The Gynym River was marked on our charts, but getting there was no simple task. No highways, roads, no GPS - which was too great a risk; merely an old compass, a weathered map, and the grey mass between our ears. It felt as though I'd been thrown back to my scouting days.

It was probable that the government used air travel or water channels to transport supplies. A closer glance at the river's depth measurements suggested it wasn't suitable for bulky vessels, and it was quite likely a closely watched avenue of approach. A brisk dip in its wintry waters was thus unthinkable. Our only option became a gruelling march: 200+ kilometres through unforgiving mountain passes. Ambitious, I know.

To ease our journey, we sought out exoskeletons, which, to our fortune, were available at a pittance from a disabled, ageing miner. The wear and tear on them spoke for itself, so a one way ticket. Our provisions included the usual, water & food, tools for mending, and essential medicines. This expedition required complete self-reliance, which we were not short on. Nevertheless, with everything in place, we commenced our journey, following a dusty trail that ran adjacent to one of Yakutia's scarce tarmac roads. We journeyed to where that road's final vestiges of civilization faded. From there, you could hear the rushing of cars faint slowly.

We had charted a course to span three days, hoping to cover seventy kilometres on each. An even loftier goal, but surprisingly within our reach. Vasiliy, familiar with every contour of the land and seasoned in such adventures, naturally led the way. My experience, in contrast, spanned no more than a weekend's trek or the casual stroll through nature. Still, I found the pace tolerable, even if every so often it felt like a swift boot to my behind might send me rolling down a slope. Slowly the shadows of our first day lengthened, we established our makeshift abode, a crappy dollar store tent. Designed for four, which meant there was an excess of space for the gear. The ambiance was, naturally, chilly, juxtaposed against the cosy warmth of our campfire. I loved staring into it, felt primal.

When twilight descended, the encompassing darkness was only perforated by the celestial bodies above. Honestly, the sheer majesty of the moon and stars was all I ever sought from such an escapade. The Milky Way was vividly visible at our altitude, painting a stellar masterpiece. It's funny when I think about it – I've always dreamt of voyaging through space, aspiring to don the role of a cosmonaut during my more innocent years. Because who didn't? Innocent dreams. The government sure wanted you to believe in their grand vision, borne of propaganda. But the universe had other plans, given my discipline and intellect. Or rather lack thereof.

Dawn greeted us with a chorus of melodies, albeit my physical disposition wasn't as harmonious. There was a tangible stiffness in my limbs, my hips notably protesting. I wasn't that old... However, once resolve kicked in, our journey continued. Two days mirroring the first.

On the fourth, the crescendo of rushing water drew closer as we advanced upon the Gynym. Emerging over a ridge, the vast expanse of a crystal-clear river stretched before us, untouched by civilization. Yet, our path downstream led us to an unexpected barrier: an unimposing barbed wire fence extending deep into the forests surrounding. Its warning signs might as well have read, 'Welcome', because, with a hint of mischief, we broke through the rusted wires and moved on.

As we delved deeper, signs of a guarded perimeter were notably absent. Solitude wrapped us. By nightfall, camp was set. The cold evening marked our fourth day's journey, and the dwindling supplies weighed on my mind, despite the fresh catch of fish adding a touch of luxury to our meal. Sad to think most meat was fake nowadays.

But, on the horizon, the faint twinkle of lights caught my eye. A man-made halo encompassing the hill we set up under. The proximity of civilization, or what looked like it, drove us forward. Ascending the hill, luminosity intensified until we stood atop, met with a sight both awe-inspiring and unsettling. Instead of a mere town or base, a vast industrial complex dominated the landscape, the city dab smack in the middle. It resembled the monotowns of old, with their hidden populace and veiled purposes. The sheer scale of this industrial marvel in such a remote area filled me with a mix of pride and suspicion. What megalomaniac venture had Moscow invested in?

Gazing out, Vasiliy murmured, "Look at it."

I was. The visage spread from one mountain top to another, the entire valley was built upon by smokestacks, silos, warehouses, you name it.

"Unbelievable," I whispered, unsure why.

"Money well spent I'd say."

"Clearly."

"It would've taken ages to set all this up."

Captain obvious over here. "What gave it away?"

