Metaworld Chronicles

Chapter 546 - The Demagogue

San Francisco.

The Tenderloin.

Forty-two hours after the national broadcast of the “incident” at the Tenderloin, the Shalkar Trade Consortium released a statement.

On Sunday, 7 PM, on all broadcasting channels on the West Coast, the Regent of Shalkar shall open the proverbial doors of the Geo Front and invite the American people inside to see what was truly going on, and to tell the good people of San Francisco from whence the Dyar Morkk shall now proceed.

Then for two days, an obscene volume of HDMs poured into the coffers of Inter-Republic, outbidding or buying out every other broadcaster in the nation in a bid to reach the American people, monopolising every major Lumen-display at Times Square, Fremont, Hollywood Boulevard, 34th Street and Hudson Yard for the broadcast of the Regent’s message to her adopted people.

In every newspaper willing to make easy money—which was all of them—advertisements for her announcements erupted like fungi after a monsoonal shower, invading the eyeballs of captive readers with the bountiful knowledge of her address.

On Sunday, at 7 PM, the Regent shall address the city of San Francisco!

On Sunday, at 7 PM, the Regent shall address the West Coast!

On Sunday, at 7 PM, the Regent shall address the nation!

It was media saturation on a level that her detractors could not begin to imagine, because they themselves had never realised that HDMs could be incinerated so quickly and expediently and in such volumes on mere “air time”.

But who was the Regent? She was the Prophet of Profits! She had never failed a venture! She is the woman who holds the world in her ivory hands thanks to her Dwarven Dyar Morkk!

“On Sunday, at 7 PM—”, promised the adverts of the New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, USA Today, and The LA Times! “Watch for her on Sunday, 7 PM, LIVE on your Lumen Casters, or at a public square near you!”

Wednesday prior.

The Geo Front.

While Lorenzo and Hawthorne worked the stoves of a burning house, the Regent of Shalkar readied herself for the turning point of her campaign in the USA.

Post-D-Day, she had to endure blistering headlines that dropped the stock price of her San Francisco Shalkar Conglomerate by almost 11 per cent overnight and the Shalkar Trade Consortium by 3 per cent. The same day, she had instructed her team of elite auditors to track trade volume and record any unusual spikes in trade before and after the event.

The results were as she anticipated.

“Morgan Stanley, General Dynamics, Exxon-Chevron, SLATE, The Gilt Conglomerate, aka Empire Tower, all grew between 1 and 3 per cent following news of our incident”

An exchange of almost 2.3 million HDMs was transacted as a result of bearish buyers engaged in the short selling of STC stock. And though the Stock Exchange’s systems hid the Brokers’ identity, her Sparrowhawks were quick to find those whose mouths were larger than their appetite for Dwarven deep rum, for few making such an obscene volume of money would stay put in a city like San Francisco.

So she sat in her room in the Bunker, and she brooded.

She could not believe that, with every contingency she had put into place, her enemies on the West Coast had pulled a fast one on her. In one fell swoop, the same people who had abducted William had made an obscene amount of currency, while dealing a critical blow to her reputation, the rate of the Dyar Morkk’s expansion, and therefore, the legitimacy of her claim.

What’s worse was that there was no guarantee that this was a “one-off” event. Indeed, all it had cost her opponents were the lives of their own followers, and they had plenty more blood to sacrifice for the sanctity of their soil.

What if, Gwen reasoned, her opponents could fleece her like some kind of sheep? Every time she would build up her stock price through concrete means, they would burn a zealot alive on her lawn like some kind of sick, inverse KKK? Worse still, what if those bastards at the Empire Tower took this means as a way to chip away at her enterprises, profiting from her loss?

These were the questions she raised to her advisors, whose answers ranged from direct confrontation of Empire Tower, to subversion of the Church of the Latter Day Saints, to the Ivanovs, who suggested that they could try to send a few Mind Mages into the ranks of either the Saints, or Empire Tower.

