their quota. Mieczyslaw was much less willing to comment on that, however, uploading too many videos 'for the spiritual welfare of the people' being the very reason he was sent in the first place.

[Blakullar]

Factory One.

As the prisoners walked through the double-door into their designated workplace, they were immediately bathed in a heat wave from within the huge building. The furnaces were already at full blast, the Gulag's already-existing labourers hard at work having begun their long shift just as the newcomers arrived. A thermometer to the left, measuring in degrees centigrade, was firmly on the fifty mark, only dipping slightly when the doors opened to accommodate the cold air of the outside world. The work was conducted on and within scaffold-like towers, each one standing at least five storeys in height and with four levels. The levels were accessed by a metal staircase that coiled around the tower like a constrictor.

Atop the towers were the induction smelters, loaded with pig iron and sand and tended to by prisoners, that filled the room with warmth.

Just beneath that, reached by a small dumbwaiter-like elevator, was the shaping area. Prisoners would have to cool the molten metal (that arrived in trays that vaguely resembled the sort one would make ice cubes in) with a bucket of water, then use a hammer and anvil to shape the metal into their designated item.

Below that was the painting section. Here the prisoners had to spray-paint each of the items. The difficulty here was that each prisoner had to paint an item with maximum meticulousness. If there was even a missed spot of greyness on the item, the paint was scorched off and it had to be entirely redone.

The final section was inspection. Here, prisoners had to look over each item to check for aberrations: for instance, missed paint, poorly-shaped items, etcetera. Any found were sent back up by another dumbwaiter to the relative level. Anyone assigned to this area had managed to achieve the trust of the guards, but they were also under far greater scrutiny by the overseers than those at the upper levels. After all, this was a position of responsibility...

The guard responsible for overseeing the training session was there and waiting. He had a golden trim on his CPU-grade armour, indicating his higher rank than the others. Like his subordinates, he had a cattle prod on his belt. "Right, you lot!" he shouted with the attitude of a drill instructor, above the deafening roar of the metalwork. "Each of you will be handed slips detailing your positions on the two towers in front of you. There are instructions for each task at your stations that will be there for this shift only. Each shift lasts for fifteen hours, interrupted only for one hour by your evening meal at 6:00pm, so you have close to a full day to get acquainted with the stations. At 6:00am, 6:00pm, 7:00pm and 11:00pm, a siren will sound, indicating when to go to work and when to cease for meals and returning to the prisoners' quarters. Your slips will be handed to you now."

With that, two guards at the overseer's flank turned to giving each of the prisoners their slips, detailing where their designated positions would be.

[New Frenco Empire]

Yes, Sofia may seem to be getting off a bit easy, but I've discussed this with Blak. This is to add another of depth to the gulag and showcase a different kind of struggle. You guys can respond to this development however you want.

Nizhneyansk Complex, Factory One

Sofia shuffled along, waiting for her slip to be handed out. She had no idea what position she would be assigned, but considering her luck this week, she was sure it wouldn't be anything cushy. What would it be? Straightening out forks with her bare hands?
As the others got their assignments, she continued forward, her heart beating faster and more nervously with every step.

"Sofia Yakimova?" The CPU called out.
"Uhh...yes sir?" She replied.
The NCO looked down at her, handing her a slip with a small note stapled to it.
"Today is your lucky day. You will not be assigned to the factory. You are to report directly to the Commandant in his office at the guardhouse. Kravchuk, Okulov. See that she finds her way there." He said, waving her away.
"Um..." She couldn't help but mutter.
"What? You heard me. Report to your assignment or I'll inform the Commissar you'd be much more useful scrubbing the latrines!" He said, obviously not pleased.
"Y-yes sir." She said as the two CPUs ordered to escort her pointed her out the door.

