Chronicles of Cardo (Nation Maintenance)
Posted: Wed Nov 04, 2020 9:33 am
OOC: Everything happening here is considered IC and canon for Cardo. I haven't properly roleplayed for years, so this is my way to keep a foot inside of the game while my life goes on. Anything posted here relates to Cardo specifically and content may range from news articles to day-in-the-life type posts.
Plymouth MegaHotel, Election Night, 2048
Cord Labes looked upon the neon-lit capital, unsure of what the town had become, unsure of what he had become. As a boy, he dreamed of walking through the hallowed halls of power Birwood maintained for nearly 500 years. From Kings, to High Lords, to High Priests, to Chancellors, men and women had cut their teeth in this city, but no molars were as precisely chiseled as Cord's, and he knew this. To survive in this city, all you needed was a degree from Cardo National Academy and a loyal home district. 20 years later, you need security, street smarts, and the wherewithal to wheel and deal with corporate rollers, fucking trillionaires. He read the holographic channel letters atop a 300 story building: FeighnCorp. "Scumbags," Cord whispered to himself, turning away from the windows.
He scanned his office. A white interior reflected the pink-glow shining through the windows behind his desk. He stepped down from the raised platform holding his workstation, and walked over to his mirror. He wasn't impressed. His white hair made him looked paler and the bags underneath his eyes showed exhaustion. The top button on his white, collarless dress shirt was unbuttoned, not necessarily maintaining the carefully crafted vision his handlers bestowed upon him: a high man in society, respectable and principled. "What a joke," he whispered. There was a knock. His office door showed an image of the other side, sort of like a one-way mirror of the olden days. The image showed a young man, not a day over 25. Clean-shaven, sculpted, and a head full of brown hair made Cord subconsciously envious. Plus, he had his top button fastened and his suit jacket snugly clung to his arms. He embodied a sophisticated Cardo. "Come," Cord said, stepping up the platform to get to his desk.
When the man walked through the smoothly sliding door, the lights faded on, creating a blue aura in the room. He had a look of concerned excitement on his face. "Mr. Secretary, you've won Saratoga. Congratulations, Mr. Chancellor-elect."
Cord nodded, sauntered over to his liquor cart, waving a hand to reveal darks, lights and everything in between. Grabbing a since discontinued whiskey, he poured himself and the young man a modest glass. "Henrí, cheers."
Birwood Square, Election Night 2048
Quite conveniently, the political capital and the cultural capital of Cardo are one the same. The intersection where they all meet? Birwood Square. One moment, you might get run over by a corporate cog on a stimulant high or you might be robbed by a Dreesh-head, looking to score some dough for his next nod-off. On this election night, the square is dominated by kids, naïve and hopeful about the world around them. They're clueless. Donned in orange and dark blue, the color of the New Democrats, they call themselves rallying and preparing for the moment of their lifetimes. In a sea of septum pierces, ear gages and tatoos, one can see a complete rejection of the societal comforts behind mainstream Cardoan society. They see hope in Clarence Du'Mont. They see themselves.
A handsome thirty-something, the young Senator legitimately believes in the spirit of Cardo: work hard, hustle, get your dough. This fucker wants world peace and that's why he was doomed to fail. When the Cardoan war machine stops, so does the constant flood of C-bucks that pay for rare 8oz filets and obnoxiously marked-up wine from the Evergreens. After the kid shocked the world and won his primary, there was an immediate influx of cash from the private sector into the coffers of his opponent, the good Secretary of State Cord Labes. For what it's worth, Du'Mont was the first person in a long time to have the establishment shitting bricks.
There was a hushed silence among the hundreds of thousands surrounded by the lofty skyscrapers of the capital. A holographic news report projected from the OneNewsCorp building. A blue-haired, young woman appeared on the screen, a white dress contrasting her hair color. "We can now project that Secretary of State Cord Labes has defeated Senator Clarence Du'Mont by a margin of less than a third of a percentage point in the Saratoga subregion, securing another 4 years of Conservative Coalition rule."
Immediately, chaos erupted.
Plymouth MegaHotel, Election Night 2048
There was a measured calm behind the curtain of the raised platform situated at the front of the ballroom. Staffers let out sighs of relief, senior advisors subtly wiped the sweat from their brows, attempting to appear unsurprised, as though this was bound to happen. Cord heard the excited commotion coming from the election party on the other side of the curtains. Henrí interrupted his focus, tapping him on the shoulder. "Sir, look," the young staffer smirked, pulling out a TeleCorp Holograph 7, "they're already rioting on Birwood square." Cord remained stoned-face. He understood their anger. "It's a shame you chuckle at the destruction of our capital."
"Mr. Chancellor-elect," a familiar bellowing voice called from behind them. Cord turned around. It was Dante Engstrom, the mahogany, smooth-talking senior lobbyist from FeighnCorp. Cord had no Dante, and this was no secret between the two. "Feigncorp sends its congratulations," Engstrom held out a hand, revealing a diamond watch, dancing like a pop singer in the flashing lights of the occasion. Cord extended his hand, "I'm assuming I got you this watch."
Dante laughed. "Compliments of the CEO, what can I say?"
"What do you want, Dante?"
"We need you to pass the Mallanican action bill within the first 100 days, and we need the people to know."
Cord paused. "Or what?"
Dante quietly chuckled and walked away. Cord sunk his shoulders. He felt a hand on his shoulder. His running mate, Olivia Rose, is perfect for this position. A middle-aged, blonde hardliner with a penchant for expensive dresses, usually compliments of her husband, she gave bark behind Cord's bite. "You ready for this, Mr. Chancellor-elect?" Cord was reminded of the occasion. He was elected Chancellor, after all.
"Let's do this, partner," he gave her a fistbump and they stepped onto the stage, declaring victory and securing FeighnCorps income for the next decade...