She had refuted the cousins’ offer on principle.

The men and women who made up her Sparrowhawks were volunteers, she explained. They were leashed to her Soul Sorcery—yes, but she had made it very clear to each and every one of them that Shalkar was not Moscow Tower, and she had no interest in their lives. If they chose to ply their trade, it was to minimise the risk to their new home and to themselves. To do so otherwise would be a slippery slope too far, not to mention Lord Ravenport would have a helluva amount of paperwork during his next audit report to the Commonwealth.

So she had brooded.

She drank tea for Fur Peak, channelled her inner Solana, and brooded like Tyfanevius in his deep green burrow.

It was obvious that Empire Tower was behind her pain. Yet, Gilt and his men were sheltering themselves behind the Defenders of the Latter Day Saints. Meanwhile, the Latter Day Church is orchestrating some kind of jihad, not officially, but via accusation of her being some kind of apostate.

This was, in the nature of business dealings, cheating.

Initially, she had made things simple for all parties.

On the East Coast, seven Towers made up the NYC Skyline: Gilt, Walton, Slate, FedEx, Unity, and the Twin Towers. These were the present brokers of power in DC.

Meanwhile, at her port of entry, discounting the traitorous Exxon-Chevron and SLATE, the West Coast was left with Applicate Metallurgy, KPL Construction, ReGEN Health, Catalyst Surgical, CysCO Heavy Industry, Wells Fargo, and Salesforce. Removing the two healthcare corporations, as well as Applicate Metallurgy and KPL Construction, which have no Towers, they had only CysCO, Wells Fargo, and Salesforce.

The main problem, Gwen mulled, was that there was no Silicon Valley in this world. The IMS was not Human Sorcery to begin with, meaning Human Magitech was severely limited by issues of compatibility. This was also why her detractors had gotten a hold of Williams, her Magi-tech interface guy, and refused to let the man go, even at random prices. Likewise, the entertainment sector languished due to existential wars that prevented Illusory Fiction from becoming a major industry.

Ironically, her infrastructure and trade Consortium was now the fourth largest conglomerate operating on the East Coast.

On her mental low-way map, she plotted the latest progress from the Shalkar Trade Consortium’s Dyar Morkk expansion. The red lines were the paths in progress. The blue lines were the active nodes and transit lanes. The green lines were where her World Tree had extended its roots, meaning an effective conduit of mana that enabled transportation of heavy plant, troops and equipment.

Presently, Arica was already green. From its node, tender tendrils continued to extend north towards Cuzco, and east toward the blue and red nodes that surroundedChe’ell-Cressen, AKA The Web Spire. What drew her inner eye was another series of nodes, still red, but positioned just off the coast of Central America.

Infrastructure like the Dyar Morkk were branches of civilisation, a metaphor for the unyielding rules of a a rules-based world. Take the rules out of business, and what one had was decline, instability, and destruction. She had respected the “Rules” that make American great. The result was that the Empower Tower had burned the rule book, then summoned the zealots.

Gwen walked a pair of slender white fingers across the broad table.

To the Regent, this transgression was an unforgivable sin.

There were rules to this world.

The Elves obeyed them.

As did the Dragons.

Not even the Elemental Princes were except from these rules.

If her business rivals on the West Coast no longer played by their own rules, then she woud play by a different set of rules. Rules on a higher plane. She possessed titles which the West Coast Americans could not begin to conceive, such as the Guardian of the World Tree—such as a member of The Accord. She was privy to rules that the realpolitik of mortal power could not comprehend, such as the repercussions of Elemental confluence upon the Prime Material and thus, the survival of Human Empires. She had Slylth, whose Mother’s ire could rival the entirety of a first-tier US city.

When that truck had ran into those frothing protesters, a thought had crossed her mind. A dangerous thought that she hadn’t thought of seriously visiting. But now, it was the only solution that she would entertain.