"Shush." He slapped me upside the head, ruffled my hair. "Don't get mouthy with me."

My lips peeled back from my teeth, and I stuck my tongue out at him. God, don't let our childish souls ever die.

After a moment, Vasiliy's tone turned contemplative. "The real question is, what resource is so valuable that they would pour this much into it?"

I pondered, then replied, "Fuel."

He nodded, "I could see that. But which kind?"

In the distance, storage tanks dotted the horizon, and landing strips hinted at the exportation of their product. Perhaps they had delved into the creation of synthetic alternatives. Wouldn't be a first. Certainly no known resource deposits in the area I could think of. Whatever they manufactured, it demanded its own unique assembly line, deliberately distanced from existing infrastructures. This facility was a fortress, cordoned off from the world. Military policemen patrolled its walls, ensuring no unwanted footfalls, while overhead, drones canvassed the skies, ever-watchful of the sprawling plant below.

The scale was massive.

This industrial behemoth stretched over an immense land, integrating part of the riverbed, where a dam diverted waters to cool machinery and formed an artificial lake around which the city sprang up. Above, giant exhaust towers loomed, eerily clean, or maybe our sight failed us in discerning the signs of pollution. It seemed self-sufficient, with local provisions of power, water, and food, though the scale of sustenance seemed disproportionate to the populace, suggesting external supply chains. And housing? Non other than boxes of concrete and flesh. After all, it had been us who thought of it.

"Whatever they're brewing up, it's all Greek to me," I muttered.

"You're thinking of sneaking in, aren't you?" Vasiliy questioned.

"Not here for the bird watching, aren't I?" I felt a pull towards the secrets within the facility.

Even a giant has an Achilles heel, but confronting one head-on is folly. Stealth and deception were to our advantage, exploiting the unseen weaknesses. "Think we could pass off as workers?" I pondered aloud.

Vasiliy eyed me sceptically. "Considering they likely have ID implants, what do you think?"

His logical train of thought wouldn't deter me, my gut had taken the lead. "The facility employs countless workers. It's possible they wouldn't notice if their count was off by one or two." I waited for comprehension to dawn on him. But Vasiliy was never one for hasty epiphanies. "We act the part, bluff our way in. Machines aren't infallible. We assert some clerical hiccup and bullshit on from there."

"Heh," That's his way of saying 'you're insane, and the odds are slim'. "This money sink will have state of the art security, maybe an AI."

"But can you imagine the number of rotating shifts? And they hire individuals like Teterev."

"The jobs in these monotowns require particular skills and certifications. We have no clue about their core operations." His logic, alas, was irrefutable.

I sighed, deep in thought. "Regardless, we can't walk away. How about the city's archives..."

In such a technologically advanced setting, records would likely be maintained on a neural network, some sort of digital database. Their citizens would have holographic IDs, offering instantaneous access to all personal documents. Navigating such a system would be a breeze for a skilled netrunner, a luxury we didn't possess. We had our work cut out.

Vasiliy's expression was a mix of scepticism and amusement. "Another of your ingenious ideas?"

"Not particularly..." I quickly replied, "I'm no netrunner, I barely grasp AI, but you make a valid point. Information is guarded by multiple layers." I was shaking my head, "Like an onion."

Vasiliy made a face, tilting forward slightly.

"Wouldn't such a sophisticated AI require an obscene amount of energy? This system is isolated. Resources are deliberately limited to isolate the location."

Vasiliy seemed less assured. "A compact fusion generator is all they need."

"Right..." We were navigating through uncharted territories of speculation, picking up clues along the way. This was becoming a circular conversation.

We retreated to subdued discussions, walked back down the hill, avoided lighting up a fire, doing our best to stay inconspicuous. We conversed about the past as we ate. I was more verbose, while Vasiliy chimed in sporadically. The allure of the unknown fascinated me; the world was a treasure trove of such unknowns, offering a mere fragment to a single lifetime. Our discussion was accompanied by shared drinks until the biting cold drove us to our tent.

The dawn of the seventh day of our trip revealed the facility in full light, transforming the distant glow into a bustling behemoth. Vasiliy, peering through his scope, muttered, "Helium? Helium. Helium-3, in liquid form."

"Say that again, just to drive it in."

