Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1665 - 759: God Rolls the Dice...
Capítulo 1665: Chapter 759: God Rolls the Dice…
Washington, early April 1996.
An unusually large, almost eerie, snowfall was steadily covering the entire city.
Such snow accumulation in April was extremely rare in the history of Washington.
The White House Rose Garden was draped in silver; the flowers and plants, originally symbolizing vitality and life, were buried under the thick, wet snow, emanating a deadened, silent tranquility.
Little Bush sat alone on a long bench in the garden corridor, wearing only a thin suit, as if he couldn’t feel the biting cold.
Snowflakes fell on his graying hair and shoulders, unnoticed by him, as he simply sat there, staring blankly ahead at the Oval Office window blurred by the snowfall, devoid of expression, like a statue being eroded by wind and snow.
When the news finally came that the main member countries of NATO had formally announced the dispatch of organized combat units to the “Freedom Alliance,” disregarding his repeated warnings and opposition, the last strand that supported him in his heart seemed to snap completely.
All of his efforts, all of his struggles, even everything he did despite bearing the labels of “Tyrant” and “Capital Traitor,” now appeared so absurd and futile at this moment.
He couldn’t become the Roosevelt who turned the tide; he was just a wretched soul watching powerlessly as the Empire crumbled in his hands, drained of even the strength to resist by external forces and internal rot.
A sudden and chaotic sound of footsteps broke the garden’s silence, crunching on the snow.
Chief of Staff Carl Rove ran over, panting, face carrying undisguised panic, and only when he saw the lonely figure almost merging with the snowy scene did he exhale a long sigh of relief.
“George! God, you’re here! I’ve been looking for you everywhere, you’re not answering your phone…” Rove’s voice was breathless and slightly reproachful but more concerned.
Little Bush did not turn back, nor did he move, as if he hadn’t heard.
After quite a while, he stiffly pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket, taking one and placing it in his mouth.
The flame of the lighter flickered in the wind and snow several times before igniting the cigarette. He took a deep drag, the spicy smoke mixing with the cold air filling his lungs, bringing on a slight cough.
“Carl.”
His voice was hoarse, carrying a near-nihilistic calm, “When I first came to power, I really thought I could do something. I thought I could lead this country through a crisis like Roosevelt. But now I understand… I am no one. I’m just a failed… roadside wild dog.”
Rove’s heart tightened, opened his mouth, wanting to say something comforting or encouraging like “things aren’t the worst yet” or “we’ll find a way,” but all the words stuck in his throat, unable to utter a single syllable.
The scene before him and the aura of total despair emanating from the President made any words seem pale and powerless.
Little Bush took another drag of the cigarette, the smoke quickly dissipating in the cold air, not looking at Rove, his gaze still fixed in the void ahead, self-muttering, “You still have Green, you all benefited quite a bit from those military fund allocations, right?”
These words exploded like a silent thunder beside Rove’s ears.
His face instantly turned pale, pupils contracted in shock and fear, body slightly swayed, almost slipping in the snow.
He opened his mouth wide but couldn’t form any effective rebuttal.
So sudden!
Little Bush finally turned his head, glancing at Rove, his eyes absent of anger or accusation, only containing an unfathomable fatigue and disappointment.
He gently shook his head, his lips twitching as if trying to form a mocking smile, but ultimately failing, instead transforming into a barely audible sigh.
“I’m planning to resign.” Little Bush turned his head back, announcing calmly, as if discussing a matter unrelated to himself.
“Wh… what?!” Rove was completely stunned, his mind went blank, even temporarily forgetting the panic brought by the previous question, “George! You can’t! Do you know what resigning now means? It means we’re completely admitting defeat! It means…”
“Does it make any difference what it means?” Little Bush interrupted him, his voice still calm yet carrying an undeniable decisiveness, “This mess, whoever wants to take it over, let them come. I’m tired, Carl. I’m really… tired.”
He stood up, patted the snow off his pants, movements slow and sluggish, he threw the half-smoked cigarette onto the snow-covered ground, the weak sparks extinguishing instantly.
He looked at the dumbfounded Rove and waved his hand, “If there’s no need, don’t come looking for me anymore.”
Upon finishing, he ignored Rove and turned, trudging through the snow towards the residential area of the White House.
His back appeared unusually small and stooped amid the flying snowflakes, filled with unspeakable loneliness and desolation, like an old man abandoned by the whole world.
Rove stood rigidly in place, staring at the figure gradually disappearing into the snow curtain, his body uncontrollably trembling slightly.
A complex mix of emotions, blending immense shame, fear, loss, and a peculiar sense of relief collided within him.
