What a tyrant I am.
I put the children to work in the first decision I made. I needed their hands, even though I took them off jobs when enough adults were available. I automated the coal mines, so that fuel would be plenty even overnight. Then I tried to calm my conscience, since I took in all the surviving refugees that came to me. I imposed strict order and kept hope up through a steady supply of propaganda. Only a handful of people left for London. I discredited the poet who was rightfuly distraught with his lot in life, just to keep the peace. But through all this, everything I promised openly, I made true. I nearly thought we could eke out a living in this frozen hellhole.
But then, the storm came.
In the days before the storm, hope in the town was high but my nights were sleepless with worry. How was I to insulate the homes for more than five hundred people in five days? How was I to hunt enough food to last us the week? The populace was clamoring for wood, anything to help them survive the frost, but I sent them away as it was needed for construction. I tripled the hunting expeditions and doubled the stockpiles. I lost contact with our fishing outpost.
The storm hit and in the depth of a crisis I showed my calculating coldness, far harsher than any blizzard. With the threat of mine collapse, and the frozen death it would cause, I sent nearly a tenth of the populace to their end in order to keep the coal coming. I decided it so easily. We had five days of storm left and the output of those automated mines was all that was keeping the generator running. At this output, a full coal stockpile doesn't last nearly long enough. Spend thirty lives, and then fifteen more, to ensure the other five hundred survive? It wasn't even a consideration not to.
Then, in the final day of the storm, when the generator had been at its limits for far longer than was responsible, I wrenched a child from its mother and sent it into the contraption for repairs, just to buy us a few hours. I say them because I don't even remember if it was a boy or girl. I sacrificed one future so that five hundred other futures might see the morning, frostbitten as they were.
In the final moments of the storm, all my efforts seemed in vain. How were we to survive this onslaught of nature? The freezing death was everywhere, half the populace was missing limbs from frostbite.
But then the sun came up. The sun came up and the blizzard passed. We had survived. The infirmary would treat the wounded. And the hunters would set out again. And we would survive where Winterhome had not. And I, the tyrant, would be there to lead them.
Thanks for reading if you made it this far. I initially didn't intend to make my first playthrough of A New Home into a short story, I'm not a writer at all, usually, but it just kinda happened. This game made me feel all kinds of things games usually don't make me feel and it made me consider that I'd probably be a horrible, cold, calculating dictator if I ever got the chance so it's probably good for everyone that won't happen.
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