The walk to the guardhouse was uneventful. One of her escorts walked in front of her while the other trailed behind, shock baton drawn. Yeah right. As if I'm actually going anywhere...
When they reached the entrance, the lead put his hand onto a scanner, instantly opening the metal door. They then marched her inside. The interior was comfortably heated, and she passed by a break room, where several CPUs out of uniform were chatting and enjoying warm tea. They eventually reached a pair of doors, their signs indicating they were bathrooms. Another CPU was leaning by the one marked "Women".
"The Commissar's new pet, Corporal." The lead CPU said to the one leaning by the bathroom door.
"Excellent. I'll take it from here." The other said, her voice giving away that she was indeed a woman. The masks certainly didn't do a good job of making these things apparent.
As the two guards left, the other turned to face Sofia. She grabbed her shoulder and gently pushed her into the restroom.
"You have ten minutes to make yourself presentable for the Commissar. Not a second more." She said, pushing a small package of clothes into her hands.
"Yes ma'am." She muttered, inspecting the threads. The package contained a simple navy blue skirt and white blouse, fitted with a few gold pins detailing the state emblem of the Mechanocracy. She wasn't sure what she was about to be in for, but this was some uniform for a prisoner...

She began to undress, a bit hesitant to do so in front of the CPU, but before long, she was bare. She quickly showered and styled her hair in a way that it covered a few of the bruises she received at the hands of the police several days prior before dressing. She made sure she looked as fine as she could before approaching the CPU.
"Nine minutes and thirty eight seconds, Two Fifty Eight. Cutting it close, but acceptable enough." The CPU said before marching her out the door.
Before she knew it, she was before a large wooden door bearing a brass-trimmed plate that read "I. STOLYPIN. MINTRUKOM". The CPU knocked on it before receiving a quick "enter" from a voice within. The CPU opened the door and waved her inside, and the pair were greeted with the back of the very same Commissar that had just finished greeting the new batch of prisoners. He seemed to be watching the courtyard below from the window.

"Is this her?" The Commissar said, not turning his back.
"Yes sir." The CPU said.
"Good. You are dismissed, Corporal Lanskaya."
The CPU nodded at the Commissar and departed, leaving Sofia alone with this man of iron.
"Miss Yakimova?" The Commandant asked.
"That's me...sir." She said, trying to mask her intimidation.
"I am Commissar Igor Stolypin. You may call me 'Mister Stolypin' or 'Commissar'. I am the Commandant of this facility and I am charged with overseeing it's production and the rehabilitation of it's prisoners, as you are already aware. Now, you're probably wondering why I've asked for you and ordered you to be dressed in more...adequate clothing, right?" He asked while turning to face her. Her eyes met his red slits. His cold, metallic face was incapable of showing emotion.
"Uhh...yes sir."
"Well, you see...I'm in need of an assistant. Yes, even the commander of a gulag needs a secretary. My last secretary was a reservist in the Red Army. He was a fine lad with a good work ethic. However, last week, he was called forth to defend our revolution in the Middle East. It is fortunate for our country that such a model young man is serving valiantly on the front against the savages of the Caliphate...but unfortunate for me, since I am without a secretary. As fate would have it, when I went over the files for the incoming prisoners, your name and former occupation came up. I spoke with your former boss and she assured me that you were right for the job. She also told me that, should you be adequately rehabilitated, she would gladly return you to your position. Do you understand what I'm asking?"
"Yes sir. I believe I do." She said firmly. He's asking me to be his assistant. It beat forced labor in a factory, but with a boss like this, it carried a different kind of risk. At the very least, she was glad that her old job was secure. Getting different work back home that properly utilized her qualifications would be difficult now that she had a criminal record.
"Good. From today onward, you will be my personal assistant. You will file my paperwork, answer my calls and review my schedule. You know how this goes. This, however, does not make you any better or privileged than the other prisoners. You are still here because you have wronged the Motherland and must repay your debt to her society. And you will repay that debt. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir."

