The nation had fractured long before the final collapse. Lines had been drawn, families divided, and ideology had become the only currency that mattered. The corrupt politicians had played their game well, pitting neighbor against neighbor, feeding the flames of hatred until the country was nothing but smoldering ruins.
Now, the remnants of what was once the United States told two starkly different stories.
In the husks of the old cities, left-wing extremists prowled the broken streets like starving animals, scavenging for whatever scraps remained. The utopia they once dreamed of had never come to pass; their cries for equality had turned to desperate pleas for survival. With no government left to coddle them and no infrastructure to sustain them, they tore at each other, fighting for whatever meager resources remained. Once-grand boulevards were now battlegrounds, and the hollowed-out skyscrapers stood like silent tombstones over a lost civilization.
But beyond the desolation, in hidden valleys, deep forests, and fortified settlements, the freedom-lovers had secured their own future. They had seen the fall coming and had prepared while the others scoffed. Their communes were built not on blind faith in institutions, but on self-reliance, discipline, and an unshakable belief in liberty. They cultivated their own food, maintained their own defenses, and held fast to the traditions that once made their country great. Here, families thrived, children learned history untainted by propaganda, and the people forged a new path—one free from the chains of bureaucracy and tyranny.
The two worlds could not be more different. One was a crumbling wasteland of regret and infighting, where the last remnants of collectivist ideology turned brother against brother. The other was a return to something primal, something honest—a society where hard work and personal responsibility meant survival, and where freedom had finally found a home.
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