Chapter 1: Edge of Collapse

Just woke up in a new world, and I realize the country’s on the edge of collapse. But who am I? I’m the brother-in-law of President John Caldwell. As a member of the First Family, even if I wanted to run, I couldn’t. All I can do is silently complain:

[Ding! Countdown to President Caldwell’s resignation: 300 days...]

Who would’ve thought—my brother-in-law the President can actually hear my inner thoughts.

America, 2024. The economy’s tanking, cities are burning, and crime is out of control. People are starving, the shelves at Walmart are empty, and gangs run wild. Famine and chaos from coast to coast, highways blocked by abandoned cars and bodies. The populist movement is surging, and foreign powers are circling like vultures. The politicians—both local and federal—are just looking out for themselves. My new life starts in a year of crisis.

It was the kind of morning where you wake up half-expecting the sky to be the wrong color. The city skyline flickered behind armored glass, but the smell of burnt toast and stale coffee from the kitchen felt like home. The only thing in abundance was the gnawing sense that the ground beneath your feet was about to vanish. From Los Angeles to New York, every local radio crackled with static and bad news. My phone buzzed, endlessly, with panicked news alerts and group chats that felt more like support groups for the terminally cynical. In the kitchen, the fridge hummed—fully stocked, thank God, because we still had our connections in the White House.

As the President’s brother-in-law, I still get to enjoy steak dinners and a luxury suite in the White House for now, living easy. For days, I lounged in the guest wing, streaming Netflix and snacking on delivery, living a half-dream, half-hungover life. The foreign threats, the populist revolt, the chaos—I shoved it all to the back of my mind. My current identity? Just a notorious playboy in-law of the President. If I stupidly went to John and said, “Hey, bro, you can’t beat the populists. The country’s about to collapse, and soon you’ll end up resigning in disgrace. But don’t worry, the populists won’t last either—they’ll get crushed by the foreign powers when they invade, and the heartland will fall to them. In the end, we’ll all be working for them—”

My days blurred together: Call of Duty on the OLED, leftovers from the state chef reheated in the microwave, Secret Service agents ignoring me unless I set off the smoke alarm again. If I dared speak my mind at the dinner table, I’d probably get exiled to a FEMA camp. John’s stubborn streak was legendary in our family; the only thing thicker than his pride was his refusal to listen. I’d be lucky if he didn’t have me "transferred" to Alaska.

Yeah, surprised? With John’s stubborn streak, I’d be lucky to keep my head.

Family gatherings in the White House had turned into awkward affairs—people tiptoeing around topics like unemployment or food shortages, all while I was still in silk pajamas at noon. I was the walking punchline, and everyone knew it.

Less than a year before the bell tolls for the last American administration. I’m no Ben Franklin, nor am I some war hero reborn. This America—I can’t save it. Until one morning, my lazy days are interrupted by my penny-pinching father. The old man drags me out of my warm bed and tells me to get my butt to Capitol Hill. There’s some shakeup in Congress today, so he sends me to get the scoop—he’s too chicken to go himself, afraid the President will hit him up for another campaign donation.

Dad barged in, waving his old University of Michigan mug and barking orders. Only my dad would rather risk sending his useless son into a political warzone than write another campaign check. “If John comes begging for campaign cash, you tell him you’re broke and living off ramen noodles, got it?” he hissed. I wanted to remind him that the market had already crashed, but he’d just cut my allowance.

I secretly roll my eyes: won’t spend a dime now, but when the populists come, you’ll lose even your hair. Might as well let me, the family disappointment, spend it first.

For a second, I wondered what it would feel like to be useful for once. Then I remembered last Thanksgiving, when I almost burned down the East Wing trying to deep-fry a turkey.

Yawning, I stroll into the Capitol, keep my head down, and blend in at the back of the congressional aides, trying to be invisible. Having slept like crap, listening to the endless speeches makes me drowsy. I can barely stand, almost faceplanting right in front of John.

The halls smelled like burnt coffee and stale fear. I grabbed a badge at the security checkpoint, nodding at an exhausted Capitol Police officer who looked like he’d aged a decade in a week. Inside, aides were already gossiping in low voices, and even the janitors looked ready to bolt. I stuck to the shadows, hands jammed in my coat pockets, praying I wouldn’t draw attention.

