The Chairman had promised a leaner, stronger government, free from waste and corruption. His solution was the Department of Prosperity & Fiscal Responsibility, a name carefully chosen to sound harmless, even noble.
The reality was far more sinister.
At the head of this initiative was Magnus Vail, billionaire tech mogul, CEO of Nexus Systems, and owner of X-Comm, the country’s largest private data infrastructure firm. A longtime mega-donor to the Chairman, Vail had spent years championing the idea that government should be run like a business. Now, he was the business.
Vail had never been elected. He had never been vetted. He had simply taken control.
Almost overnight, the flow of every dollar in the country passed through his hands.
“He who controls the money…”
Vail wasted no time reshaping the system to suit the needs of the Circle. Government accounts were frozen. Budgets were restructured. Social programs were “modernized”—a sanitized term meaning they were dismantled entirely.
And most importantly, loyalty became a prerequisite for financial survival.
It started with small, “common sense” measures.
- Government contractors must demonstrate ideological alignment with Prosperity & Fiscal Responsibility.
- Businesses must confirm their compliance with Unity Policies to receive federal funding.
- Financial aid will prioritize those who have contributed to National Stability.
Then it escalated.
The Unity Index Score, once a quiet experiment in social credit, was now an integral part of daily life. Citizens with low scores—those who had protested, spoken against the Chairman, failed to show proper enthusiasm—found their bank accounts restricted.
Loans were denied.
Payroll deposits disappeared.
Pension payments were “delayed.”
Access to healthcare became conditional.
Those with high scores, however—those who praised the Chairman, who reported disloyal behavior, who embraced the new order—found themselves rewarded.
Tax breaks. Business opportunities. Government contracts.
For the first time in history, currency was no longer just money. It was allegiance.
Senators took to the floor, demanding answers.
“Why has the Treasury’s oversight board been dismissed?”
“Who authorized a private company to take control of federal funds?”
“What legal framework exists for these policies?”
There was no answer. Just vague reassurances, reports of “temporary restructuring,” and the Chairman’s ever-present mantra:
“This suffering is a necessary sacrifice for a stronger, more unified state.”
Government employees flooded social media with desperate messages.
“We can’t log in.”
“All transactions are being reviewed. What does that even mean?”
“We have no budget authority anymore.”
New programs stopped overnight. Existing services paused indefinitely.
And then, Social Security went dark.
There was no warning. No official statement. Just a line in an internal memo:
“Reevaluating distribution to ensure Prosperity for all.”
For millions of retirees, disabled citizens, and veterans, it meant instant financial ruin.
Their accounts simply ceased to function.
When the media pressed the Chairman for answers, he smiled.
“No more waste. No more fraud. No more corruption. The moochers who have drained this country for too long will no longer take advantage of the system!”
There was no fraud investigation. No case-by-case review.
The system had not been reformed.
It had been dismantled.
Television screens across the nation displayed bright, cheerful ads from the Department of Prosperity & Fiscal Responsibility.
“Enjoy a Financial Future that Rewards Hard Work!”
“Struggling? Learn How to Improve Your Unity Score!”
“Dreaming of Early Retirement? Consider a Prosperity Buyout!”
But beneath the curated slogans, the truth bled through.
Hospitals turned away patients with low Unity Index Scores.
Unemployed workers found themselves frozen out of the system, unable to apply for aid.
Parents with flagged accounts were unable to purchase food for their children.
People begged for help online.
“I just got denied at the grocery store. I had enough money in my account. They said I need approval.”
“My dad’s pension disappeared. He’s 72. The bank says it’s ‘pending review.’”
“My neighbor killed himself after his benefits were revoked. They’re calling it financial restructuring.”
And then, one by one, the posts disappeared.
Accounts were banned.
Bank access was revoked.
Loyalty audits were initiated.
The Circle’s media dismissed the outcry as “misinformation,” reassuring the public that the new policies were working exactly as intended.
The suffering wasn’t a failure of the system.
It was the goal.
Cora sat in the corner of the coffee shop, clutching her now-useless debit card.
The screen behind the counter displayed a looping government message:
“Due to necessary restructuring, some transactions may be unavailable. We appreciate your patience.”
The cashier looked at her, unimpressed. “Got cash?”
Cora shook her head. Who had cash anymore?
She turned and walked outside, the air thick with the stench of spilled garbage. The city’s sanitation budget had been “streamlined,” meaning only the wealthiest neighborhoods were still getting weekly pickups.
A homeless woman sat on the curb, a cardboard sign in her lap.
“My retirement check never came. Please help.”
Her face was sunken, her lips cracked from dehydration. Cora had seen her before—she used to own the laundromat down the street.
She looked at her phone.
Her Unity App was still open. A notification flashed.
“Your Loyalty Score is at risk. Submit a report to demonstrate your commitment to Unity.”
At the bottom of the screen was a list of suspected traitors.
The former government workers who had spoken out. The senators who had protested. Even a few business owners who had refused to comply with the Department’s new policies.
“Report a violator today and improve your score!”
Cora’s stomach turned.
The streets were quieter now, stripped of protest, stripped of desperation.
Not because people had found relief.
But because they had disappeared.
And Magnus Vail was just getting started.
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