Trigger Warning
This chapter contains explicit depictions of:
public execution (hanging)
violence and war crimes
psychological distress
dehumanization
Please proceed only if you feel emotionally stable.If you are personally affected by thoughts of self-harm or severe distress, consider reaching out to trusted individuals or professional support.
21:30, 05 June 2047 — Museumsquartier
It was already late, yet the station was buzzing with activity.
David and Gabriel made their way toward the marketplace. Shortly before, David had brought his sister home to her mother. They lived in a small residential unit of eight square meters — not much, but sufficient. Everyone received the same amount of living space from the socialist state.
Posters were affixed to the barracks, bearing slogans such as:"The enemy is listening.""The People's Army — your friend and protector.""The Consul — Father of the Revolution."They were dynamically illustrated and painted in rich, saturated colors.
They continued past the distribution centers and by a bar on the left, where people drowned their worries in rancid liquor. The mood outside the establishment was cheerful, and inside someone was playing the guitar. In front of the bar, smokers exhaled black pillars into the air, told stories, and toasted to one another's well-being.
David stopped briefly to eavesdrop on a conversation.
"I'm telling you — the trade syndicates don't settle there."
"Yeah, but why? The stations beyond Unter St. Veit are fine, aren't they? No mutated beasts, no collapsed tunnels or anything like that. As far as I know, construction there was even completed."
"Yes, it was," the heavyset man confirmed, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"But…" he began, raising an eyebrow, "that's bad for business." He blew a cloud of smoke into the face of his counterpart, who was dressed in a hemp robe.
"Oh come on. They could build more Manufacturing Stations, more farms, more living space. They're overcrowded too," the other objected confidently.
"That's true," the smoker replied. "But what happens when there's more housing?"
"So what?"
"Their working class gets stripped down to their underwear. Too many people competing for the same apartment, the same job. That keeps wages low and rents high." He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially:"And which syndicate owns the new living space then?"
His counterpart looked confused.
"There's no state property there. Everything belongs to some syndicate. Entire stations are owned by a single person, and the inhabitants live almost like serfs."
"But…" the other began.
Gabriel grabbed David by the arm and pulled him away from the exchange. How he would have liked to keep listening — but they had an appointment.
Ahead of them, the crowd gathered before a rotten wooden stage. On the platform stood three soldiers wearing gas masks. They differed only in height. The masks and uniforms stripped every face of humanity — soulless beings, the archetype of the soldier, part of a faceless mass.
Two stood at the left and right edges of the platform, each armed with a VSG-3. The third stood beside a man wearing a red officer's cap — a political commissar.
The Political Commissariat was a hybrid of secret service and military police. It was the iron hand of the Consul. Commissars operated in administration, in factories, and even within the army to ensure political and moral discipline. They stood above most laws and hierarchies.
On the stage stood stools, and ropes hung from the ceiling.
The commissar raised his voice:
"Esteemed comrades, brothers and sisters of the Union. We have gathered today to carry out the sentencing and execution of three enemies of the collective."
He made a sharp hand gesture, signaling the soldiers to bring the condemned onto the stage.
They were emaciated and dressed in striped prisoner uniforms. Their heads were shaved, their faces smeared with blood and ash. Their gazes were empty, fixed on the ground — as if they were soulless vessels of flesh and bone. White knuckles pressed against pale skin, as though their bodies had shrunk inward, constricting their throats. Step by step, they climbed onto the platform. They were about the same age as David and Gabriel.
Then the iron-hard voice of the political officer rang out again:
"The prisoners G-0165, G-0213, and G-0346 have committed the following crimes: Embezzlement of supplies, sabotage, and the consequent undermining of military strength.
They stole water and food supplies from their workplaces and sold them for profit. Goods that belonged to everyone were withheld from the collective for personal gain.
By doing so, they not only robbed their fellow citizens but also obstructed the war effort."
The crowd erupted — shouting, cursing, spitting at the prisoners. They wanted blood.
The commissar raised his hands to calm them and announced the verdict.
"These parasites betrayed the collective. They sold our trust — and will now bear the consequences."He paused as the tension in the crowd grew."Therefore, I sentence them to death by hanging."
Thunderous approval filled the marketplace. Applause and hateful voices merged into a symphony of ecstasy.
Placards were hung around the condemned, bearing the words:"I was a saboteur and a thief," written in red.
They were placed on wooden stools, their knees bound together with thick rope. They stood like freshly drawn candles, ready to burn. Hemp sacks were pulled over their heads, and the nooses slipped around their necks.
The commissar nodded to a guard. One by one, the stools were kicked away. The ground vanished beneath their feet.
They hung like fish on a line, twitching.
Several minutes passed as the crowd cheered and hurled insults at the condemned.
"Death to the enemies of the Consul!" "Justice for the people!"
Only when the bodies stopped moving did the sea of people slowly calm.
The lifeless, cooling corpses would remain hanging for at least a day — a warning of what happens to those who oppose the collective effort.
The crowd began to disperse. The spectacle was over; the grind of life resumed.
Only an elderly woman remained, standing before one of the bodies. Horror filled her eyes, tears streamed down her face — likely the mother of one of the executed.
Gabriel commented sharply:
"He deserved to die. After all, he stole from all of us."
"Oh, come on," David replied.
Gabriel looked at him, questioning and judgmental. David had to justify himself.
"I mean…" he began uncertainly, "a labor camp or military service I could understand. But execution…" he murmured. "That's extreme. They were our age."
"Extreme!?" Gabriel snapped. "Didn't you hear? Undermining military strength."He emphasized the last words."What else should we do with these antisocials, huh? Gently slap their wrists and pretend nothing happened!?"
They stared at each other. Neither was willing to give ground. Both had dug in, ready to defend their positions to the bitter end — arguments turned into fortifications, tongues sharpened like blades.
But the argument never came. As so often, David gave in.
"Alright. Fine. You win."He shrugged."Want to grab a drink at the bar?"
Cheerful as ever, his friend replied:"You mean I get drunk while you sit in some corner, nose buried in your books, armed with a cup of green tea."
Now David grinned as well."You know me too well."
As agreed, they headed to one of the station's recreational spots. Their regular place, 'Hammered Instead of Shifted', was busy as always. Collective property, like all buildings and facilities in the Union. Here the weary celebrated the end of the day, played dice, or drank competitively. The harsh liquor generously poured tasted bitter and was made from mushrooms and potatoes. Alcohol numbed body and soul from the day's exertions — that had been true before the World War, after it, and would never change.
As usual, David drank only green tea, sourced from some agricultural station. These dried hemp leaves were popular throughout the Union. In other underground states, the surplus was sold as a luxury good.
Now he could once again devote himself to the past — his private studies. He collected everything: newspapers, books, even the contents of old wallets. These relics exerted a magnetic pull on him. He sought them like moths seek light and guarded them like treasure.
Of course, there were official books as well. But only firsthand information was truly valuable — not the endlessly recycled fragments that culminated in propaganda. Subjective perception was what mattered.
For the second time that day, he pulled out the chronicle. For the second time, he wanted to know what a contemporary witness had to tell him. He flipped through the papyrus-like pages he had already read, confirming his place, and searched for where he had left off.
No — not here. Too far.Ah — there.
And he began to read.