Her meandering finger ceased their jaywalking.

In the two days she had spent brooding, the Regent of Shalkar made innumerable calculations, then came up with a plan.

A terrible, terrible plan that did not play by the rules of an innocent world.

“Slylth,” she called out to the Dragon, meditating by her door. “Get Lorenzo in here. Tell him that our goal for this quarter is no longer making money. Now, it's about sending a message.”

Monday, 3 AM.

London.

At Westminster, in the Office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, a group of British dignitaries, joined by their Minister, the Duke of Norfolk, sat in front of a Trans-Continental Lumen-caster to watch the promised broadcast of their wayward Regent.

For the past half-year, they had lived and laughed, laughed and lived, loved and loathed and loved again the antics of their fiscal wrecking ball as she rampaged through the Union, flooding the Foreign Office with endless complaints of her conduct overseas.

From her entry via a cavalcade to her announcement of the Dyar Morkk, from her acquisition of the Tenderloin to her establishment of the Isle of Dogs in San Francisco, the office had taken notes for their future textbooks, hoping to pass on her methodology of economic colonisation to the Empire’s descendants.

Then, one fine afternoon, against the expectations of the Regent but most certainly not the Foreign Office, things got religious, like clockwork, Americans turned to the age-old trick of eating their own.

This was, in the parlance of Ravenport’s opinion of the Union, par for the course. The Union were a people with more wealth than the Commonwealth, and yet, they were untouched by the notion of Noblesse Oblige. Against all evidence, the Americans did not believe that they were providentially privileged, despite having successfully slain the local Land Gods, enslaved the indigenous redskins, and created from near-nothing an empire that rivalled Pax Victoriana in her prime. No matter their success, they were battlers and underdogs who deserved more.

In the true history of the colonies, Sacrifice of a kind was absolutely what the Prosperity Pilgrims turned to whenever things got difficult. No matter the neologism, Blood Sacrifice was a primal form of supplication, one that Humanity had learned from their earliest lessons.

This time, a zealot was martyred, and the Regent’s plans then fell into disarray.

It was a perfect ploy.

The Foreign Office had sat in an oval circle, trying to find a way to help their agent in the Union, or at least help Lord Ravenport save face. Two days later, nothing constructive emerged, but then it wasn’t needed anyway, because the Regent dropped an estimated two and a half million HDMs buying fifteen minutes of every Divination Station’s time across the East and West coast of the USA.

And so, like children turning in for their Sunday Propaganda hour, the Lord of Norfolk, together with his intelligence office, tuned in at 3 AM to watch the next chapter of the Regent’s adventures in America unfold.

Presently, with a minute to go, adverts continued to play on the Divi-Caster, urging viewers to invest in artisanal fashion from the House of Hermès, from the Tryfan collection, rapidly blinding the audience with a dozen items between the price of a Wand and a small Magitech automobile, ending with a short clip of the Regent herself lounging in the penthouse of 2006 Washington, lookin effortlessly svelte.

“She’s certainly ever present,” someone said in the darkness, eliciting a series of laughter from the audience.

As the advert came to an end, the screen flickered, transforming to a “standby” signal used for mass live broadcasts.

“What’s the delay?” someone else asked from the gloom.

“About two minutes, assuming no interruptions,” someone else, a technical officer, reported to his superior. “We should be alright, the new Divi-Signals are routed through the Dyar Morkk via Dwarven Resonance-protocals.”

The Lumen-caster flickered again—then the unforgettable face of the Regent of Shalkar appeared.

Behind the Regent, from what Ravenport could see, was the Geo Front under the Tenderloin. The dais from which she addressed the workers was deliberately constructed, for she stood on an elevated wedge, placed between four enormous Roman pillars, flanked by twin tapestries in the colours of the star-spangled banner.