He cleared his throat before continuing. It was unlikely that he even produced mucus anymore, suggesting this more for dramatic effect. "However, that isn't to say there are not any perks in reward for a job well done. You have permission to use the female guards' bathroom facilities. You'll find that's much better than showering with the foreign degenerates we have in the camp. You'll be spending most of the day in this building, so you won't have to do much mingling with them either. However, you'll still have to sleep in the prisoner quarters and receive your meals in the cafeteria. If you impress, that might be subject to change. I may be a hard man, but I can be a forgiving one. Especially when it comes to protecting our race. Tell me, what class are you, Yakimova?"
"C, sir."
"You see? You might be a criminal, but there is no reason you should be lowered to the same level as the foreigners and the organicheskiy. Real Mecharussians should be given the opportunity to accept their punishment with dignity and service. Most are fine in the factory, but your niche is here. Now...are you ready to begin your work?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Man the desk in front of my office door and get to it. The files regarding new prisoner work placement should be arriving from the factories any moment. Sort them out and print them into cards. I like to have that information close at hand."
"Yes sir."

[The Confederal Republic]

The building itself intimidated James when he had walked through. While Republican prisons and re-education centers were themselves threatening, they atleast gave off a sense that you'd make it out the other end alive. This gulag gave off no such sense.

He was put into a single file line. A prison warden or guard shouted something, but he couldn't understand much of what he said. The line moved slowly, but eventually he made it to the front.
"INSERT OFFICIAL IDENTIFICATION INTO TRAY ONE."
He did so.
"PRISONER NUMBER TWO-SIXTY-ONE, PLACE RIGHT ARM ON TRAY TWO AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS"
Again, he did so. It was not until he felt a sharp burning sensation until he began to think again.
"AGH, CHRIST!"
Before he could even pull his arm back, it stopped, and his arm was freed. He looked at where the burning was, to see what looked like a barcode tattoo. "I came here expecting scars, no tattoos..." James thought to himself. He envied all the metalmen here who had no pain.

He walked forward until he was told to stand at attention; a man in a military uniform gave a speech, informing him on how to survive. This time he could actually understand, and was glad to hear he wasn't TOTALLY doomed.
Another line formed, this time in wait for tickets informing them where their personal purgatory was to be. He waited, suspence building, as some of the jobs seemed far better than the others...

[The Andromeda Confederation]

"I'm from Andromeda, Name's-"

A response to Kubit had to wait, another glorified computer had to bark at us. Wait, isn't he a glorified computer? Meh, best just leave it. But it was relieving, at least a bit, to know that someone else had done little to get here. He heard about SacredKubit's disappearance from the AndroNet, and the stuff it pulled from the PTFS's version(s) thereof. As for Kota, the rap sheet on him looked worse than it was really. At least he hoped.

The more Kota stood in that line, the more he realized his mistake that landed his human-wearing AI ass here in the first place. See, for him, as well as the bastards that sent him here, was supposed to be a "slap on the wrist." A stern warning... A mere attempt to correct his mistake of pressing a wrong button. The charge of treason was merely because he refused to apologize. He never felt the reason why. It was an accident, he was sure of it. He fell asleep, he had to have. He spilled something, bumped into the transmit key, there was no way he killed 100 consciousnesses on purpose. One of them was one of his friends from Darlonte, a planet he was stationed at. He couldn't have killed him. Still, he had an instinct for detail. One wrong character in coding would wipe out city blocks, and he was trained to avoid that. Not just trained, coded. The lines between what was AI or human, well, posthuman, really, was completely blurred. One and the same. There was no way he could've made a mistake that day. He shook it off. He had to pay his debt to society.