One politician after another offers advice; I only catch bits and pieces—populists, military funding, shortages, the usual. Most of these guys still think the populist leader is just another rabble-rouser. They say this isn’t his first uprising—every time he’s scattered easily, nothing to worry about.

It was the same parade of suits and soundbites, all of them convinced that American exceptionalism was some magic shield. They quoted polls, talked about “historical precedent,” and laughed about how this wasn’t even the worst Congress had seen. I drifted in and out, half-listening, stomach rumbling for something greasy from the lunch truck parked outside.

I close my eyes to rest, secretly sighing. Instead of listening to this nonsense, I’d rather grab a bacon, egg, and cheese at the food truck outside after session, then go back for another nap. Suddenly, a loud, forceful shout startles me so badly I nearly trip.

“Enough! Issue the order: General Sutton is to leave Fort Knox at once and crush the uprising. Any further delay—I won’t forgive lightly!”

The room fell silent like someone had shut off the power. John’s face was red, jaw clenched, fingers drumming on the podium like he was daring anyone to challenge him. Even the air conditioning seemed to hold its breath. My heart thudded like I’d just been caught sneaking in after curfew, and I almost tripped over my own feet.

Seeing the President angry, the politicians all freeze. I hurriedly stand at attention, feeling a chill inside. This expedition by General Sutton—the outcome’s already written in history.

Sweat prickled down my spine. Even the old-timers who usually rolled their eyes at John’s temper straightened up. From the back row, I caught a glimpse of his security detail exchanging glances. Nobody liked it when the President went off-script.

[My brother-in-law’s still too impatient. Rushing out with no supplies and no loyal troops... isn’t this just asking for disaster?]

[The last pillar of the old America is about to fall.]

I complain inwardly, suddenly feeling guilty, like I’m being watched. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance up. Oh no, John is staring at me, his eyes sharp as knives. That look makes me shudder. I quickly focus and lower my head, not daring to look again.

[Why is he looking at me like that?]

[Did the Secret Service report my partying?]

[Impossible. With Director Langley in charge, they’re just for show now.]

I could practically feel his gaze drilling a hole in my skull. It was the kind of look my high school principal used to give me before sending me to Saturday detention. Only this time, the stakes were a little higher than missed homework.

After a moment, John speaks: “Derek, do you have any objections to my order?”

“This citizen has no objections.”

I’m just an in-law. If my dad hadn’t begged my sister, the First Lady, for a cushy job, I wouldn’t even be allowed in the building. Would I dare object?

I kept my tone flat, eyes on the carpet. Even if I wanted to say something, no way I’d mouth off in front of this crowd. The only thing worse than being labeled a slacker was being seen as a traitor to the family.

After a while, John snorts: “If there’s nothing else, session’s adjourned.”

Chief of Staff calls the end of session. I wipe my cold sweat, stagger out of the chamber, and hear my colleagues whispering nearby:

“General Sutton’s already old. Add the pandemic and lack of supplies—sending him to fight now is suicide, isn’t it?”

Ah, so there are people who get it. Another aide, hearing this, panics and hushes him: “Don’t say that! You never know who’s listening! We just need to follow orders... don’t worry about the rest.”

Yeah, don’t worry. When the populists come, you’ll surrender and keep your jobs. But I, as an in-law, can’t run... In history, my penny-pinching dad didn’t end well. If he ended badly, how could I fare any better?

I wanted to snort, but bit my tongue. The kind of fatalism running through these halls was contagious. I ducked my head and kept moving, stepping over the cracked marble tiles, pretending not to hear the nervous laughter trailing behind me.

A few months later. On my mom’s orders, I visit my sister, First Lady Lillian, at the White House. John’s there too. Suddenly, urgent news arrives: General Sutton was defeated at Louisville, retreating with the remnants to defend the Ohio River. When I hear this, I’m still shocked inside.

[As expected, still lost.]

The West Wing went deathly quiet, save for the distant clatter of staffers racing through the halls. My sister’s hands trembled as she poured herself tea. I kept my face blank, but inside, it was like a house of cards finally tumbling.

Then I hear a crash; I turn and see John stand up abruptly, face pale, the coffee mug in his hand smashed on the floor.

“Summon the Cabinet for discussion!”

Leaving only those words, John hurries out, adding as he leaves:

“Derek, come and listen in!”

Fine, you’re the President, you decide. I have to leave my sister and quickly follow.