I feel it, their eyes on me.

Sacha suspects me.

My banter with Luka is too real, I huddle in the corner a little bit too much. When he brings me in there is nothing I can give him.

Eventually Sacha will catch me and our plan will be destroyed.

There are five days until Pyotr is no longer underfed.

They're all fascists anyways, right? Once Mecha Stalin gets a hold of this camp, rips away the evil capitalist spy guards that are currently running it, then some of the fascists will die because that is what is right. So what's one sacrifice? The guards will all die when we make our move, and the only difference between them and the zeks is that the zeks were caught.

There are five fascists, Stalin-haters to the core, that are helping us. I cannot sacrifice them. Even though their beliefs are wrong, it feels immoral to send an ally to the torture chamber. But there are others. Didn't Luka say that there were no loyal communists left here?

When we chop trees, there is a notch that forms where we are making progress. Sometimes I miss that notch because I am thinking about everything I must do, thinking about who knows what, thinking about Sacha's eyes. The guards yell at me, but it is half-hearted. They think of me as a stool pigeon still.

Perhaps they know, in their hearts, that I am right and they and everyone else here is wrong. If they're kind to me, then perhaps Mecha Stalin will be kind to them when he sets everything to rights.

I'm under no illusions that Mecha Stalin will set me free. That would be wrong. I committed a crime. But the conditions of this camp, the cruelty, that cannot be part of his plan. If we were given more food we could work harder. If Roman had been given a thicker coat he might not have died.

Mecha Stalin is level 99 in all stats, but sometime even He requires our aid. 99 wisdom does not let you see everything, and 99 strength and dexterity doesn't mean you can turn every crank and chop every tree yourself. It's only natural that He might miss a correctional labor camp gone wrong, especially one as small as this with only a thousand prisoners.

That is what I tell myself as I turn in Dmitry.

Sacha leers at me greedily as I spin him a yarn about a whispered curse, one directed both at Mecha Stalin and one of the guards personally. I feel him trying to do something, I feel some sort of wisdom check being made, but I can't tell quite what he's doing.

It won't work, whatever it is. Luka has given me the status effect Hidden Thoughts, letting me plan in peace without worrying about someone like Sacha barging in and figuring out what I'm doing. If he asks, I'll say it's to trick the the other prisoners. After all, only someone with high Inspect can see it.

I devour my Borscht and only stop to enjoy the flavor once it's all gone.

Dmitry is taken the next morning at three a.m. The man I fought was taken after the fight while I was unconscious. The man in the ration line was taken as he cursed Mecha Stalin. This is the first snatching I've seen that is done based on stool pigeon reports. It's important that I see this.

They unbar the door to the barracks, loudly, making sure to wake us all up. Two guards come in and turn on the electric lights, brightening the room in a buzzing flourescent white more intense than even mid-summer's daylight. The whole room stirs as one, each one of us hoping that it isn't time to work yet. Hoping to have a bit more time pretending to be dead.

Not me, though. I've been pretending to sleep, so my grogginess is feigned. It's a risk, adding sleep-deprived to my growing list of status effects, but Hidden Thoughts can cover many sins, and the guards will be even softer on me now. Pyotr has also stayed up, and we rely on his training to mask the effects.

The guards do not draw their pistols. They expect no trouble. After all, why would there be trouble? We are but humble zeks, dirty fascists, and we have neither guns nor food nor a will to fight. And they are right, for all but a few of us.

They don't expect Luka, who worships his invisible God with almost as much fervor as I worship Mecha Stalin. It gives him some sort of bizarre power.

They don't expect Pyotr, an ex-NKVD who... come to think of it, I don't know why he left or what he's doing here. Whatever the reason, he is different than the common western sympathizer that gets put here.

Finally, they don't expect me, a true Communist, with the spirit of 1917 running strong in my veins.

The guards make us all stand at attention with our hands behind our heads.

There are five work crews in our barracks, for a total of about one hundred zeks. The guards go down each row and stop to stare down random prisoners. They want you to wonder if it's your time. If you've been caught speaking against them. To make you feel guilty for whatever sin you might have committed against the state.

Sometimes the prisoner will tremble. It must be more nerve-wracking than being walked to the worksite by submachine guns, because no one trembles at that anymore. Here it is just you and your conscience.

At a proper correctional labor facility, one run by real Communists, I might even approve of the technique. It's certainly effective. Even I wonder if Sacha saw through me, if they'll stop in front of me and take me away.

Finally they stop in front of Dmitry. He's too stupid to tremble. 17 Intelligence, like an especially dull child. When they lay hands on him and drag him away, that is when he becomes frightened.

"I haven't done anything," he whimpers.

One of the guards hits him.

"I haven't done anything," he repeats, his voice higher this time.

"We'll see what you say after a day of truth-finding," says the guard as he hits Dmitry again.

The guards shut off the electric lights. Dmitry's moans and complaints become quieter after they bar the door, and then the night fades into silence.

We all get back to sleep almost immediately, including me this time. I will be glad of the few short hours I have left.

No one here suffers from insomnia, not if they're allowed a bed.