Chicago Tribune
THE GOVERNOR'S DEMISE MAY BE NEAR!
Official News from Washington, D.C. Spreads Across the Country as Illness Strikes America's Leader
In a shocking development, reports from the capital confirm that the Governor's health is rapidly deteriorating, sparking concerns across the nation. As his illness worsens, rumors swirl about the potential need for a new leader to step forward before the year's end. The Governor, once seen as a symbol of strength, now faces an uncertain future. Sources close to the situation reveal that his condition has worsened significantly in recent days, causing growing anxiety within political circles.
Many Americans are left wondering whether the country will see a change in leadership before 1995 comes to a close. The nation, once thriving under the Governor's leadership, now finds itself on the precipice of a new era. Fear and uncertainty have begun to ripple through the streets, and questions are being raised about how the future will unfold if America is forced to choose a new leader.
Despite the escalating panic, political analysts urge citizens to remain calm. "The government has faced difficult times before," says veteran political analyst Mark Reynolds. "This is no different. We must trust that the institutions we've built will carry us through." He went on to remind citizens that in times of crisis, the resilience of the American government has always prevailed.
While many express fear for the future, others are calling for a sense of solidarity in these uncertain times. "The Governor's illness is certainly a blow, but we must continue to trust in the systems of democracy," said Representative Martha Green from Pennsylvania. "America has always emerged stronger from times of challenge."
The uncertainty surrounding the Governor's condition continues to dominate headlines. As the nation waits for further developments, many hope for a swift recovery—or a smooth transition if necessary.
America, the World Is Watching — How Will Our Nation Respond?
"Fuck the nation," Avery muttered as he tossed the flimsy newspaper onto the counter. He'd been lazily lying behind the counter with his back slumped against the wall, and his legs spread out across three of the restaurant chairs. The fan slowly rotated, cool air blowing against his sweaty forehead whenever the fan rotated in his direction. He wished he could press freeze on that stupid thing and keep it still.
He usually didn't care about politics because, no matter what, the economy was going to hell, and neither side benefited him nor his kind. But lately, newspapers had been gaining some traction with all the changes occurring in the world. Reports of protest, the government, and conversations on America's racial structure were making headlines, and he couldn't ignore that.
The way he saw it, the Governor's death was more of a blessing than a curse; sixty years of power is a long-ass time. There was no guarantee that his studious son would be a better ruler than he was, but it was definitely a step in progress.
Nevertheless, he initially picked up that newspaper because it was unbelievably hot and he was bored out of his mind, not because he gave a damn about America and its precious governor.
He hated late nights when the restaurant was still open and his father insisted on staying open past eight. Truthfully, he'd much rather spend the night hanging with Tito and them, like he'd been promising recently. But the guilt of abandoning his father for his friends always ate away at his chest, so he preferred to tackle his boredom over his social needs and sat behind the cashier, waiting for the night's stragglers to roam in.
And they sure did.
The bell jingled from the front entrance as the door pushed open and slammed against the wall. Avery's eyes flickered to the ragged man who walked in, unable to control his sigh of annoyance. The man wore an unkempt black shirt, its fabric marred by splotches of indeterminate origins, and paired it with equally grimy pants that seemed to blend into the shadows. His long hair hung in greasy strands, sticking to his face and shoulders, a testament to his disregard for personal hygiene. A potent smell of stale liquor clung to him like fog; he could smell it from behind the counter.
"Give me...give me two quarts of the chow mien." The man dug into his pocket and tossed a plastic card at Avery.
Avery looked between the card and the man, then picked up the card. "Man, what the hell is this?"
The man scoffed and snatched his credit card back, "You've never seen a damn credit card before?"
Avery smacked his teeth and stood up from his comfortable position, pointing at the counter's surface. In big red letters on white paper, it read, 'CASH ONLY'.
In the United States, particularly within the corridors of power, the government had been fervently advocating digital currency, a concept Avery mockingly referred to as "imaginary money." Recently, he had noticed a shift in customer behavior; diners would stroll into restaurants, confidently expecting to settle their bills with sleek plastic cards. The way Avery saw it, if the paper wasn't in front of his eyes, then it wasn't there. Usually, debit cards were used by upper-class people who cared about the latest American trends, but it seemed that anyone could get their hands on one nowadays. Besides, even if he wanted to accept debit cards, the restaurant didn't have the technology to process them, it was out of their means.
"Do you see this sign? It says cash only. So, either hand over some real money, or get to steppin'." Avery held his hand out and waited, which ignited a fire in the drunken man.
