I wake too early, and we have the morning meal.

I do the calculations. I will be in an energy deficit for a time, while my muscles grow and I become used to the hard labor, but after a couple weeks — if nothing goes wrong and I don't do anything stupid like get in a fight — then my energy expenditures should be able to match perfectly the calories in the gruel they give us.

Doing calculations, this is what I'm good at.

As I go through yesterday's notifications, I see one that catches my eye. EXP gain from an Inspect: 10,521. Someone has been hiding their stats. Unfortunately, the notification doesn't give any indication as to who was hiding stats. It could be anyone in our work crew of twenty zeks and five guards.

But I know how to deal with this. It is simple. A process of elimination, a crude form of binary search.

Today I will Inspect twelve of them. Tonight, when I receive the EXP notifications, I will know that either the one hiding his stats is one of those twelve or he's one of the thirteen I didn't inspect. I will repeat the operation tomorrow with six, and then the next day with three, and the next day with two or one. Every day, I will eliminate half of the remaining suspects. Within five days — four days if I'm lucky — I will know who has been hiding their stats from me.

During the walk my legs complain — yesterday leveled them up as well, though not as much as my shoulders — but it is bearable. Knowing that my energy expenditures will be balanced within a week or two brings me comfort, and knowing that there is someone here holding a secret brings an excitement to the proceedings that had been lacking when I was simply looking at the finish line ten long years into the future.

Luka is looking up at the trees, awestruck. I hurriedly follow his gaze, but see nothing.

We continue walking.

After a few minutes I see it. There is beauty here, in these woods. The way the snow hangs off the evergreen branches. The deciduous trees late to lose their leaves, a few flecks of orange and red bursting out between the heavy brown and white. Even the sky, the cold brilliant sunrise pushing stains of vibrant color across the sky.

Then I realize that we are going to cut down these woods, to use them for buildings and fire. The sunrise will turn to day, which will warm us for a time. All the beauty gone for a little heat. That is truly the spirit of Russia.

I cannot believe I am thinking these blasphemous thoughts. If Mecha Stalin could see me now, he would surely torch me with his eternal flamethrower.

That night, after the work is done, I get my Inspect EXP notifications. The one hiding his stats was in the twelve I inspected that day. I only inspected the zeks — all five guards were in the group of thirteen that I didn't Inspect. Interesting. I pick out the six I will Inspect the next day.

As we walk towards the work site I try to make small talk with the prisoners that I'm Inspecting. They're guarded, as they should be. It is known that I am a stool pigeon, that I punched someone for insulting Mecha Stalin and was rescued by the guards. Why would these criminals talk to me? I can only bring them harm.

I do what I can. I look for the man who I fought. I'm going to apologize. Apologizing is not the correct thing to do, since it is never wrong to hurt a fascist, but it will help me in my new mission of being a good little stool pigeon and gaining the trust of the crew here. However, I can't find him.

"Where is the man I fought," I ask Luka.

"Gonna have another go at it?" he asks, bemused. "All this chopping will help, but not enough. Your arms are still flabby and your form is worse than my grandma when she's drunk."

"I want to apologize."

"Well, ain't that interesting. Your apology doesn't happen to include a fist, does it? I don't know how things get done on the outside anymore."

"No, I want to actually apologize. With words."

"You're gonna have to wait, then. He's in solitary for insulting Mecha Stalin, thanks to your bringing attention to that fact."

It is even more clear now why no one will talk to me.

We work. My Axes is up to 16, although progress is slowing. After all, the task isn't getting any harder to match my new Axes skill. I'll stall out eventually. First it will be that the EXP will stay the same, but the amounts required to gain a skill level will keep growing. Then the EXP gains will drop to 10, and at that point it will take tens of thousands of chops to gain a single level. The same thing will happen to Shoulders, Cold Resist, and all the other skills I've been practicing. It will be just like with teaching and all its associated skills — fast progress at first, and then slowing, and then completely stalled.

But that won't be all bad. After all, the less challenging a task is compared to my current skills the less energy I'll expend in completing it, and the less likely I am to starve.

Just a couple of days in and I'm already figuring out how to not starve.

Now that I know I deserve this fate, I realize that Mecha Stalin won't come to rescue me. I'll have to figure things out on my own. Anything to avoid the fate of Roman the Trotskyite.

That night I get my Inspect EXP notifications. None of them are large amounts, so I know that the one hiding his stats is in the group of six that I Inspected yesterday but didn't Inspect today. I choose three from among them to Inspect tomorrow.

Luka was one of those I inspected today. That means he's not hiding his stats from me. It makes sense. If he was hiding stats, there's no way he would allow his Charisma and Persuade to appear that high. Who is it, then? There are six suspect left, and none of them will talk to me, so I really have nothing to go on besides their supposed stats. Perhaps I could try to find things that were incongruous, but there's a lot of EXP coming in to my Inspect skill. Whoever's doing this has had practice.