"He-li-um-3." His tone was flat, laden with sarcasm.

"Much obliged. What else?"

Vasiliy narrated swiftly, "Predominantly automated. Containers marked 'EPSK'—mean anything to you?"

"Not in the slightest."

He handed me the scope, "Doesn't add up," I mumbled, examining an unknown substance. It was housed in matte, hexagonally recessed containers, plastered with warnings, less numerous than their helium-3 counterparts. Those numbered in the thousands. "What are they hiding?"

"Beats me."

Observing further, I sighed, "Well, we're in agreement old friend." We needed to gain intel from the inside, but it wasn't going to be as simple. Security was by my expectations on high alert and any direct intrusion could tip off the state, and we shouldn't risk that. This could very well be a joint investment. There's not telling how many toes we would be stepping over.

Our expedition was almost out of provisions, and the trek back would be taxing. But I was adamant to not leave empty handed. We would have to play the long game. Or maybe, "You know..." I began.

"We aren't climbing the exterior," Vasiliy interjected.

"Bah, spoilsport." I feigned disappointment.

Vasiliy's unimpressed look lingered.

"Fine, fine. I'll call in a favour."

That's all it took to change his sour face, before he asked, "With whom?"

"Not whom, with what. A little blackmail should be encouraging enough." I winked, fishing out my tricked out phone. Yes, phone. Simply refuse to call it an Agent.

Vasiliy stared at me, then nodded, "I'm listening."

"Listen away." I began fiddling with my phone, trying to find the right contact. "It's been a while since we've last talked," I spoke as I scanned through the names. Finally coming up on a R. Koshechkin, the little rat. I dialled his number. "You see... politics, it brings strange bed fellows." And it didn't take long for him to pick up.

"Hey-ho! Roman," I began, my voice laced with faux cheerfulness. "You don't write, don't call... How's the wife? Kids?"

A sigh reverberated through the speaker, laced with a old borne tension. "Shults, what do you want?"

I chortled, "Straight to business, huh? I miss the days when you'd put on the samovar and we'd talk — about the weather."

There was a pregnant pause before Roman responded with a weary, "Weather is lovely, this time of year."

"Indeed it is, glad you remembered." I said, eyeing Vasiliy, who was observing our surroundings intently. Though I could tell, his ears perked up. "I find myself in need of a bit of... information. Maybe some leverage. Unofficial like, of course."

He was silent for a moment, perhaps pondering the implications. "Shults, you're treading on thin ice. I can't—"

"Ah, but Roman," I interrupted, "remember that certain... uhm — call it — redistribution of wealth deal we had few years back? I was so very helpful, wasn't I?"

I heard a sharp intake of breath, "That was... you said you wouldn't—"

"I said I wouldn't, but so often I happen to do just the opposite," I cut in smoothly. "Now, I believe it's time to test your worth."

His voice, although slightly tremulous, tried to hold a stern front, "What do you want to know?"

"Know, and need! It's quite the list." I pressed, "Do there happen to be any Helium-3 processing facilities deep in Yakutia? High walls, gun emplacements, picturesque mountains, that sort of thing."

"Shults..." There was a faint tremble to his voice, "Please, don't tell me—"

"Noooo..." I drawled unconvincingly, "Of course not."

The line was quiet for a short moment before he answered, "Yakutsk-76."

"Hypothetically, if I wanted a good friend of mine, you know, smuggled in... the Regional Supervisor for Industrial Operations — what a mouthful may I say — would be the best option, yes?"

"You wouldn't..." Roman's tone was bordering frantic now. His promotion had not gone unheard of, and I couldn't help but sweep up the credit for that. Roman was a solid minion, an honest and a hardworking one, much to his misfortune.

"I might," I shrugged, despite him not being able to see. "You see, either I ruin your career, a career you owe me. Or I ruin the whole damn thing by telling, to the Chinese." Latter was a gamble and a half, I'd never compromise Russia's interest. Mine or not, this went beyond me for now, and so the bluff only served to drill in my point. Roman's self interests would be sure to kick in.

"Fuck." I listened in on the fumbling of the phone as Roman quickly reassured an unheard attendant. Clearly stressed, his words rushed out in a clamor, "It's nothing of import... Sorry, darling. Yes, personal matter..." I heard a door close and then the phone was taken up again. "Name your terms. Just name them."

