Fixing society

The wet ground makes your socks and shoes soggy as you sit in your living room.

You sit waiting for instructions, as you always do when The Police tell you to. They are taking exceptionally long today - probably because they are having so much trouble with the flash floods that have swept across your rural town. Long after you decide to take your shoes and socks off and keep you feet out of the water to prevent a minor case of trenchfoot, The Police knock on your door. You open it, and they provide a scarce apology for the flooding inconvenience, and hand you a notice telling you that you must pack up your valuables and relocate to a nearby village. Your young daughter wants to read the note, and you let her. She asks you, "What are our valuables?"

"Sweetie, valuables are the things that people like a lot and keep around with them." You reply.

"What are our valuables?" She asks.

You tell her that you and her don't have any in the house you're in, and tell her to pack her clothes.



Nowadays The Leaders have been having so many problems to deal with that your life as a citizen of the Cruvashki Federation has been a tedious, hectic series of relocations. You are originally from the city of New Pinea, and from there you were relocated to a temporary house due to earthquakes. It's nice to know at least that The Leaders are keeping watch of you.

Before you exit, you and your daughter check around your temporary house for any of your extraneous possessions, but you know that there probably aren't any because you have had barely enough time to settle into this building.

You and your daughter leave the house, most likely for the last time, but the sentimental feelings that came with leaving the house that you actually owned are long gone and are not applicable to this temporary settlement.


You have a long walk ahead of you, as the normal trams can't run with this much flooding, so it's back to water-soaked feet in ankle deep mud.

After a bit of walking, and after a short period of silence between you and your daughter because small talk had ended, your daughter asks you why we don't have any valuables. The only thing you can think to reply with is,

"All of our valuables are in our old house."

Your daughter seems content with the answer, while on the inside you know that all of your valuables are probably gone, stolen, because The Police would have not been there to stop the crimes. Nobody goes into New Pinea anymore.



After an hour or so of walking you can feel your feet begin to blister, and you have yourself and your daughter stop and take a small rest break so you can recuperate a little. Your daughter, although knows that you need to rest, does not understand your pain, considering calluses have covered her toes and feet since your were a very small child. You - on the other hand - grew up with hand and feet treatments to keep your feet soft, so you take most of the damage.



After you and your daughter's legs are sore, and after hours of walking, you both finally approach the temporary town in which you will be staying for an indefinite period of time. You can guess housing around the province is getting crowded since evacuation homes are no longer accessible. For how ever long you are staying in this town, you must stay with a chef who runs a local restaurant and sleep in the sleeping bags you picked up at the visitor check-in station (hardly a station, more of a wooden table with supplies littered on the ground behind it).

After a bit of searching, you finally find this restaurant and knock on the door. A man, presumably the owner (and chef - he wears an apron and a hair net), opens the door, gives you and your daughter an exasperated look, and seems acquiescent about letting you inside. He does though, because there would be serious consequences from The Police if he didn't. You enter the building and you find yourself in the front of the restaurant, and he leads you back into a spare room that looks like it hasn't seen the light of day since the days of King Gorrelous, a tyrant ruler told to you in piecemeal by your great grandfather when you were a small child. Nevertheless, you have to deal with it. Your daughter doesn't seem to notice or care about the horrendous state of your room, but then again she may not even have noticed. The journey you have just ended has made her very tired, and she asks you if she can sleep. When you tell her of course, she unrolls her bag, slides in and passes out. You realize how tired you are, yourself. You decide it probably wouldn't be too bad of an idea to rest yourself, but you decide that before that, you want to check out the rest of the building.