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Perhaps more absurd was the Regent’s choice of garb. Unlike her usual choice of high fashion, she wore an all-ivory pantsuit with a tightly tucked double-breasted jacket, contoured ankle pants, and eye-watering red-blue heels. As the Lumen-recorder panned across the stage, hand-controlled by a team of InterRepublic’s finest, it zoomed in on her flawless face, ensuring that the audience saw the American-flag pinnned at her breast, just above her heart.

“By the Nazarene…” Ravenport someone say as he Mage Handed himself a glass of scotch. “This is obscene.”

“I like it…” a voice said in the dark. “Er… her costume, I mean.”

The Lumen-caster settled at a three-quarter closeup, then the Regent began to speak.

“Six days and half a year ago, I came to this continent with my golden millions, believing that here was a nation conceived in liberty, dedicated to the belief that all men are created equal. When I made my investments, I was convinced that here was a nation where the ruling class isn’t isolated from the people, that your Representatives heard your pain, shared your dreams, and drew their wisdom from you, the people.”

Someone behind Ravenport coughed. “The gall…”

“Sh—!” Someone hushed the speaker.

“For my investments, I was accused of being a Witch. A heretic. An apostate. Was this because of the great boons I have created for the citizens of the Tenderloin? For the love of my new home? For my shareholders? Was providing reliable public transport for the city of San Francisco a cardinal sin? Was providing healthcare for the needy against the interests of the Saint’s Church?”

Their Regent halted. Her eyes, ever so mesmerising, seemed to reach across the screen and pull them toward her projection. A strange halo seemed to also envelop her body.

“Is that a bloodying manifestation?” One of the members in the dark slapped his knee. “She has collected that much Faith?”

Ravenport shook his head.

There was no possibility for Gwen to gain a true following in the land of the Latter Day Church, but he knew for certain that her Cult, led by the one called Lei-Bup, was ruthlessly expanding in the Pacific. With the Shoal now resting on the Prime Material, the psychic phenomenon of Faith would only be amplified.

“Last Tuesday, I witnessed a tragedy, a needless tragedy. A good man who believed he was doing the right thing was instructed by the powers that be to drive an American-made vehicle into a peaceful protest organised by law-abiding Americans. The attack was not aimed at me personally, but I was the objective. The truck was the Magic Missile, and the target was the San Francisco Shalkar Conglomerate.”

Her lips, rouged and blood-red, trembled as if hurt. “The Tenderloin Special Precinct’s trauma team did its best, but six people died, fourteen weree critically injured, and forty-two were injured.”

The Regent then, to their surprise, read out the names of the Protestors who had died.

Ravenport took another sip. This was masterful populism, and he had a terrible, horrific notion of the length the Regent was willing to go.

“But maybe some of you don’t care.” The girl’s expression grew grim. “I have been informed that, the moment it happened, someone from up on high has made a trade in stocks. They made, in the two to three hours we spent on that pavement, up to our arms in gore and blood, 2,239,212 HDMs.”

Her audience, on cue, began to boo.

The Regent calmed her audience with a glance.

“For this reason, I have decided to spend the SAME amount of HDMs to speak to you earnestly tonight. I want to speak to you about a subject that impacts your everyday lives, pertaining to whether you can afford healthcare, healthy, nutritious food for your children, and whether you can get good, fulfilling jobs.”

Gwen took a deep breath.

“There is a threat to your lives. ALL of your lives. This threat is invisible in ordinary ways, but it is a parasite. A Parasite that suckles upon the very heart and spirit of America’s national will. But what is this parasite?”

Ravenport looked around.

His colleagues were aghast but invested. Far too invested for men sitting a continent away.

“The answer is war profiteering,” she answered for her silent audience. “Fat maggots eating away at the American Pie. Because of these parasites, we are losing faith in our government. You Americans are a great people. You have created the greatest Humanist nation in the Prime Material. Yet, you have been made to forget that you have worked hard, that you have loving families, close-knit communities, and faith in the Nazarene.”

The Regent looked away, then spoke directly to the lumen-recorder.