It seemed business was about to be conducted.

I chuckled quietly, raising a satisfied smirk. "An ID, sanctioned but discreet transport and uniforms. Just a pair of workers lucky to be selected by the government to work on a 'lucrative' contract out in the middle of nowhere. Sounds pleasant, don't it?"

"Deal." The confirmation rang stiffly and there was nothing pleasant in his words. The door to a stress-free career were being closed firmly, I was sure. Too bad, Roman, too bad.

"Very well," I said calmly, having pulled the necessary details, "It's in both our interests to keep our mouths shut, you help me. I help you. Just forget this conversation ever happened, you'll be fine." With a subtle laugh, I added, "Take it easy, Roman. We'll get that pension, one way or the other."

Roman managed a weak, "Hah-hah..." before hanging up the call.

I tucked away the phone, looking at Vasiliy. "In a matter of hours, we'll be inside."

His gaze cast on me, hands rubbing together against the chill, his breath drawn visible. "Evil bastard aren't you?" Vasiliy reached, palm upon my shoulder, patting, wearing a wide smile.

"Please. Anybody would bully a would be apparatchik, anyone decent that is. Which I still am." Shrugging his hand off, my eyes shifted to the colossal facility and the long journey that lied ahead. "Coercion will only get us so far."

"Mmh," Vasiliy scratched his stubble, giving one last long look at the plant, then shrugging. "Sit back and wait?"

I nodded slowly, "Sit back and wait."

After a day's break, we took to discarding all unnecessary gear. The tents, exoskeletons, camping gear, all the guns had to be buried, anything that wasn't literally nailed down into your skin. Not an issue for me, Vasiliy would mumble but I promised to make up to him. Less evidence we wore there, the better. I sent Roman the coordinates, the details needed to forge, clothes, lo and behold. Next day an AV circled the sky as it struggled to find a suitable patch of land.

"Well, that was quick," Vasiliy exclaimed in earnest surprise. The two of us waved at the AV. It was a civilian grade transport, probably public transport as it appeared to be fully automated.

"Praise be the merits of blackmail. For Roman's sake he better not half-ass it."

With a shuddering thud, it connected firmly to the ground, adjusting its landing stilts into place. The side door slid open, presenting and empty hold that couldn't accommodate more than ten at most. There was a distinct lack of amenities, leaving only the basic floor panels that provided insulation and some cushioning to ease the ride. "Though next time I'll order premium." We grabbed our necessities, making ourselves comfy as one could be on polyethylene seats. The flimsy plastic barely worth installing, it was better to stand and grab the handlebars if there was apple head space.

I found some tucked away garments, our disguises. Grey industrial garb, gloves, and helmets fit for the task. We quickly changed, threw our own stuff under a tree should we ever recover it. Discarded my favourite coat damn it... As for the worker apparel it appeared to be a little rough around the edges already, a neat detail. 'Papers' were in order. By that, we were given small barcode cards, indicating proper certification, standard issue holographic ID, with photographs matching our forged identities. First time I could genuinely applaud a bureaucrat, all it took was a little arm twisting. My new pseudonym, Boris, and Vasiliy was Valentin. I hummed, amusing myself, as I studied our fake ID's, the backgrounds that came with them. It was all rather Ivanov Ivan Ivanovich-esque.

We settled into for a ride, the doors closed with a silent whirring noise. Inside the AV it had that distinctive olfactory imprint of fresh rubber and disinfectant. It was clean, austere, the bare essentials. Let me say, clean I didn't expect. The AV's engines whirled up, drowning out any other sound beside the clamour within. Vasiliy didn't seem to have much of a comment, so I shifted my sight out of the side-window, focusing on the wintry scenery.

For the first time in ages, I did some mental arithmetic. What do I mean? Consider, the last state-controlled closed city I knew of was in Magadan, erected roughly eighty years prior for mining and developing Rare Earth Elements. To my knowledge, our inept state maintained just that one. At some point, 'specialized' research was outsourced to SovGen. Reason was simple, easier to keep clandestine off-world. Yes, Russia's — or the Soviets' — first colonies were nothing more than labs and military bases, how contemporary of us. If I'm not mistaken, the practice persists, which begs the question about Moscow's plans for this area.