Perhaps he would be best suited at painting. He did have a bit of expertise in that art. Not even the Mecharussians could deactivate his optical bioaugments. Speaking of which, he hated the Mecharussians more and more. Not because of this "gulag," whatever that was, it was the fact that the prisoners that he could identify as non-native did not receive the proper end of the stick, compared to the natives. And there were plenty among the crowd he saw before him. Packed pretty tight, really. Residual body heat probably contributed, at least in part, to the 50 degrees Centigrade temperature inside. Well, at least it was warm. But 15 hours? Damn, even the android debtor mines didn't have shifts that long. He'd have to conform to it. That's all that places like this do.

He received his ticket, soon after Kubit and... Basalmic? No, Baasim. He thought. Painting. Just dandy. I suppose they realize that Kota was no heavy lifter, or blacksmith. Maybe he could eventually make his way to Inspection duty. Unfortunately, despite his extensively augmented body, along with his artificially crafted consciousness, he looked almost 100% like an organicheskiy. No doubt that would cause some halt in progress.

[Singaporean Transhumans]

Baasim was assigned to the shaping area, after all the strength required to shape metals into delicate utensils he did not lack - but so didn't probably a lot of others in the area. He may not be particularly outstanding at the job, but at least he can win whatever was promised as rewards. Mieczyslaw was assigned to the painting section, a much more dull job, by Singaporean standards.

The two broke off, proceeding to each's designated positions as specified on the slips. The heat didn't really affect them however, Baasim had built-in aircon eternally at negative sixty-nine degrees as specified by Singaporean technical standards, making anyone going near him feeling a strong breeze and relief from the scorching heat of the machinery and carbon output by organisms. Mieczyslaw however was a different story: his species, at least his variant of humans in his origin universe, lived on Venus for generations. Of course the heat on Venus was lower than that of other universes' counterparts but still enough to forge a highly insulate species. Natural evolution of course still didn't help much against being labelled as a 'baseliner' when the Singaporeans came.

Miec looked at Kota's poorly encrypted face and guessed out what he was thinking, patting his back he proceeded to speak with a Slavic accent: "You'll get used to it. Bias never fades, hell I'm probably being a dick trying to memetically suppress anti-Russian sentiment but who cares." Laughing, he walked up to the assembly line and started working.

[Blakullar]

Factory One.

"TWO-FIFTY-SIX, DO NOT TALK WHILE ON DUTY!" barked a sharp voice from below, in the direction of the painting floor. One of the guards had overheard Mieczyslaw speaking to Kota, with the help of carefully-placed microphones on the floor. Talking was deemed disruptive to production in a facility where the labourers had to work in machine-like conditions. Of course, the guards would overlook it if it was absolutely necessary, such as to quickly warn someone when there was a metal spillage.

When Miec painted an object and put it on the nearby rack, a click sound was heard from his work station. A ticker, mounted to the counter, displayed "001" - this was how the quotas were calculated, and it applied to every other position in the factory. The figures would be sent through a computer to the Commissar's office for compilation by his new secretary, Sofia. That would be her main job for the day, among others that she was asked to undertake by the camp boss.

Soon, everyone had been assigned their positions and the work was in full swing. That was when the temperature began to escalate. As the furnaces were fired up to max, they produced more heat as well as more metal. After the first hour, the temperature had reached fifty-three degrees, and by the second the thermometer sat comfortably at fifty-eight. Fortunately, this was around the highest temperature that the factory would reach, but nonetheless two of the new prisoners fell over with heatstroke. The older prisoners seemed to be fine with the heat, having been used to it for months if not years.

[Allancia]

