Empires of Dust

The snowstorm raged with an indifferent ferocity, obscuring the dense woods that encased a solitary log cabin. The structure creaked under the relentless wind, its shutters flapping against frostbitten timbers. Inside, the faint glow of a crackling fire cast long shadows across rough-hewn walls, illuminating the perplexed faces of three men seated around a crude wooden table.

Donald J. Trump, his trademark scowl deepening with each passing minute, glanced suspiciously at his companions. His red tie hung slightly askew, a defiant splash of color against the bleakness outside. Opposite him sat Ronald Reagan, his genial demeanor betraying an undercurrent of calculation. His suit was impeccable, the faint scent of old cologne clinging to the tailored fabric. Completing the trio was Jefferson Davis, clad in the austere garments of the 19th century, his piercing gaze sharp beneath the shadow of high cheekbones and a carefully trimmed beard.

“Where the hell am I?” Trump finally barked, his voice echoing off the logs.

Reagan chuckled lightly, a rehearsed ease in his tone. “Well now, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

Davis leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “Gentlemen, I suspect we are here for a reason, though what that reason might be eludes me.”

After tense introductions and futile attempts to rationalize their predicament, the conversation drifted, as it inevitably would, to politics.

Trump slammed his hand on the table, his face contorted with disdain. “The fake news media, they’re the enemy of the people, believe me. They lie, they cheat, and they hate winners like me. That’s why I had to bypass them, talk directly to the people—the real people, not those weaklings crying about fairness. You gotta be ruthless, that’s how you win. Unchecked ambition, that’s the key. Only losers worry about rules.”

Reagan chuckled, leaning back with a nostalgic glint in his eye. “Ah, the media. They’ve always been a thorn. But remember, it’s about controlling the narrative. When I called the Soviet Union the ‘evil empire,’ it wasn’t just rhetoric—it was strategy. Fear is a powerful motivator. And as for economics, trickle-down works. You empower the wealthy, and prosperity follows. Well, for those who deserve it. The rest? They just need to work harder.”

Davis interlaced his fingers, his voice smooth as aged bourbon. “Gentlemen, power is preserved through tradition. The Confederate cause was not merely about land or governance; it was about protecting a way of life, a hierarchy ordained by nature itself. ‘States’ rights’ and ‘heritage’ aren’t just words; they’re shields for the truth we dared not say openly. It’s about maintaining the order that keeps the strong above the weak.”

Their words overlapped, the cadence of self-justification weaving a tapestry of shared belief. Each man’s rhetoric, though dressed in the attire of his era, resonated with the same fundamental chords: domination, control, and an unyielding sense of superiority.

As hours passed, the realization dawned—they agreed on nearly everything. Their rhetoric, though framed by different eras, echoed with the same themes: power concentrated in the hands of the few, a disdain for dissent, and a belief in their inherent superiority.

Trump shifted uncomfortably, his face flushing with frustration. “You know what? This is ridiculous. I don’t need to sit here with you two relics, nodding like some loser. I’m a winner. The biggest winner.”

Reagan chuckled softly, his smile infuriatingly serene. “Of course, Donald. Winning is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it? But the methods are timeless. Control, fear, and dominance—they never fail.”

Davis nodded in agreement, his voice a smooth drawl. “He’s right. We all know the truth: people need strong leaders. Leaders who aren’t afraid to put their foot down, to maintain order, to remind the weak of their place. That’s the only way civilizations endure.”

Trump’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists on the table. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not like you. You were stuck in the past. I’m the future. The best future. The smartest, most successful person this planet has ever seen.”

Reagan’s smile widened, eyes glinting with something unspoken. “Isn’t that what we all believed? But really, the playbook never changes.”

“Shut up,” Trump snapped, slamming his fist on the table. “I did it my way. My crowds were bigger. My power was real. People loved me because I’m a genius, not because I played some old game.”

Davis leaned in slightly, his tone dripping with condescension masked as camaraderie. “Of course, Mr. Trump. A genius indeed. Your strategies were… inspired. Manipulating fear, stoking division, claiming to be the savior while exploiting the chaos. A true masterstroke.”

Trump shot to his feet, his face a mask of rage. “I am not like you! I didn’t need to hide behind old ideas or fake smiles. I am the movement. I am the storm!”

Ignoring the howling wind outside, he stormed out, slamming the door with a finality that rattled the fragile peace within.

Silence settled, broken only by the hiss of the fire.

Reagan sighed, his genial facade melting away. His eyes glinted with an otherworldly sheen. “Well, that was disappointing.”

Davis smirked, his form subtly shifting, revealing a visage not quite human—angles too sharp, eyes too luminous. “Indeed. The experiment has concluded.”

They rose, moving to the window where the storm swallowed Trump’s retreating figure. The snow seemed to part for him briefly before reclaiming its dominion.

Reagan’s voice was softer now, almost mournful. “He was a prime candidate. A leader shaped by Earth’s most dominant systems. Yet incapable of self-reflection, blinded by ego.”

“A common flaw among them,” Davis replied. “We hoped for a sign of growth, a spark of potential. Instead, we found rot that runs deep.”

They exchanged a glance, unspoken consensus forming.

“Quarantine,” Reagan murmured.

Davis nodded. “For at least ten thousand Earth years. Let the infection die in isolation.”

As they vanished into the air, leaving only the faintest shimmer behind, the cabin grew colder, the fire sputtering in their absence. Outside, the storm raged on, indifferent to the verdict rendered against humanity.