Personally, I see no substantial reason to develop here. Why not simply liaise with SovGen's leadership, direct some funds their way, and have them create a Helium-3 storage facility in space where — and you'll find this hard to believe — there's ample... space? But here, on Earth, in a comparatively cramped valley? Why waste the time, money getting it here, for what?

My inner cynic suspected corruption, a blend of the most vainest of reasons; greed and short-sightedness. Then another part of me questioned these assumptions, prompting me to reconsider. Their operation had been at it for years without notice, impressive considering the scale. Perhaps there was something I overlooked. I'd been away from this world for too long. But neither doubts nor forced optimism would help now.

Luckily having a birds-eye view of Yakutsk-76 offered clarity. I studied how the complex was set up; how transport and supply routes were established; looked for inconsistencies. An idea gradually formed, even from such a short observation. There was a lot of H-3 coming in, but there didn't appear to be any large shipments out. This discrepancy was perplexing.

However, time was running out to examine from above. We'd delve deeper upon arrival. The AV began its whiny descent, and soon after, the thump of landing echoed in the cabin. I peered out to see an modest expanse of barren tarmac and, in the distance — the drab, repetitive and oh, so cliché Soviet block-batten houses. Oh yes, a most welcoming sight to any proper urbanite. Rhyme not intended.

Moments after landing, an synthesised deep male voice declared our arrival, declaring, "On behalf of the Yakutsk-76 Labour Committee, welcome." The sudden proclamation was like an unwarranted smack to the face; I noticed Vasiliy's eyebrow twitch in response.

As we disembarked from the AV, it remained powered for a short while before shutting down. Indistinct announcements blared in the distance, echoing across the city. The airfield, capable of housing about a dozen AV's like ours, gave off a forlorn atmosphere. It felt eerily quiet, bereft of life, tied by purpose. "We need to find the reception." Turning to Vasiliy, who was brushing off snowflakes, I added, "Sure, try not to draw unnecessary attention."

"Me? Never." Vasiliy confidently headed towards the airfield's exit, whistling a casual tune.

The cold was piercing, and though I had been mentally prepared for it, yet the entire trip here I barely noticed the temperature. Pulling my collar tight was a meagre defence against the chill. At the entrance, security mechanisms—scanners, cameras—gave us the standard less-than-warm welcome. The guards were sparse, lightly armed, and the administrative staff seemed disinterested. Job wasn't exactly plum, so no judgement there. We went through the standard procedure: swiping our forged credentials, enduring the routine beeps and scans, undergoing a pat-down, and finally, being cleared to proceed.

"That was... surprisingly uneventful," I mused.

"No fuss, no chaos. Just the way it should be," Vasiliy responded, his tone suggesting even he found the smoothness of our entry somewhat peculiar.

We found ourselves in a transit district, seemingly designed for final screening of newcomers. A haptic screen presented us with a questionnaire probing into our occupations and other personal details. Prepared for this, I input my cover story of being an HVAC technician—a fancy way of saying I look after air conditioners and heating systems. Vasiliy, on the other hand, had the less glamorous cover of a plumber, though with the added responsibility of hydraulic maintenance. Now that's a catch-all if you ask me.

To be honest, I found our charade amusing. Both of us would be putting on an act, feigning expertise for the day. The pretence was simple enough, but Vasiliy— or should I say Valentin— couldn't help but gripe about our supposed low wages. The performance act was laughable, to me anyway. Our next step? Check in at the local admin offices, get assigned a couple of places to inspect, and proceed from there.

A tram ride later, we reached what was optimistically labelled the 'City Centre'. It was little more than a sterile main square, indistinguishable from countless other Soviet-era locales. The architecture of the city hall, interestingly, harked back to socialist classicism, a style discarded almost two centuries ago. They'd really leaned into the aesthetic here. Though once derided as 'excessive', I found myself nostalgic for our past. Still, no amount of window dressing could truly hide the creeping decrepitude, an echo of the late Soviet world's decline, years in the making.

