It's been three weeks so far, and my mood is souring.

  Since I've arrived, I've done nothing but hard, menial labor for the local peasants. The pay barely covers my daily meals and some cigarettes. I'll explain that in a sec.

  One thing worth mentioning though; language hasn't been a problem. The locals speak accented English as—apparently—English comes by handy even in a different universe. There's also some kind of indecipherable Slavic dialect used by outsiders, but it's not common in the village.

  And despite its small size, the village I'm staying at sees a steady flow of newcomers—farmhands, traders, and travelers heading north. I bargained for a job and a place to sleep on my first day, landing in the attic of shack. No one gave me much trouble. I kept my head down and blended in. The villagers all knew each other but me, which made things awkward at first, but eventually I became known as "the odd-job guy who collects useless books."

  Actually, let me tell you in full detail about my first few days.

  …

  At dawn I woke up to the sound of a creature screaming. It was not in pain—but seemingly because it enjoyed screaming.

  I was lying in a pile of hay, tucked in the attic. Thankfully, there weren't any rats or bugs. The place was crammed, but it was clean enough. I figured I'd be living here a while.

  Somewhere on the horizon, a weathered radio played a war-song from a different era.

  And outside, I saw a fresh flyer pasted on a bulletin board. The top read "Policy Announcement," written in printed English. It said;

  ———————————————

  The humble servants of our glorious Republic to our esteemed citizens;

  Message from the local Union:

  As part of the Five-year Revitalization Plan,

  We ask the Citizen Committee of Volunteers to organize the scheduled quality control.

  This month's topic concerns seed and grain distribution quotas.

  Scheduled for the 15th of this month.

  Everyone must attend.

  ———————————————

  Work wouldn't start for another three hours, so I stood around. The town was slowly waking up.

  The architecture made no sense. Everywhere I went, people lived in crumbling shacks and huts. At the same time, it was not a medieval era society; these buildings had glass windows and antennas protruding from their roofs. Every so often, you'd see a gray structure built with prefab concrete, looking like a leftover project from the Cold War era.

  Ironically, the huts looked better maintained than the prefab buildings.

  Not far from where I was standing, I spotted a long line. It looked like a soup or bread line—I hoped I could grab some free food before my shift starts. However my hopes were quickly dashed, when two dudes broke into a fistfight in the middle of the line, causing a huge commotion.

  Several people backed away, I followed suit. There was no point getting caught in this mess—especially for a foreigner in an unknown place. I lacked a strong social network, and sooner or later, someone would point at me as a scapegoat.

  ———————————————

  Work started not long after I got back to my attic.

  I was now a Contracted Assistant Supervisor, which meant I was in charge of "workers' property" and reported to the local cooperative's manager. In practice, I was dragging a hoe and tilling the soil under the sun.

  It was gruesome work.

  After three hours of non-stop physical labor, I had no choice but to stop and rest. My comrades, however, kept going.

  Lunch and dinner consisted of hardtack and lentil soup without any lentils, washed down with thin watered-down beer.

  After a day of fasting and physical labor, I felt like I was eating like a king. I passed out that night on the attic, and slept like a rock.

  I dreamed about this village. Everywhere I went, there was a heavy, gloomy atmosphere, and every meal came with a generous share of watered down beer.

  I wondered if Vertigo pulled a prank by dropping me into some forgotten Eastern European country, still stuck in the Cold War, just to teach me a lesson. Wouldn't it be funny if the punchline of this cosmic joke is to "Take life seriously", and send me back home in a roundabout way after an intense struggle session? I started thinking: maybe if I could earn enough money and move away, then I could eventually find a travel agency or an embassy, which will allow me to go back home and start changing my life from scratch.

  At least that was my plan until I realized this wasn't Eastern Europe. I wasn't even on planet Earth.

  Three things changed my perspective during those first weeks. Neither was entirely connected. Well… maybe the second and third one was slightly related. You can be the judge.

  On the night of my third day, I saw a druid cabal performing a ceremony in the woods near the village. At first, I thought they were just pagan cosplayers, meaning: guys squatting around, drinking booze and smoking drugs for fun. That was until they summoned a glowing orb in the middle of a stone circle.

  I quickly moved away from their ritual, disturbed but curious. The next morning, I mentioned it to one of my fellow peasant co-workers.

