Imagine a space: dingy concrete and steel, brown and rust-stained from ages of use and neglect.  The horizon is only forty feet away, marked by a stripe almost a foot wide that runs beneath the grime of ages at about waist height--in its youth, ages and ages ago, it was a cheerful and sunny yellow color.  In the harsh light from the three bulbs that hang down from the high ceiling, it barely registers.  Here and there are the remenants of old photograps and ancient propaganda posters in some obscure, possibly Slavic language.<br/><br/>There are three bunk beds here, two beds apiece: mouldy mattresses over bare wire springs.  The<em>floor</em>would be more comfortable to sleep on if it weren't bare and cold underfoot.  Each bunk has a single thin blanket.  There are no pillows.<br/><br/>There is a small washroom with a sink, a shower, a toilet.  The soap is harsh and stinging.  The towels are rough and small.  The water is rarely more than a tepid and weak drizzle.  It tastes faintly of rust.<br/><br/>Finally, there is a chest that doubles as a table and empty cargo crates that can serve as chairs.  It contains boxes and cans of rations: they are either too salty or bland, neither tasty nor filling.  Perhaps they are that way by accident.  There is no silverware, no plates: you must eat straight from the can with your fingers.<br/><br/>Time is kept here by the lights: they go off periodically, and stay off for several hours at a time.  That's how it feels, anyway.  When the lights go off, the box refills with rations and the garbage vanishes.  Sometimes, someone new shows up as well.  This is probably how you arrived here, waking on a bunk with only two posessions in this peculiar place: an item of sentimental importance, and a set of dingy blue coveralls with a six digit number on the left breast.<br/><br/>There is no door out of this place.  There are no windows.  Nothing but a dim sense that this place is some sort of prison...