December 25th. 9:36 am. The outskirts of Bakhmut. Russia has been blasting away with artillery at Ukrainian positions since 6 in the morning. Russia's advance resembles an asymptote; a Zeno's Paradox, where every day they advance half the distance of the day before. Yesterday they advanced 10 feet. Today it'll be five. Everybody's frustrated, the trenches are awful, the blasts of artillery numbing.

Then, somebody shouts over the din, with a megaphone: "It's Christmas Day! Hold your fire!" The artillery blasts trail away, leaving only confusion. Was that the Russians' commander? Or was it a Ukrainian? Again, the message is repeated, seeming louder now that the artillery has stopped. A minute passes. Then, the first Ukrainian passes over the top of the trench, arms in the air, bearing no weapons. The Russians are confused, trying to figure out what they're meant to do, but do not fire. Then a few more Ukrainians follow, slowly stumbling over the moonscape of no man's land. A brave Russian soldier decides to get up and walk out and meet them halfway. Then a few more. Within 15 minutes, there are over 500 soldiers, Russian and Ukrainian alike, standing around in no man's land. They talk, first haltingly, then more freely. About the weather. About what's back home waiting for them. About the weapons they've been given by their countries.

This continues for another half an hour, until the Ukrainians bring out their phones. The Russians aren't allowed them, of course, but the Ukrainians keep them so they can take pictures for Ukrainian propaganda purposes. They have Starlink connections. A Ukrainian soldier loads up Pokemon Go. A couple others happen to have the app, while the rest start downloading it. They show the cute creatures to their new Russian friends. Laughter is the main sound now, not artillery. Somebody finds a shiny; tens of soldiers gather round to see. In return for this fun, the Russians give the Ukrainians some gifts, of blankets and alcohol.

The soldiers eventually have to go back. It's 12:00 and the commanders have figured out what's happened and are ordering the soldiers back to the trenches. But the impression is lasting. The artillery resumes for the rest of the day, but the soldiers are disgruntled. They talk amongst themselves. Why should we continue to suffer, and make others suffer? For what purpose is this war fought? The murmuring turns into the beginnings of plans.

A week later, a note from the Russians is sent across the no man's land in secret. An affirmative is sent back by the Ukrainians, hours later. At midnight, the soldiers begin slowly, and very quietly, killing their officers. On both sides. The news of what happened on Christmas has spread like wildfire across the front and, more surreptitiously, a plan for a mass mutiny. Within five days, the entire front is in armed revolt; now, instead of two sides crashing into eachother, they're moving outwards, back towards their countries. The Nazi paramilitaries, who shoot the retreating Ukrainians, are killed too. The situation is out of control of both commands.

This revolt spreads throughout both countries. The grievances of the last thirty years of post-Soviet poverty have built up to a crescendo. The masses desire the blood of the oligarchs. Manors are burned; superyachts are sunk by rogue battleships. The revolt spreads even further, throughout eastern Europe. And further still, to the suffering and the cold in central and western Europe. The capitalists who are able to make it away fly to New Zealand, to their bunkers, before either climate change or nuclear war could have done so. The revolution has spread to the Middle East, to Asia, to Africa, to South America. North America is the last to fall, but fall it does. The vents of the bunkers of the rich are covered with dirt, smothering them. The post-capitalist world has arrived, in an inferno of fire and blood. The communists are in control, building workers' soviets and distributing the means of production to all.

The lesson? Marx failed to consider Pokemon Go.