June 26, 2035
Rumble… Under the morning sun, a truck barreled through Russia’s harsh Rasputitsa terrain, crossing a grassy plain. At first, it was alone, but soon more trucks appeared, then a fleet, churning through the mud. A road, previously hidden by the Rasputitsa, emerged, and the trucks drove steadily. In the distance, massive factory buildings loomed in the cold plain, spewing smoke, with a few residential structures nearby.
The truck, crossing Siberia, entered a city. A sign at the entrance read, “Welcome to Norilsk!” Industrial workers streamed toward factories. Olga Grekov, Dmitry Grekov’s daughter, chewed gum irritably as she parked the truck at a factory. Unlike others belching smoke, this factory’s chimney emitted none, only transparent flames burning with a raw material. Olga pinched her nose. “…Ugh, what’s that animal dung smell?” Inside, twenty massive grass grinders hummed, feeding processed grass via conveyor belts into metal containers filled with microbe-laden brown liquid. Workers stirred the grass into the liquid with metal rods.
Crossing the factory floor, Olga spotted Gamamusa overseeing workers from an upper level. He noticed her, descended the stairs, and approached. Olga glared, annoyed. “(Russian) Hey, mister, can’t you hurry up? I told you I’d be here at this time, and you didn’t even come out to greet me!” Gamamusa leaned in calmly. “…I was told Dmitry sent a kid who speaks Korean. And weren’t you supposed to arrive at 8? You’re an hour early.” Olga scoffed at his Korean. “…Yeah, I speak Korean, so what? I learned it in South Korea, but my dad nagged me to learn it with a North Korean accent. Why do I have to speak Korean way out here?”
Gamamusa sighed. “…This city’s demographics are changing. First, Chinese immigrants will come, then North Koreans, Indians, and finally South Koreans and Japanese. Europeans arrived last and rarely crossed the Urals.” He pointed to the workers. Just a year ago, most were white; now, Chinese-Russians dominated. Gamamusa poked Olga’s forehead. “So stop whining and learn Korean. The Korean workers are few, so Korea Town only uses Korean.” Olga rubbed her forehead, frowning. “…If that’s the case, shouldn’t I learn Chinese first?” Gamamusa patted her shoulder. “…Majority groups assimilate fast. Germans migrated to the U.S. in the 1850s, joining the Anglo mainstream, but by 1914, World War I wiped out German language use in 64 years.” Olga snorted, ignoring him.
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Gamamusa took her hand and led her outside to an alley behind the factory. He handed her a cigarette-like object. “Green-smoke cannabis. You like this stuff, right?” Olga chuckled. “…What, an old guy acting young?” She took it, lighting it with his lighter. The smoke dispersed, glowing green. “…This is good. Where’s it from?” Gamamusa shrugged. “Our company made it. Renya Group’s got its hands in everything—farm equipment, food, real estate, energy. We’ve even extracted narcotics from plants in digestion engines, so we’re eyeing pharmaceuticals.” Olga smirked, but her smile faded.
“…You know why I’m here, right?” Gamamusa nodded. “…I do. Your dad wants to come back?” Olga relaxed, getting to the point. “…President Putin’s dead. All political prisoners, including corrupt figures like my dad, have been pardoned. The new president, Medvedev, approved it.” Gamamusa nodded. “…Your father’s our biggest shareholder. The president will likely hail him as a hero for investing in us.” Olga nodded in agreement. Gamamusa’s expression darkened slightly. “…Not yet. Our company’s only supplying food for soldiers, prisons, and factories. It’s too early for our machines to go nationwide.” He grew resolute. “…Your father will dive into politics right after his pardon. He’ll soon be a key ally of the new president. He needs to convince the president to deploy our machines across the country.”
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