Factory One
As Yusuf was handed his slip, a little smile creased the skin of his face. He was a machinist. He navigated the sea of people and stairs until he came to a post near the assembly line-section of the towers. Inside of his post, marked off by metal handrails and a faded strip of yellow paint along the ground. Nearer to the line itself was a raised platform upon which a control panel rested. It consisted primarily of a lever, three buttons and a glass square so scratched covered with ash and scratches that it couldn't be seen what lay behind it. His job, from what he could tell, was whenever a series of bits of freshly made dining utensils came past him, he would press one of the three buttons and it would be diverted to a separate areas. He suspected that the forks and plates were meant to be painted a different color than the spoons, the spoons and bowls were meant to be painted a different color from the soup spoons, and the knives, large forks and small spoons were all painted the same color, based on the instructions at the left-hand side of the panel. Whenever a malformed item came past him, he pulled the lever and a small hatch opened next to him that seemed to lead to a pipe. He assumed that it was a pneumatic mechanism meant to transport the useless item back to the forges. He guessed the level measured the amount of air left in the pipes. He could only guess though.
Yusuf had worked a similar job back in the Konstantinopel, capital of the Seljuk Central Province. However, as time wore on, he grew tired. The constant attention he had to pay to detail was hard. Sometimes, his eyes would water from the heat and he'd have difficulty telling apart the rounded large forks and normal sized small spoons. Whenever he pulled the level, which was remarkably well oiled in contrast to the more used buttons, the conveyer belt did not stop, adding a new layer of difficulty to his task.
He was Turkish and had spent many days working in the fields when his normal job didn't cover his costs, so he was resilient to heat. Actually, while working there, it had really been the sun that had bothered him. The lighting here was a bit harsh, but not so bright as he had expected.
Each time he got one utensil through, he received a single number on to the ticker counter attached to the base of the panel. Every time he threw something away, he'd get two points on to his ticker for each time the vent had to be opened. However, opening the vent required the pneumatic engines sucking on it, and as it was spring loaded, it would close almost instantly after it opened. He didn't push luck, as he suspected that if the overseers caught him pressing the lever twice in quick succession he'd get a tongue lashing.
Yusuf got into a good pattern and as time went on he got used to the heat and the process of sorting and throwing away became almost automatic, a skill learned from years of motor-muscle movement that was easy to get used to. Yusuf began to think that his job kept him both mentally and physically sharp, as the buttons and lever were difficult to manage, almost as difficult as weeding out and sorting the deformed items. He eventually became hopeful for his condition, and began whistling a song he'd once heard as a young boy, and a few times as an adult.
Korkma, sönmez bu şafaklarda...

[Blakullar]

Factory One.

Twelve hours into the shift, during which several people (including Yusuf) got yelled at by the overseers for vocalising while at work, a piercing, foghorn-like alarm sounded off across the Gulag and in the factories. It blew twice, in case it wasn't heard over the noise of the machinery the first time. Within minutes, the guards were ushering the prisoners to switch off the machinery (items being worked on in the middle of this would be reworked in an hour) and herding them outside. To some, the frigid air of the outside, sweeping across the area just as the heat had done when they first walked in, was bracing, even painful. The human body did not react well to sudden, radical changes in temperature, as a prisoner fainting at the head of the line quickly attested. He was dragged aside by the guards at the door and the rest continued to herd the prisoners to the quarters.

The interior of the big, barn-like quarters almost resembled a barracks, were it not for a vibe of uncleanliness that military precision would have purged. There were single-beds, each with a toilet, a plastic table and chair next to it, and the floor seemed to have been made out of a low-quality wood. Two large, ceiling-mounted strip-lights gave a dim illumination and warmth to the barracks, where the temperature was still cold but not nearly so as the outside. Some of the beds had a numbered placard on them, detailing where the newcomers would be situated.

Three large, wheeled trays pushed by guards followed the prisoners into the barracks. Each one, measuring about two metres in height and five long, carried several bowls, each one filled with the evening's nourishment. The prisoners were urged to pick up a bowl and take their meal to their assigned bunk. Upon lifting the plate covering the food inside, the prisoners were greeted with a dark-red soup with the occasional lump of what resembled potato in it. Borscht, a staple of the Mecharussian countryside settlements, picked for the Gulags because it was easy to prepare in bulk and provided the required nutrition for optimum working speed.

