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The cold, barren lands of Kolektyvizatsiya went on for miles. This part of the United Socialist States of Novoroyevsk was the agricultural state, but during the winter, nothing could be cultivated. On a small farm in the plains, a woman sat with her son, weeping as the boy pleaded to the Kollektor. The Kollektor stood tall in his government dress uniform, pinned upon his officer's cap was a wheat bushel medallion. Behind him, a large truck meant for hauling thousands of wheat bushels. There was nothing inside of this truck. "Pozhaluysta! Winter is setting in and we cannot grow! Please, we need our farm!" The boy pleaded. The Kollektor grabbed the boy by his collar and pulled him close. "Zatknis', mal'chik! This is not your farm, this farm belongs to the State! I will be back next month, and your payment must be ready." The officer threw the boy down, walking away adamantly.

This was life for those who farmed for the state.

"Gospodi, pozhaluysta, moya noga!" A worker yelled as he slipped into a spinning gear, his leg now caught and holding the ger as it tore into his flesh. Two workers moved towards him, trying to find the stop lever. The man's leg was torn from his knee, screaming in agony. The gear stopped, breaking and sputtering to a stop. The man laid in shock, four other workers crowding him as a Factory Commissar walked over angrily. "You debil! You have broken the machine and paid the price! The lot of you, get back to work!" The commissar called over two guards to drag the now limp man away, his blood draining from his leg. The other workers clouded back to their posts, grimed in black gunk, their overalls barily visible.

This was life for those who worked the factories for the state.

A soldier laid cold on the northern border of the USSN, his hands freezing as he grasped his SV-5.56, watching his neighbors to the north. He pulled his radio shakily, pressing the button. "Oi...Max...do you know when-" he stopped to shiver, warming his hands. "Do you know w-when they'll be distributing r-r-rations?" He asked into the radio. A voice came back. "'Fraid not Karl, t-they've supposed-dly cut rations a-again." Max said. Karl shivered again, sitting before standing quickly as the commissar's truck passed by, the words of our great leader coming out of the loudspeaker atop the truck. "Stay vigilant, Comrades! The hollow beast of evil never rests!"

This was for those who served their lives for the state.

Meanwhile, in the capital of Tsezograd, General Director Shulgin sat with his associates, sipping a cold glass of Tyraniyan Vodka. "We've noticed that general output has slowed down with the onset of winter. We have to pool what we have left." He said. "Yes, quite. I advocate that we increase the quota for those in our factories. Meatpackers will be the backbone this winter as our imports come in. They need to be outputting more." The man on his left said. They all nodded in agreement, writing it up on a paper. They turned on the radio as they listened to quiet classical, continuing their search through the State files.

This.

This is the life of the State.

But all hope is not lost. One man will change everything. One man will proclaim his place from miniscule state servant to the highest power in this land. But as the people of Novoroyevsk wait for their savior, the suffering of these lands will not end. This is the horrors of Novoroyevsk, and they truly are horrors to those who serve the State.