As I go to bed I wonder what will sustain me after I figure out this current mystery. I'm a strategist. Despite the pain and hardship and possible death coming to my body, this is the most alive my mind has felt since the days of the chess league.

In the morning my body is filled with pain. I don't even want to look at what status effects I have, but I do it anyways. I have to figure out my energy expenditure. I run the numbers and I figure I'll make it.

We line up for morning rations. The first zek in line curses up a storm. "What is this?" he yells.

"Two days ago, Roman Yablokov didn't return with your crew," says the guard. "For aiding in his escape, your entire team will be on half rations."

"He's dead!" yells the man.

The guard makes a motion, and two other guards grab the poor zek, who is now yelling obscenities I'd never allow in my classroom. As they drag him off he's yelling, saying Mecha Stalin is a dictator. He's saying Mecha Stalin is... neo-bourgeois.

When they hear that, one of the guards shoves him against the wall, head hitting loudly, and holds him immobile while the other punches him in the stomach.

There is no more yelling, only grunts, and then the sound of gently shifting dirt as they drag his unconscious body away. To solitary? To a torture cell?

One of the men who is Starving starts to cry.

After eating our half rations we walk in silence to where we're to chop trees that day.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

My muscles are a tangle of pain, my stomach a pit of hunger.

"We're all going to die."

Luka nods amiably. "I'm glad you've come to that realization. Most people try to avoid the thought, but only the young can truly succeed."

"I mean soon. How many people do you think will survive on a week of half rations?"

"Oh, so now you care about your fellow zeks?" He says it without blame, without accusation. "You're right, of course. A few will go on a downward spiral on a week with half rations. Even though they may die a year from now, it will have been this week that does them in. But perhaps what you meant to say is that you think you will die soon."

I nod.

"Well, if that's what you've decided, I suppose I can't stop you. It would be such a shame, though."

"And why would that be?"

Luka looks at me like he's confused. "Because God has a plan for you, of course. If you decide to die early..."

"Decide?! I've run the numbers! My strength, my constitution, they're not good enough yet. I'll become Underfed. That will cut my Strength and Constitution in half. Other status effects will pile up, and then... dead. That's even if nothing else goes wrong."

Luka starts humming a tune, one I haven't heard before.

It's quiet. Mysterious. Melancholy.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

It shouldn't be allowed in a place like this. I feel like this place will crush it.

"Why haven't I heard this song before?" I ask.

He doesn't answer. He just keeps going. Louder now.

Status effect notifications flash across my field of vision. I ignore them, but already I feel their affects. The cold doesn't bite as much. The ache of my muscles lessens.

I hear a hint of sadness in the song. No, not a hint. It is sadness. If it wasn't sadness, it wouldn't be true. But there's something else in there, something that I wouldn't have believed if it was on its own.

Hope.

Peace.

Love.

The song cuts out as a guard hits Luka with the butt of his rifle.

"WORK!" he yells, furious. "Mecha Stalin isn't feeding you and giving you a bed so you can sing!"

I realize why I haven't heard this song before.

If this song were heard every day, we wouldn't think we need Mecha Stalin. For his very existence to continue, Mecha Stalin cannot allow something this beautiful to exist.

The guard kicks Luka.

I, very stupidly, step between them.

The guard looks at me like I'm insane. I probably am. I really should check those status effects.

And yet, I find that I do not care.

Mecha Stalin killed Roman Yablokov. Not with his guns, but with fear. With hopelessness. After all, if we are living in the perfect Communist state and things are still terrible, if things are still lifeless and grey, then what is there? Nothing. To say that things could be better is treason. The greatest hope you are allowed is to continue your wretched existence undisturbed. The greatest hope is that you are not snatched off the street and taken here, to these camps. Your greatest hope in the camp is that you can somehow withstand the cold, the twelve hours of hard labor, the half rations, the wanton cruelty.

In this moment, I hate Mecha Stalin. A part of me, the part still in my comfortable classroom in Moscow, is horrified, but that man has never been here, to this camp. That man has never seen beauty stamped out in fear. That man, in his ignorance, could not have known. And yet he did know. He had to know. I was not stupid. There were simply things I did not think about, things that I chose to ignore for my own good.

Rumination does me no good. This hate I hold does me no good. They have the PPD-40s. I have the half rations.

My strategic brain kicks in just in time. "Hit me once," I whisper. "Just hard enough that they'll believe it."

The guard smiles sadistically. "Sacha was right about you."

He still hits me harder than he should.

Solid hit!

You lost 10 damage.

HP at 11/21.

You are Stunned.

You have received 570 EXP to Resist Impact, Constitution.

Your Resist Impact skill has reached level 10!

I lay on the ground rubbing my temple where he hit me. He walks away laughing.

Luka picks himself up, slowly, carefully. He got hit harder than I did and his HP is low.

Quietly, under his breath, he hums a gentle melody.