  "One of their communion rituals." He said, completely unfazed. "Superstition and folk stuff. Dunno. I dunno if they're state sanctioned. If you want to know, ask them not me. Ask them instead over a bottle of rakia. They love that crap." He shrugged after he finished rambling. He waddled off afterwards.

  In the afternoon, I spotted a sketchy-looking woman lingering near a tobacco shop in the market square. She looked like she was in a hurry, and just happened to have a bottle of rakia in her satchel. I quickly bought it without a second thought, just like my peasant co-worker suggested.

  That evening, I went to the druids' encampment. It was a mess of shacks and other improvised wooden structures. A curious metal cage hid behind a tent. Two druids were loitering outside the edge of the encampment. They were indistinguishable from each other—both had the same height, same long beards, same white robes, same coarse accent. They greeted me with indifference, until I got my hands on the bottle of rakia and their tone shifted. They loved that crap.

  "Your gift is well appreciated, comrade." One said, quickly grabbing the bottle, uncorking it with reverence. "If you need something, don't hesitate to ask."

  I didn't. "I saw your group conducting a ritual the other day. It looked very interesting."

  They didn't answer right away. One scratched their neck and hesitated. The other looked towards the camp while blinking.

  "Rakia.. This is a generous gift." One of them said absently, still uncorking the bottle. "It's considered the lifeblood of this land.”

  He produced three carved wooden cups from his robe, they were grooved and mismatched. The other druid shuffled over to a tent, dragged out a small table and three stools, and unpacked a few items out of a pouch; a few loaves of hard bread wrapped in linen, a slice of cheese, and a piece of dried sausage. We were eating supper here.

  "A sacred bounty" The first druid muttered, nodding. "A gift from the earth. Not part of any official quota. Better not to report to the party committee.…" He paused for a second. ".. Or our 'religious practices', for that matter."

  "Your religion?" I sat down, curious at what he had to say.

  "Yes yes. Of course. Our state-protected minority religion." One of them said, like it was a line he practiced a thousand times. I hoped they'd open up after a few drinks.

  But after a few cups, I realized they were far more tolerant to alcohol than I was. I felt fuzzy already, while they were barely warming up.

  "We used to drink three of these," said one, lifting the bottle. "Each afternoon"

  "…before that Lemonade Secretary took power." He grumbled, his dissatisfaction in plain view.

  "Don't say that. You know its well intentioned." The second druid said quickly with a bit of hesitation. He wasn't convinced either. It was more akin to a knee-jerk reaction, the kind a proper person would say in a public situation to avoid confrontation.

  "My ass is well-intentioned." The first druid replied bitterly. "We have too many issues because of him. He's cursed. I don't want to think how long we can keep going." He continued drinking.

  I was anxious already, not just because of the alcohol, but I was getting no answers. I quickly veered the subject away from politics.

  "You know, last night I saw some lights flickering in the woods. Is your that part of your religion? I haven't seen anything like it."

  My question made them uncomfortable. They exchanged a quick glance, unsure how to proceed.

  "We uh, how do you say it.. We harvest the forest's breath." One said "It's part of our religion and our culture. It's a process shared by other forester traditions as well."

  "But you're druids, aren't you?" I asked him directly.

  "Well yeah yeah, but no, not actually." He frowned slightly, trying to remember something.

  "That doesn't make sense. What do you mean." I asked them.

  "Well—under Decree Thirteen, individuals working in state-designated SEZs are officially classified as PCCRIs."

  "What."

  "Foresters." Added the second druid forcefully, his eyes darting. "We're just foresters. Technically. I think."

  "It's all in the ASBMP manual," the first one said, with a cheeky wink—somehow it explained everything.

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "No hell here friend. Just trees."

  "We're in a grey zone, not red." Said one, tapping his temple as if he was very clever.

  "I thought trees were green. Wouldn't it be a green area?" I asked.

  "Noo, grey as in fungus. Not trees. But we're still within the forest."

  I wanted to add something to correct his absurd statement. Then it suddenly clicked—he was talking about regulations.

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  "You're telling me that your magic requires paperwork?"

  At that word—magic—they quickly looked at each other, as if they saw a ghost. Their attitudes shifted indiscreetly; alert, apprehensive, widely smiling.

  "No no friend. Not magic."

