It was cold in the drafty ballroom. You’d think for someone with ‘fuck you money’ they’d make their ballrooms actually hospitable, but you’d be wrong. It seemed like the more rich these people got, the more their true cold blooded nature came out.
I stood next to a marble fireplace with gold inlay around the edges, hoping for warmth, but the room remained freezing in the way that only rich freemason types liked it. Out of the fifteen in attendance I was the only one who showed any indication that there was a chill in the air at all. It’s painfully obvious who the new kid was.
On the far wall in front of the giant stained glass display an easel bore a sign that read “welcome, top 15!”. Several waitstaff busied themselves with offering tall flutes of what I could only imagine to be Dom Perignon to all the patrons. I’d passed up three such offers already. I don’t belong here.
I take that back. I do belong in the top 15 if we judge by wallets only. I don’t belong in the same room as these other fatcats for any other reason. They were certainly interested in me, but it was more of a passing curiosity than genuine wonder. Everyone wanted to peer into the eyes of the kid who’d made more than all their daddies combined within 5 years of my stocks going public. It’d be easy to assume that I’d be interested in rubbing shoulders with the other 14 richest idiots in the country, but you’d be wrong there too. I’m only here to find out the Projections. The fifteen richest people, trying to calculate and game their way out of being in the top five.
Somewhere between the invitation and being ushered into this drafty old castle my enthusiasm for the Projections had vanished. Time to focus and make decisions. Just being here, seeing how each bloated tycoon interacted with each other, was enough for me to make my choice.
It was no shock to see so much old money in attendance. These “secret” convergences of the most bloated bank accounts in the nation resembled a family picture album, despite some fraught history and infighting. If nothing else, it was evidence that even rivals could work together to hide their wealth from the government.
The last five Declared victims of the government proved to the Projected that the New Order of Wealth was not a bluff. Five years ago the five most wealthy were Declared guilty of amassing too much wealth with impunity. No one had expected this administration to have the teeth to enforce such a rule but the populace wanted blood, and they got it.
“The Age of Capitalist Greed is coming to an end,” they decried, and the five Declared had laughed even as the guillotine was brought out. Even when the first one was brought to slaughter he still guffawed like it was one great joke, an impossibility. One by one the Declared paid their price and the crowds went wild. Seeing the French Revolution play out with unabashed nationalist pride was… horrifying. But that’s what hungry people do when the bread runs out.
“A national holiday to watch these robber barons die on livestream is exactly what this country needs!” Said all the news anchors, while off-screen rifles pointed squarely at their temples. You didn’t need to see the sweat beading on the newsman’s face to know it was true. This administration was nearly crowing about the lengths they meant to go to in order to fulfill their promises.
Some of the Projected had given their hoards away in earnest, but most were not so easily cowed. Offshore banks, foreign governments and deepweb currencies all were havens for those wishing to flee the oversight of the New Order.
The Order knew. Even though the New Order Monetary Surveillance Group hadn’t played their cards yet, it was a matter of time. If anyone here attempted a funds transfer out of the country, the NOMSG would know about it and I have no doubt those people would disappear without even a chance to be in the Projections. I didn’t shoot to the top of the Projected lists for nothing… tech and digital surveillance was my game of choice. If I wanted to, I could make my money untraceable. But that’s not why I was here.
“It’s an awful shame to stand over here by yourself, rookie.” A deep country drawl made me look up from the marble hearth and meet the eyes of a white haired man grinning at me over the rim of his wine glass. Thick gold rings encircled each of his sausage fingers. Despite looking every bit the oil magnate, I was surprised by the warmth of his smile.
“I find myself the odd man out, sir”. Old money loves it when they’re called sir or ma’am, like you actually care who the fuck they are.
James LeClaire barked a laugh. “Oh, I don’t know son, I’d wager you have more in common with this lot than you’d like to admit.”
I dug into my pocket for my phone for a minute and pulled it out, typing into a waiting app. “Maybe so, Mister LeClaire. But in about thirty seconds all of those similarities will be back down to nothing.” He crinkled his eyes at me quizzically. The app flashed a notification and I held it up for him to see.
“That’s a lot of fancy tech for an old dog like me, what’s it mean?”
“It means, Mister LeClaire,” as I put away my phone. The transaction notification flashed a warning– ‘Your funds just experienced 90 percent depletion’, and ‘transfer complete’. “That everyone just got a little richer.” For these people being richer two weeks before Declarations was not a good thing. LeClaire’s eyes widened, flabbergasted without really understanding why yet. It’s ok. He would soon.
I turned from the hearth and walked away. I may be 90% poorer than two minutes ago, but I’d signed five other people’s death warrants.
My accounts would survive the Declaration. James LeClaire and his four best friends would not.