“Where have the products of your labour gone? Which of you can say that the next four years will be better? Which of you can still remember that before this war with Neo Tenochtitlan started, life was fairer? Groceries were cheaper? Liquid HDMS more affordable? Healthcare less expensive?”

The Lumen-caster panned out, framing Gwen between the flags and the columns, framing her radiant figure over the podium.

“If you wish to know why, then lend me your ears for the next few minutes, for you see, I was blind and deaf, like you. I was dumb until that truck struck your fellow citizens, and their blood splattered my brows. At that moment, I saw. I saw that I was a fool, that I foolishly believed that this glorious country abided by RULES. What I saw was the reason why your lives are not better. I saw that those who had power, TRUE power, submitted themselves to no laws, no limits, no constraints. Because they have power, they have wealth, and they control the media, they do what they will while the YOU suffer what you MUST.”

Their Regent’s eyes, somehow still intense from a distance, seemed to captivate her audience.

“Your current war is with Neo Tenochtitlan. It has been ongoing endlessly for nine years, longer if we count the skirmishes.”

“In last month’s incident with the Undead Outbreak, we were all witnesses to this endless, eternal game. On the East, the Texans have broken past Matamoros and aim to take the Laguna Madre Delta. Meanwhile, in the West, its larger naval fleet has failed to push past Tijuana and has, in fact, sustained extensive damage to its port facilities as a result of Mexican forces pushing the Undead Tide BACK towards San Diego. It’s a seesaw, an endless seesaw.”

“But a war isn’t a school yard scramble. A war is a battle of objectives. So let’s have this discussion tonight. By their own narrative, why is the USA having a war with Neo Tenochtitlan? What is the justification?”

“Resources and trade routes,” she answered for the audience. “Neo Tenochtitlan, due to its theocratic political structure, has access to immense volumes of free or near-free labour. Did you know that Mexico has some of the cheapest copper, iron, and silver anywhere on the Prime Material, both due to its aforementioned societal structure and the wide inclusion of Demi-Humans in its ranks? Did you know that Mexico holds the largest known reserves of True Silver, which the Aztecs called Iztac Teocuitlatl? Did you know that they produce an element called Macuahuitl, Draconic Obsidian, essential for the creation of industrial-tier mining, dredging, and cutting tools, while the USA cannot? Because the USA had hunted its Land Gods to extinction?”

Gwen’s voice rose to a new height as the lumen-caster focused on her vivid face. “Low-coversion HDMs. Cheap Iron and Copper. True Silver. And of course, Macuahuitl. Rare things, capable of empowering global industries. AMERICA NEEDS THESE to flourish. Yet, where are the merchants to buy them? Where are the traders to barter for these? Why war?”

All at Mycroft’s ministry knew the answer, and now the American public knew as well.

“That’s right,” the Regent of Shalkar gestured in protest. “There is no trade, because this is NOT a war for the acquisition of resources. Since the conflict began, the war has only consumed resources on both sides.”

Her voice rose again.

“This is a dirty war,” the Regent pointed at the heavens. “The essential act of this particular war is destruction, not only of human lives, but of the products of human labour. This war is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the Pacific, materials which might otherwise be used to make the American People too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too comfortable with their Oligarchs. Combined with the fact that there’s great profit to be made—and that the ruling class will never send their children to fight this very same war your children are dying in—that’s why this war exists.”

She punched the air.

“This is a war to keep the middle and lower classes dumb and suffering,” The Regent sighed softly. “And a war to make the rich richer.”

“I have a companion,” the Regent suddenly shifted gears. “A Red Dragon, as ageless as the mountain and the plains that you call home. When I told him about your nation, he said ‘How Human’. He told me that Dragons, cruel as they are, ancient as they are, are earnest in their violence and tyranny. He asked me what was the point of all this human misery, this slow crucifixion of America’s citizens, when their rulers won’t even survive the century. He calls it ‘Human Folly’. He says that those who cling to pointless power are worse than the Masters of Undeath, whose blasphemous motives are at least pure.”