  "Nu-uh, none at all. Absolutely."

  "We don't deal with semantics, we concern ourselves with the soul," said the first druid, carefully, measured. "We don't classify dead things."

  "There's nothing taxable in our SEZ, by the way."

  Now I was just annoyed. This was turning into a drunken legal debate.

  "Well I saw lights flicker and the ground tremble. Surely that isn't just 'communing with the forest'." I exaggerated my account.

  "The forest is unpredictable. Sometimes subtle, other times… not so much" One replied while stroking his beard.

  "Sometimes it falls under Section A. Other times it falls under Section C." Added another, with an exaggerated hand gesture, somehow imitating Merkel.

  "We observe. That's all. Nothing magical. We'll use solutions or rakia or whatever. We'll even use samogon if we need to."

  "Besides, what are you, trying to keep an eye on us?" One of them asked sharply.

  "No not at all" I responded politely.

  "Are you with the KGB?" Another added, completely deadpan. I ignored the familiar term.

  "No, I'm asking because I'm just curious. That's all."

  "I think he's saying a half truth." Muttered one of the druids, slamming his bread on the table, frustrated. "No one is this clueless."

  "We're just doing our duty, just like everyone in our republic does. We eat, we sleep, and then we contribute to the cause." One mentioned while staring at me. "We make the best with what we have, and nothing else."

  "There's nothing of value here anyways." Said one while looking away. "You can't pull taxes out of tree bark."

  "This isn't about taxes." I added

  "It would be simpler if it was just about taxes." One snapped.

  "We work day and night. We haven't rested since the Restructuring." Said the second druid, eyes sunken, and completely exasperated. He was still staring at me, his exhaustion on full display. His voice cracked. "Belief is one thing. But if all we get is samogon for months on end—then what's the point? It's just absurd."

  "Again, what does that have to do with anything. Is this about the prohibition again?"

  They didn't answer immediately. One looked around, trying to say something, choosing his words carefully.

  "The rakia… do you not know?" He held a half-empty bottle in his hand, making a swirling gesture in the air.

  Nothing. I gave him a confused look. The man was shocked, blinking at my earnest lack of knowledge, and calmed down.

  "I don't have a clue." I shook my head.

  They exchanged glances, and they gently set the bottle on the table. They shrugged, and quietly resumed slicing the rest of the sausage. We finished our supper not long after.

  The bottle of rakia had cost me a day's wages. I regretted it the next morning, for overpaying for a bottle and obtaining nothing in return. It was another evening of swallowing regulations and euphemisms in this strange land. Lovely.

  The day after, a mounted militia unit rode into the village. A cavalry unit armed with mounted rifles.

  They settled into a nearby state-managed inn, buying supplies and feeding their horses. The inn was soon overwhelmed with work, short on staff, and willing to pay whoever had two legs. I hopped on the bandwagon not soon after.

  That day, the inn was packed. The smell of roasted lamb and charcoal overwhelmed every crevice of the building—for a brief moment the village no longer had a lingering scent of ethanol. Inside, militia aides loaded provisions, while others passed folded bills to the innkeeper—well above the official rate—with a little something extra slipped under the table.

  Dinner was decadent. Lamb chops with yogurt sauce, spicy venison Chorba stew, platters of baked potatoes slathered in lard and aged sheep cheese. Moreover, flat-breads, cheese pies, and barrels upon barrels of alcohol lined the tables. So much for the prohibition.

  The soldiers tore through the food with their bare hands, unbothered by hygiene or table manners, washing everything down the food with mouthfuls of honey mead. Apparently, a fat enough tip could cancel any local policy. The local manager looked the other way, busily not noticing anything.

  I hadn't eaten anything better than black bread and tripe soup for days—the best my ration ticket could afford. Watching them feast made my stomach ache.

  I found one of the aides outside, catching his breath by a water trough. A silver sigil on a black shield was stitched into his uniform; the same emblem worn by the rest of the entourage.

  I approached, greeting him politely, while trying to look casual.

  The soldier looked at me, surprised. "You ain't a local, are you? Haven't seen you around. And you don't talk like 'em locals."

  "Nah, just passing through." I lied.

  "Work or money?"

  "Money"

  "Will anyone even need money once the Republican project is complete?"

  "Some will. Some will not."

  He chuckled. "Same as always huh."

