A Deregger, not quite at "gunpoint" but close enough, has to make a deal to allow the Alliance to come in to help clean the mess up on their world before it becomes a grave-world. They're allowed to STAY in power, sorta, but with heavy supervision and lessons on ACTUALLY governing properly. -- Lessons
Picture if you will, a gilded, Faberge bunker. Its owner has heard of Roccoco and thought the style far too bland. If it isn't made of the precious or the rare, it is not in there. It is also state of the art, or the state of this planet's art. It has an indoor pool in the shape of a voluptuous woman. It has a golf course. It has room for millions.
It houses one.
The staff are relegated to service tunnels, they come and go via hidden hatches. They sleep on bare concrete and they eat... whatever they can find. Including the Big Boss' garbage. One of those staff is in trouble because of a Smell.
"We change the filters daily, sir. For you sir. If we change them on the hour, the Smell will go away, but we'll run out of filters in two months."
"Two months? I paid for a lifetime supply! I should have got a lifetime supply! Who's running that damn factory?"
"You are, sir. If you recall, sir, that factory burned and collapsed with all workers inside, last year. You said, Hang 'em. I got what I need. You told us all to laugh, sir."
"Fake news," he barked. "I did no such thing and said no such thing. Find someone who's behind it and fire them."
The staffperson, knowing which side of the table the breadcrusts came from[1], said, "Yessir. Of course sir. I'll begin enquiries as soon as I'm capable, sir."
"So how can there be only two months of filtered air left? Aren't those filters good for two months each?"
The current scapegoat thought on their feet. "Conspiracists, terrorists, and dirty lefties have come together to pollute the atmosphere, sir. It's no longer the fresh air of good industry out there, sir. It's the raging fires left by seditious activity in a... scorched earth policy. Sir."
The facts, not necessary in this conversation, were that this man had decided to burn the rest of the world instead of rebuilding it. The smoke and chemicals were still ravaging the surface whilst he remained safe in his bunker.
"Scorched earth. Well. We're better than that. Rebuild the factory. Find people who want to work. There's bound to be plenty."
"The terrorists left nothing to work with, sir. If I might show you the surviving surface cams, sir? You can see for yourself, sir."
He had spent the first two weeks cackling at the mayhem. Glorying in his victory over "those dirty lefties". Then shut it off when there was no more screaming.
Those same cameras now showed swirls of black smoke and glowing slag. And little specks of light flicking randomly in view.
"What are those sparkles?" the Big Boss demanded.
"Radiation, sir. To step outside now would be deadly. There's nothing to rebuild, sir. Nobody to rebuild it with, sir. The only resources we have are what's in the bunker with you, sir." The staffperson added, "They got everything, sir."
"Dig a damn hole, then. Make a factory down here."
"Certainly, sir. When would you like the drilling noise scheduled?"
"Drilling noise? What's wrong with shovels?"
"Granite, sir. The very same granite that's in your executive kitchens and bathrooms. It takes tungsten-carbide hammer-drills and diamond-tipped saws to get through it sir. You said it was the most resilient and stable substance to hold your shelter, sir." The staffperson did not add that thousands died in the process of hollowing out the space.
"I did," he said. He shut off the cameras and brought up the schematics. "If sacrifices must be made... what are these," he enlarged a warren of small cubicle spaces.
"Staff quarters, sir. You already eradicated those for your Adult Play Park, sir." They did not add that the staff were sheltering in the little spaces between the walls.
"Can't get rid of that. I need time to de-stress." He flicked over the golf course, the swimming pool, the movie theatre, and the race track. "There's no room, there's no room..." He growled to himself. "There's only one thing left to do."
"Sir," said the staffperson, dreading the worst.
"Open a comms line to the Galactic Alliance. Set a bunch of namby-pamby lefties to get a bunch of namby-pamby lefties. Once they're eradicated, I can finally forge a new era of prosperity."
"Yes, sir," said the staffperson.
Day 547 in the rehab environment.
"Fake news! Fake news! I never did that, you can't prove it! I demand to see a lawyer! I know my rights."
The former staffperson looked on in pity from the safety of a securicam feed. "He's still in there. After an entire year of learning the truth?"
"He won't learn," said the Therapist. "He's denying everything we try to teach him. Even the most basic lessons of responsibility." The therapist looked up from their readouts. "We can't even trust him with a chia pet."
"At least he's stopped complaining about the food. That's something, right?"
"Something. It shouldn't take a year to do that."
"Should, as the wise say, is not is." Kim Libertae, ex-staffmember for Big Boss Stanford Kastrioti, sighed and turned away from the feed. "Maybe next year, he'll have a little more progress."
"There is always hope," sighed the therapist. "I'm going to run him the children's cartoon about consequences again."
[1] A non-Deregger might say, "Which side of the bread has the butter on."
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / darkfoxelixir]
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