“Is she talking about Lord Sythinthimryr?” someone asked from the dark.

“SH—!”

The girl’s eyes were green and gold and alive, Ravenport realised with a shiver. People were listening. The Faith was doing what Faith tended to do.

The final assonance of her arrogance lingered in the air, sizzling as though sulfur.

The lumen-caster zoomed out as though on cue.

With a wave of her hand, the Regent manifested a great map of America. There were nodes in red, green and blue. Presently, there was a green node in South America, in a place called Arica. There was a blue node in Cuzco, and there were blue nodes in the places that the Americans recognised.

San Francisco.

Los Angeles.

San Diego.

They were connected to Australia. New Zealand. China. Shalkar. Central Europe. Britain.

“These are the cities connected by my Dyar Morkk. These are the places you shall soon be able to visit for a pittance. These are the cities where trade and economy will flourish. For this reason, the powers that be are afraid. The powers that be know that your lives may improve, and then what? Will you get healthcare? Will your children no longer starve? What horror!”

“This destruction of human labour and the goods it produces,” Gwen emphasised. “Was the entire point of your war. The prevention of the improvement of the lives of those in the Tenderloin, in your city, is the point. The prevention of the West Coast from getting comfortable IS THE POINT. To keep you and your fellow citizens paralysed and in THRALL, IS THE WHOLE BLOODY POINT.”

The Regent pointed to her illusory map.

“This is why—” she conjured up another map. “—I will be ENDING the war.”

Ravenport stared, then stared harder with mana applied to both eyes. “Is that… Puerto Vallarta?”

Puerto Vallarta, a famous paradise port safe from the reaches of the border war, was not only Mexico’s chief export port from agricultural goods to Peruvian Inca and Southeast Asia, but it also briefly flirted with overseas tourism until the Americans intervened. Mycroft knew of the place because, in his endless nights of research, it was one of the few places that were of interest to the Commonwealth Middle Faction.

Next, her map zoomed into Mexico as if by magic. With buttery smoothness, the way she pinched, swiped, and moved the map of Neo Tenochtitlan was impressive enough to make her audience unhinge their jaws.

The image stopped at an enormous red dot.

Neo Tenochtitlan.

“Before that truck taught me the hidden rules of your nation,” the Regent announced, her voice booming across the continent via the power of money. “A man came and told me to pay homage to the Temple at Salt Lake City, lest more tragedies occur.”

She theatrically raised both arms, as if to take flight like a bald eagle. “But I shall do them one better—”

“Instead—in your stead, I shall visit the Sky Temple of the Great Thunderer itself! I shall venture into the Sacred Peaks of Tollán, and I shall bring trade as America has never seen before! The Shalkar Trade Consortium shall open its Dyar Morkk in Neo Tenochtitlan, and I shall end this war by bringing you iron! Copper! Quick Silver! I shall make Macuahuitl no more rarer than Mithril! The Twin Coasts! My fellow Americans, shall rise and prosper as never before! Let those who seek to destroy our labour tremble! Let them find more excuses for war while we prosper. Call your representatives. Call your Senators! Tell them! Them all—!”

Their Regent’s final expression was one of deep, personal martyrdom as words escaped from her glistening lips.

“—Tell them that TOGETHER, you will MAKE AMERICA RICH AGAIN!”

The signal ended.

The agents in the Foreign Ministry’s office regarded one another with shocked expressions.

“Can she do that?” someone asked. “Is that legal?”

“Is it illegal to bring wealth and prosperity?” someone else snickered. “Or is it illegal to pay for Divination broadcasts?”

“If it was legal before, it won’t be after this,” a senior member of the Ministry remarked.

“Milord?” A hand in the dark shot toward the ceiling.

“Yes, Edward?” Ravenport asked, his throat suddenly parched.