There was a sparse buzz of activity on the streets— mostly women going about their day. Cars were a rarity, with the roads, at their widest, accommodating two-way traffic. Occasionally, a truck or military vehicle would rumble by. The ambience was dominated by the pervasive industry smog, making its presence felt from every direction. The inhabitants mostly represented the working class, with the exception of a few well-dressed officials outside the city hall. Not a single sing of a corporation in sight, was on one hand refreshing. There was a weary, drawn look common to most, a combination of stress, paranoia, and sheer exhaustion. Such sights, though familiar, were always disheartening.

Our primary task here, as I've mentioned, was covert infiltration. Doing our 'jobs' was just for show. And how much could one pry open from sheer appearances was hard to judge. Nonetheless, Vasiliy and I were keen observers, on the lookout for any potential vulnerabilities. Our first stop was the Administrative Allocation Centre. A stern official gave our pristine credentials a cursory glance, then directed us to a sterile room filled with other newcomers. A monotonous orientation session commenced: talks of loyalty, an endless list of security protocols, and a heavy emphasis on our "vital contributions" to the greater cause. I wasn't surprised when Vasiliy nearly dozed off. But it was essential we played our parts— nodding, clapping, and echoing party-approved sentiments. For a surreal moment, I wondered if I'd inadvertently stepped back in time.

After this initial phase, we received our task allocations, schedules, and, most amusingly, keys to our shared accommodation—a genuine kommunalka. Brilliant. It was barely a notch above squalor. Although the official line was a lack of available apartments, I suspected otherwise. Most likely, this was a means to facilitate surveillance, a throwback to the days when neighbours spied on each other.

So, we started our day, playing our parts—carting around toolboxes, pretending to be the uninformed workers they took us for. Our first assignment led us to a residential block, which was besieged by a distinctly unpleasant odour, indicating a sewage issue. Right up Vasiliy's alley, the master deceiver that he is. I had no intentions of getting my hands dirty there. "Your stage, Valentin!" I announced and promptly left.

My itinerary was more compelling, taking me to the town's outskirts, specifically to a hydroelectric plant. While not extensive, given the scale of the larger operation, its role was clear—this facility served as a backup, providing redundancy. Still, its function as a dam was crucial. My initial assignment involved inspecting the thermostatic valves that regulated the fluid flow for the turbines—a routine task. But, for now, it was enough to keep me occupied.

"Valentin, my dear comrade." Sound of my voice roused me from a haze of semi-slumber. Yawning, I was still comforted by the warmth of the cafeteria. Vasiliy, placing his evening meal before him, must've been pulled into overtime—the joys of being too competent a plumber. My recent 12-hour shift hadn't been kind either. "Comrade," he replied, his voice flat.

"Sit," I gestured, straightening up.

"Wouldn't dream of refusing," Vasiliy remarked, sinking into the chair. The weighty thud of him settling down drew a brief glance from a nearby table. "Updates?" His eyes, lazy but assessing, met mine.

I considered for a moment, cautious as walls here were notorious for their eavesdropping. "For once, I don't find myself envying our predecessors."

Suppressing a chuckle, Vasiliy responded, "Says the man perpetually lost in yesteryears."

He did know me all too well. "Touché." I acknowledged with a smirk. "Regardless, how was your day?"

Propping his bowl's rim to his lips, Vasiliy took a contemplative sip. "Enlightening. The plumbing here is...extensive. It's no wonder they're in dire need of extra hands."

My fingers rapped the side of my mug subtly—a gesture of understanding. The infrastructure's age aligned with my observations; everything had a feel of careful city planning. Possibly decades in the making.

"Additionally," Vasiliy leaned in, "rumour has it there was an incident today. An implosion of some sort?" He shrugged, waving his spoon about, "Got told I might be in on the action."

I hummed, "Devilishly lucky you are."

Vasiliy's comeback was immediate, "Nah, God was the communist."

Admittedly he caught me off-guard with that one, I half-way spat my tea out, "Was he now?" I tried to remain composed.

Nodding, he slurped another spoonful of borscht. "Oh, absolutely."

"As for other news," I began, wondering how to phrase it discreetly, "long-term postings here aren't guaranteed. Rotations might be daily." I subtly tapped my wrist, trying to drop a hint.

