Shutdown

[Mex]

Crowds of weary pedestrians stalked through the alleys of Dropdatderp, pantlegs scraping across the sooty ground, shoes greased in oil.
The war had ravaged the nation’s capital.
A collapse in the stock market ended the widespread use of currency in the USM; it was much easier to barter for goods than to beg for food with little slips of paper now. Poverty rates skyrocketed. Not that there were many to record the data that went along with it. Road conditions were in peril, and every other water treatment station in the Parish was either out of service or destroyed, or, really, both.
National morale was at an all-time low. Suicide rates went through the roof, along with robbery and murder. There was no such thing as manslaughter in this new landscape.
The mayoral government had retreated into their ‘wealth bunkers’ days ago, specifically, when the war had just flared up. Nobody could hope for their services to be delivered. Extensive garbage collections had gathered outside the tentements of alleyways and cul de sacs, spreading disease and creating a widening, nauseating scent. And to compliment that, the government of the nation, contained in Insulmin City, had just set martial law into place. Nice.
If I only I had done something sooner.

Civilmagna was a dumpster.
The former capital, which has been destroyed and rebuilt and number of times, was perhaps in the worst of its dog days.
Like Dropdatderp, the government wasn’t helping. No trash pickup here. Oh, and insurance is nowhere to be found. Dangit.
And I thought the country would be happy with Myriad. I was mistaken.

Air traffic was to be declined to all nations, including the USM itself. If you even looked like you were boarding a plane, you were going to be shot down, like it or not.
The martial law set in place wasn’t helping.
Forces of the military, which, believe it or not, were still in action, had redefined the term “Great Wall of Mexregiona.” Constant monitoring. No foreign ships allowed, unless officially pardoned by the president himself. (Good luck with that.)
Factories all over ceased to create wonderful Caeks, depriving the citizens of the nation of their living, breathing souls.

I could have done more.
I didn’t.
Sometimes I wish the war hadn’t come to our doorstep. But, then again, everybody wishes that. Only a select few gain that privilege.
Let’s just hope we bounce back up like we did last time. It can always be worse in Mexregiona.
It didn’t look like that now, though.

[Mex]

“Bring 'em in.”

The enamel-like soles of David Etterman’s shoes made a squelch! on the triple-waxed floor of the president’s office. Books, papers, census data, family portraits, invitations, telegrams, cocoa stains, sandpaper, fax papers, printer paper, newspapers, newsletters, spoilt old articles of the Mexregiona Malarkey, the Dropdatderp Detailed, CDs, flash drives, junk drives, jump drives, “removable disks,” freshly used dishware, boxes of tissues, a couple staplers, staples, appointments, drawings, sketches, notebooks, home-cooked meals, binders, cables, a mess kit, a tent (?), pillows, blankets, comforters, documents, pencils, erasers, coats, hangers, pens, calligraphy models and stencils, stencils, letters, stamps, lanterns, candles, batteries, KinkiMonsuu’s, matches, Dutch ovens, double Dutch ropes (?), duffle bags, caeks, coupons, labels, garbage cans, and many other objects wobbled atop each other in the leader’s main workroom. Etterman avoided the piles carefully.

“For you.”
Etterman handed a stack of pages to the man, seemingly unaware that he was one of the most powerful (if not, the most powerful) of men in all of Atlantia.

“Thank you very much, my good sir.”

“Your welcome, Mister Leader.”

Etterman turned around, headed through the frame of the entryway, and paused for a split second. Very split. He swiveled around, now having obtained the typical look of fear in front of the man.
“Do you have a moment to spare, Mister?”

“Why, of course! You know, if I didn’t, I’d get very lonely in here. I just don’t know how my predecessor went on his whole term single. Amazing. I’m gonna aim for that, too, I think. Anyway, what’s on your mind, sir?”

Etterman scratched his head. “I just wanted to, uh, point something out to you, uh, about the country in general.”

“What about it? Do you have any concerns that need to be addressed?”

“Uh, well, not per say,” Etterman said. “It’s just that, you know, I kinda find it interesting.”

“Well, dang nabbit, get on with it!” Mister Leader II bellowed, making the smaller man flinch. “Please,” Leader said, almost apologetically.

“O- OK,” Etterman half-whimpered. His next locomotive of thought scorched out of his mouth.
“It seems as if the nation is very unstable I don’t know why or how come but things may hafta settle down before I know I’m not the one in charge after all a lot of things are happening all weird and I don’t know why.”

“Hey, hey, slow it down,” Leader chuckled. He felt lucky that he wouldn’t have to hear it again; he had a way of catching fast speed, which at times like these seemed almost superhuman. “Catch your breath.”

He did.

“Good, now,” Leader started, “I see what you mean, believe it or not. I’ve been pondering it, too. Too unstable, I say. Too quick. First day, good ole USM, next, martial law, third, good ole USM. I’m scared, too.”

Etterman actually whimpered at that one.

“Not to worry, however; I just sent message to Carkley Bolten himself. He has a speech, of sorts, to give in Aura. I think he’ll do just fine.”

Etterman didn’t ask any more. Once given pardon, he lurched out the office, soles and all.

Another day in the office.