“What do we do, Milord, if she succeeds?” the young man swallowed. “If our old colony wants to rejoin the Commonwealth, what are the legalities involved?”

NYC.

The Empire Tower.

At 7:16 PM, their Divination lines exploded, sending the Diviners into feverish mental meltdowns.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?” Jonathan Gilt shouted into the intercom from his penthouse suite.

When no one answered, he paced the spacious lounge, then switched over to his private Message device.

114 missed Messages.

“Fuck.” He scrolled through the logs until he found the man he desired. Grand Counsellor Christoff.

“Jonathan!” The voice that pierced the sodden silence was no longer so arrogant. “Did you watch—”

“YES!” Gilt almost howled into the recording Mandala. “What the hell is this bullshit? You said your people will take care of it!”

“We did take care of it, Mr Gilt.” The Chancellor's tone had lost its invitation. “You made your money, did you not? Her reputation was ruined, and the people have turned against the Tenderloin project. That was our deal.”

“Our deal isn’t over in a WEEK!” Gilt did his best to control his temper. He was the heir to the Empire. He was the foremost man in America. He had to be cool-headed, collected, in control. “I would imagine the Defenders of the Saint to have more wisdom. Do you have more wisdom in store?”

“We have convened a meeting of the Twelve,” the voice on the Message device announced. “I should remind you, Master Gilt, that though you sit on your throne in New York, Salt Lake City is beyond even your long reach. We are equals in this enterprise, Mr Gilt. Mistake this, and our partnership will find itself in dire straits. Make no mistake, we will do what is needed on our end. You as well should keep to your word.”

Gilt fumed. He wanted to dash the Long Range Device against the wall, but he knew as well as the Chancellor that, at this moment, they needed one another.

“Give His First Presidency, Henrik Christianson, my regards,” Gilt said at last. “May our partnership be lasting and fruitful.”

“Blessed be the fruit of the Spirit,” Christoff made the sign of the cross, then was gone.

Jonathan Gilt, first among equals, shook off the ick rolling off his skin. He did not know what the Church might do next, and he was too enraged and too prideful to ask.

The business of Faith was one his grandfather had always hated. His grandfather had also been one of the great men who sought to dislodge the church from the seats of power that held their sacred nation. He failed, as so many before him had failed. There was something in the soil here, his grandfather had told his father, that here was a continent where the Old Gods loomed over their shoulders day and night, first by the Indian Marauders, then by the Inquisitors of Witchcraft, then by the Spectre of Communism, and now, the phantom of a young Regent’s promises of a better tomorrow. To a subject of the nation’s faithful, some things will never change. The milling millions in their rural lives, coalescing at the grand citadel in Salt Lake City, were a testament that America was being tamed by the Nazarene’s grace, while the east and west coasts were, at their eyes, the Devil’s domain.

“Jonathan!” Gilt’s recollection was disrupted by the uninvited opening of his penthouse’s door, which meant his bodyguards lacked the authority to bodily banish the visitors. Warily, he looked up to see the unwelcome face of Arthur Morgan.

“ANSWER YOUR DAMN MESSAGES!” The man had clearly just come from a party. His tuxedo was a mess, and his hair was wild. “She did it, Jonathan! She fucking did it!”

“What did she do now?” Jonathan Gilt couldn’t even summon the energy to find a drink, even though the Nazarene knew he deserved it

“She SHORTED US!” The man from Morgan Stanley stopped short of grabbing his collar. “THE BITCH SHORTED US! GOD DAMN IT! She shorted ALL OF US! All seven Towers!”

“How much?” Gilt knew this moment was coming as soon as Gwen had announced an end to their forever war and made true enemies of the East coast.

“F-FOUR MILLION!” Arthur Morgan’s eyes were bloodshot. “Morgan is down 18%, God damn it! That whore! Between the IoDNC, the STC and the SFSC’s credit swaps, she shorted us 4.6 Million HDMS!"