The man huffed, turning red. Though Avery couldn't tell if his burning face had to do with the alcohol or his drunken rage (probably both).
"This is good American money, but of course you wouldn't know shit about that. What type of' Black man owns a Chinese restaurant anyway?"
Avery felt a searing heat coursing through his veins, a striking signal that his simmering anger was on the cusp of overtaking his self-control. His eyebrows knotted together in frustration as he cast a glance at his forearm, where his veins pulsed ominously from a deep blue hue to a blinding electric yellow. The most troubling part about what he was, was his lack of ability to control his physical appearance when shit hit the fan. He wasn't aware at first, but his sharp brown eyes shimmered with an intense golden light, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. In tandem with this unsettling change, his fingers danced erratically, twitching with anticipation...no, an instinct to hurt whatever was in front of him. At first, he struggled to find the right words to describe the turmoil within him, but his father quickly diagnosed it as anger issues. As the days passed, he became increasingly aware that the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind could easily land him in a psychiatric ward, a realization that unnerved him; this wasn't the norm. The only comparison he could draw to these intense emotions was the primal instinct of an animal, one that instinctively resorts to aggression when threatened. Whatever this inner turmoil was, the racist was getting the best of it.
"Get the fuck out." Avery clenched the edge of the counter tightly, leaning forward in an almost predatory manner, which made the man across from him appear diminutive despite his imposing stature. His face held little emotion, but a flicker of something unsettling danced in his eyes, a glare that challenged every remaining shred of pride the man possessed. The intensity of Avery's gaze caught him completely off guard; it was as if a switch had flipped. In that moment of surprise, the man lost his footing, stumbling backward until he landed his butt on floor. Too drunk to tell if the glow in Avery's eyes was real or just the result of his tipsy state, he hastily composed himself and nearly bolted from the restaurant, fear etched across his unsightly features.
At that moment, Hao stepped forward from the kitchen, a cooking spoon held firmly in his hand, exuding a quiet confidence. He was one of the additional cooks Nathaneil had hired, driven by a strong work ethic and an unwavering respect for the restaurant, despite his traditional Chinese upbringing.
"Avery, did we get another order?" He asked, his voice laced with the familiar rhythm of the kitchen. "We're about to start closing up if we don't."
Avery nodded absently without shifting his gaze, acutely aware that he was still processing what had just happened. A knot tightened in his stomach, and he couldn't help but wonder what his own expression revealed in that moment.
"No, but, um, let's close up," he replied, his voice steady but distant. "Aye, can you toss me a water, Hao? And where's Pops?"
"Yeah, he's checking on one of the stoves; it won't ignite," Hao responded, looking at Avery with concern. "You okay, man?"
"I'm cool," Avery assured him, though the words felt heavy on his tongue. "We need a bigger 'CASH ONLY' sign. I'll start putting the chairs up."
Hao nodded, his gaze lingering on Avery as he reached into the chilled depths of the restaurant refrigerator, retrieving a water bottle with a crisp, refreshing promise. He returned to his tasks, the mundane rhythm of work resuming once more. Avery popped the cap open with a satisfying crack, almost losing a splash of the cool liquid as he squeezed too hard. With a few desperate gulps, he felt the icy water flow through him, soothing his hot body temperature and subduing the flames of distress that had been surging through him. As the coolness enveloped him, the visibility of his bulging veins receded beneath his skin, restoring him to normalcy. Despite this, the thunderous growl of the storm outside still echoed ominously, vibrating underneath his Nike sneakers and rattling the very air around him.
Avery loathed the emotional turmoil that churned within him; it felt irrational, chaos brewing inside of him. He hated how his body reacted to every raging emotion inside his body, he hated the stupid drunks that waltz into their restaurant at night, he hated the stupid chairs he had to put away—
Dingiling!
For the love of God, Avery loathed the sound of that infernal bell. The jarring chime tore through the quiet hum of the nearly empty restaurant like nails on a chalkboard. He whipped around, gears already grinding in anticipation of yet another late-night patron craving Chinese food just twenty minutes before closing time.
"We're not servin', go home!" he barked, irritation flooding his voice.
But a soft, almost melodic voice answered back, "Oh—sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."
Avery blinked, momentarily stunned. The sharp retort melted away as he took in the sight before him. She stood there, half-drenched; water droplets glistening as they rolled down her bare shoulders cheeks. She wasn't just another drunken wanderer or a regular who pushed his patience to the limit. No, she was a girl around his age, her expression more amused than perturbed.
Isabella.