I nodded, took a sip of tea, avoiding eye-contact and wiping my mouth with a napkin, "In...other news..." I began, wondering how to phrase it discreetly, "long-term postings here aren't guaranteed. Rotations might be daily." I subtly tapped my wrist, trying to drop a hint.

Vasiliy caught on, murmuring, "Not sidelined just yet," before diving in to finish his borscht.

"Well, here's to overtime." I raised my now nearly empty mug.

Meanwhile Vasiliy shifted in his seat slightly, and held his bowl to his lips to drain the remaining broth. With that done, he snatched my mug, draining its contents into his ugly mug. "To overtime," He toasted.

"Kha, don't choke on it." I looked around, made sure the coast was clear. "Anyway, best of luck. Toilets galore."

I hadn't seen dear Vasiliy for the rest of the day, not even the next one. Surely he was in the thick of it, as was I. Trying my best not to worry or doubt, after all it wasn't like him to get into trouble over a toilet. Scratch that thought.

I made use of the free time I had by touring the town. Managed to find a park of all things, behind the church, a five minute walk from the main plaza. And you'd never guess in a million years who they planted dab-smack in the middle of it.

Yes, it was Lenin. It's always Lenin.

And that got me thinking. Always thinking.

Civilian activity had a clear trend; a cyclical loop of sorts between public transport, cafes, shop stalls for basic needs, and mandatory work. A population drenched in a strange mixture of idleness and overwhelming fatigue. Of course the populace always lived under an atmosphere of subjugation, dictated by Moscow's far flung plans and whims. The city was modern, well laid out, with a distinct socialist austerity screaming from all non-essential facets. The select few came to live here, they should know only happiness! Want for nothing, pioneer the socialist dream! Kha! A genuine, functioning community would've already sniffed us out. Reasons for not doing so were ample, simple enough; lethargy, apathy, the last gasps of civilization. These feelings set the precedent, permeating every aspect of a rotten society, eroding it.

Always came down to my point; nobody cared.

However, my conclusion was; living under a dictatorship wasn't so much the cause of problems merely an excuse. An empire lasts 250 years at average, and this Soviet Union of ours had run its course, lasting just as or mayhaps a tad longer than the Romanov's dynasty. So it should only be fitting to be brought down on those same inglorious terms. True enough, our neighbours across the pacific, the (N)USA, already had their glorious republic crumble, dead at a respectable age of 220? I believe. The Collapse, as they dramatically termed it. Fair enough, having over half your population die out and migrate over the years is pretty dramatic. Ours? I'd call it more of a 'Silent Death'— long, drawn out. We had the chance, multiple times to fix it, we squandered them each. A hard reset remains the only option. Just so happens, it is my naïve, hopeless belief we could avoid a bloody overturn of the power structure. A bloodless Coup d'état, is the ideal. Yet brigands fighting tooth and nail, street to street, town to town, the most likely of outcomes.

I believe I said so before, but it bears repeating — revolutions aren't a question of 'if' it's a matter of 'when'.

The longer you stave it off the uglier the aftermath. Make no mistake, I'm prepared to shed blood whenever, wherever needed. A man can but dream, deny reality and fact which would serve no purpose should the political cauldron come spilling forth. The honeymoon is long over, it takes but for man to starve, the demands will follow suit.

Consequently I can't pretend to know who'll be the proverbial Communist Party of our upcoming upheaval. My safest bet is there will be no singular group leading the charge, there will be tens of factions. And may the winner be king of the ashes. Should it come to that, I won't be around hopefully. "Kha!"

Maybe, I've misled myself! Out of all the hypotheses, that one scares me the most. I'd have nobody else to blame. No, never mind. I happen to do such leaps, get ahead of myself.

I maintained my gaze, feeling a deep frown crease my brows. That statue of Lenin, I had an irrational — or perhaps and entirely rational hatred of it. Not the man, the statue. An obvious aspect was the stagnation, the unfulfilled promises; most egregious was the failure of securing our nation against the march of corporatism. Communism, conceptualised to defeat 'profit-based economies', Capitalism as Marx coined it, failed, defeated by a petrochemical company. Useless. Utterly pointless.

And the powers that be still dare to mimic, poorly so, the very symbols of that failed ideology. It's so comical, so hollow, to the degree of outright insult. I have nothing but genuine praise for them.