"Erm, sir?" a weedy-looking man somewhere in the corner of the room, one of the newcomers, called to the guards. "I cannot eat this. I'm a vegetarian."
The only response from the guards was an outbreak of laughter. "You've gotta be one of those city boys!" a crisp Yakutsk accent growled back at him. "Given the reason why you're here, you'd best consider yourself lucky you're getting any food at all, you shit!"
"Hey, look at him!" another guard to his side, with a similar accent but slightly higher in pitch, said to his comrade. "He's so scrawny he could be mistaken for a fucking worm. Suits you, I should think!"
"Never mind him. How long d'ya think it'll take before the gook with the gas mask gets boned in the shower?" The first guard asked, glancing at Baasim.
"If he's a pretty boy? A week, at most. What about the gal?" the second said, referring to Yakimova (who had just returned after being dismissed by Stolypin to eat).
"Oh, her? I'll give her two days, and that assumes that the Turk doesn't make his move before then."
"Hah hah hah, you saw the little look he gave her as well?"

"Oi!" A nearby overseer shouted at the guards, who snapped to attention on prompt. "You two idiots are supposed to be searching the beds, not worrying about which of the new prisoners is going to get fucked first. Save it for your breaks! Now get back to it!"
"Yes ma'am, sorry ma'am," the guards said, and they quickly returned to their original job.
"As for you, Mister Fussy Eater," the overseer turned on the weedy man, "are you going to get that down you or am I going to have to tip it down your throat like a funnel?"
"Yes, ma'am," the prisoner said dejectedly.
"What the fuck was that supposed to be?" the overseer loomed over the prisoner, who shied back quickly. "An attitude like that IS going to get you banged in the shower around here! Hell, you carry on like that, I'll fetch a cucumber from the kitchen and take you myself! NOW SOUND OFF LIKE YOU HAVE A PAIR!"
"Yes, ma'am!" the prisoner shouted, albeit terrified.
"Better," the overseer said, before walking out of the barracks.

Throughout this hour, the prisoners would be left largely to their own devices, but the guards would quickly break up a fight should one occur. This was especially the case with Yakimova, as the guards were under strict orders from the Commissar himself to keep her safe. Close to Freest's bunk, a fellow prisoner, stocky and with a face decorated by scars (some of them inflicted by the guards), turned to him.
"Hey - you don't look like anybody else 'round here. What'd you get in for?"

[Singaporean Transhumans]

Factory One

Baasim and Miec ate the meal without complaining, despite the borscht being obviously less favourable compared to laksa back home (well, ANY food back home was synthesized), it was a relief to the backbreaking day of labour. Miec quickly drained the bowl of its liquid contents and deprived it of the lumps of edible matter, while Baasim ate more slowly, the headgear's mouthpiece opened for consumption of solids, after all sustenance wasn't that all important to him, having internal respiration efficiency maximizing augmentations. He was however disturbed by the guards' talk of when he was going to be finished off, but said to himself that they probably didn't even read a chart of augmentations Singaporeans have and he'll probably come out fine.

Probably.

Finishing off both of their food quickly, Baasim and Miec sat idle waiting for the time to come when they were going to be herded into the prisoners' quarters. Being idle however may very well attract trouble, so occasionally the two pretended to re-visit the bowl, scooping practically non-existent pieces and making awfully fake sipping sounds.

[Atomic Utopia]

Freest shivered from the freezing air. It was cold, extremely cold in this... in whatever this space was. Now he was being ushered into another room located within this large open area. He was confused and concerned. "What if this was just another plan to get him to speak, what if,..." Such thoughts regarding his present condition raced through his head.

"Well at least I am not in the painting department he thought to himself." He was very good at cooling metal, in fact he was largely designed for that, his genes modified to produce enzymes that worked best at around 50 degrees celcius, but now, as in the train, he was freezing, feeling tired and slow.