  He nodded towards the tables inside the inn, where the rest of the militia were eating and laughing. "Name is Aziz. Aide to Sir Ivanov." He gestured toward one of the men inside. Hierarchy was still a pillar of the Republic—one eats while the other works.

  "Luka. Luka Stanovic"

  "Nice to meet you, and thanks for the help." He said, shaking my hand. "We're staying here for the night, and we'll head south tomorrow. Our order's quarter-house isn't far from here—two and a half days on horseback, maybe."

  "Busy times for militia, I presume?" I casually asked him.

  Aziz shrugged and sipped from a flask. A stable-hand passed by, and without a word, Aziz handed him a few metal coins—not notes. The stable-hand grinned like he won the lottery.

  "We're busy enough these days, and there's a campaign going on. Nothing too urgent. Doubt we'll see much of it."

  "A campaign?"

  He waved it off. "Oh, nothing, nothing too exciting. Marching, scouting, camping, waiting." He tried to dismiss the subject of the campaign, but he already said too much. "We don't get any gallant battles like old stories."

  I wanted to ask something else, but work was wrapping up, and Aziz wanted to enjoy his meal in peace already.

  "Well then. Enjoy your evening, fellow traveler. May Lord Zharnov bless you."

  The militia kept mostly to themselves: polite, but distant. I avoided asking anything more about their mission to avoid suspicions.

  Now and then, they'd sing and boast drunkenly. "If you're ever going south, come visit us at the White Fortress." They would call, raising their mugs in unison.

  Another incident occurred during the militia's visit: a group of goblins slipped through the village fence and started causing trouble.

  It was my first time seeing 'monsters', though calling them that felt too generous. You could call them 'goblins', because they were short green humanoids with a thick British accent. These little goblins somehow hopped over the fence and barged into town, causing a commotion in the market square. I thought they were fighting, but no, they were haggling cabbage prices with an incredibly plump and steel-eyed woman—an ill-tempered and foul mouthed woman known locally as "Madame Bog".

  The goblins were losing.

  "Two notes a cabbage." She growled while peeling an onion with her bare hands.

  "One notes." Said a goblin, squinting at the imposing figure.

  "Two. Take it or leave it." She stomped the ground with the force of an angry ox.

  "TWO notes? Ye tryin' to rob us blind, git? Cabbage ain't worth that much! We givin' ye one note, n' we bein' generous!"

  Bog snorted loudly and spat on the ground. "Oh yeah? You the muppet growin' em? You give me two notes or you're shoving off!"

  One scruffy goblin, who was missing half his teeth, started poking a cabbage with his dirty toe. 'Ye cabbage are just big green leafs innit? They taste like mud and dirt. Ya should give em to us for free, innit."

  "Free?! What do I look like, Lady Charity?" she roared, eyes popping out of her face.

  "Ye bloody cow-woman, ye bleedin' for nothin. One note 'n that's final!"

  "NO! TWO notes. That's one note—plus another!"

  "FINE! One note and half a bad potato!"

  "I will not touch your stinky goblin child!" Bog was now visibly shaking with rage.

  One of the goblins pulled out a very questionable little potato with both hands, it was covered in warts.

  "Look—it's got extra protein!" He was pointing at the little warts.

  "Ey, what if we just… you know, 'borrow' em cabbages." One goblins whispered to another, unwisely.

  "I HEARD THAT" Bog bellowed, her delicate voice rattled the nearby stands like an artillery shell.

  That's around the time when the militia arrived. Word of the commotion had reached them, and they rolled in to restore order. One of them moved in front of the goblins, blocking them from causing further trouble. The rest of them rushed forward to calm Madame Bog, who was one word away from destroying the whole market.

  A soldier tossed a few metal coins and purchased a cabbage. He lobbed it towards the the goblins.

  "Go on then, move along." The heavily armed militia gently persuaded the grumbling little goblins out of the village. The goblins weren't happy, but didn't want to start a confrontation in the middle of the market over some cabbages.

  Would they cause trouble later? Maybe? No one here was interested in dealing with tomorrow's problems.

  As for me—I was adjusting. I saved a small stash of notes and read local books during downtime. And every morning I woke to the screaming sound. After further investigation I found it was just a local goat.

  I was getting sick of living standards though, the hay itched. I needed to find a better place to stay. Soon.