Now he entered the other room, a gust of hot air; relief, and a terrible smell. Ge waited in line and recived a bowl full off... something, but what. He looked at the other prisoners and saw them shoving the foul liquid in their mouths so he did likewise. Suprisingly it was good, excellent, his stomach felt great, it did not hurt anymore, as though neutripaste had been inserted into his feeding port.

He almost smiled in contentment at the pathetic rations, thinkibg them better than the rotten neutripaste he had gotten at the place he had left; but, he quickly corrected his manner as not to draw the attention of the guards.

[The Andromeda Confederation]

He wondered where the quota went. That must have been 34 bowls, 43 plates, 23 small cups, and one odd platter ago. To be honest, Kota was not exactly feeling "punished," as TAC Correction Services put it. Sure, this will get repetitive, but so was his last job. Maybe he was doomed to a life of repetitive motion. It seemed to be what he could do best. Not exactly entertaining, but it came easily to him. He mumbled under his breath minute by minute. He knew exactly when the shift ended. He put down the teacup he was in the middle of finishing, some poor sap would have to fix it later. Every internal siren went off in his units as he and the others adjusted from an industrial sauna to the unforgiving country weather. Even in his modified body, it was becoming an issue, as the drop was in fact affecting his internal functions in a negative manner. Perhaps a good dinner would help that.

Of course, a good dinner is two decades away. This "borscht" wasn't a horrible meal, but was unlike anything he ate before. He pretended to enjoy it. He saved the potato for the end of the meal, giving him a reason to eat this... stuff. Biding his time he located the familiar faces from the train in. The two Singaporeans were across and to his left. He noticed the disdain for the guard's remark, but he had no doubt the Basaim fellow would not fall prey to any other in the shower. He had dated a Singaporean transhuman in the past. They are by no means weak. Kubit may have trouble though. Nothing he could do about that, noting the size of any potential predator. The Turk who the guards were referring to was down the way a bit. Perhaps he would be one of those predators, I mean, he did notice that grin the guards were referring to. Creepy. The vegetarian was directly across from him, looking at his bowl and frowning. When the guards were away, he got the others attention.

"Just eat it, they aren't going to change the menu." he mouthed, without sound. With any luck, he could read lips.

[Allancia]

As Yusuf stepped out into the air, his skin immediately began to sag as he was blasted with the cool air. He savored the temperature change, thankful for the coolness as he put his hat back on to prevent heat from escaping his scalp. After navigating through the swarms of people and the barracks, he found his bunk. It was reasonably clean, and the sheets didn't look too rough. He would need to keep a rock or something under his pillow in case a nighttime intruder came to steal his possessions. He began to hatch a series of plans in his head as the food was passed out for how to secure some kind of tool. As he was passed his food, a thick potato soup he had heard of but never tasted while in both Allancia and the Mechanocracy. It was a bit bitter, but beggars couldn't be choosers. As he was eating, his ears perked up as he heard some guards bantering. He slowed his dining to listen to them. They seemed to be gossiping, or as they said in Ankara, "shit-talking," some of the inmates. He shook his head as they referred to the Singaporean fellow being assaulted in the showers. Tales of their soldiers strength in the field were impossible to get around in the Reich, especially if one lived in a military region as he had. However, as they changed subject, he cringed internally as they referenced him planning to rape the woman. He would need to take care to not talk to her, or avoid her in lines if possible. He had meant the wink as a kind ribbing for bumping into him. There were many things he could be called in a prison, and he had heard most of them, but a rapist was the least desirable. If his luck ran well, the rumors would die and he could continue his work. Once more eating, he took the time to think. Most of his time in the work camp would be spent working, or preparing for the act of working, so escaping would be impossible. Yusuf tried to crush the thought. He was old, and furthermore, he had worked for years at jobs that bent one's back. Digging out wasn't an option, and hopping the fence was just as stupid with barbed wire and ever-observant guards. Yusuf finished his meal, and spent the rest of his time trying to mend loose threads in his cap. He had a lot of idling to do, it might as well be in a full stomach.