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Chapter 132 The Moment the Gods Abandon
Chapter 132 The Moment the Gods Abandon
Leo stood on the street below the Morganfield Building, holding his phone.
A cold wind blew through the street, swirling up several pieces of old newspapers.
He raised his head and looked into the distance.
At this physical distance, he couldn't see any flames.
But in that virtual world made up of data and information, a fire has already burned through the roof.
"The Free Trade Promotion Association not only issued a summons, but they also launched a simultaneous media offensive! They compiled the contents of the indictment into an image pack, which is now circulating everywhere!"
"Leo Wallace sold out the city's sovereignty for five hundred million dollars, transforming from a rebel into Morganfield's puppet. 'Leo, although there's no one surrounding us yet, I can feel the anger gathering! This is a city-wide rage! If we don't deal with it immediately, City Hall will be flooded tomorrow morning!'"
Leo's heart clenched.
Everyone?
"Get back to City Hall right away!"
Leo got into the car and yelled at the driver.
The car suddenly lurched forward, its tires screeching as they rubbed against the ground.
Leo opened his phone, and news notifications flooded in like a torrent.
Antitrust lawsuit uncovers dark secrets: Mayor Wallace accused of violating the constitution.
Even worse is social media.
A cartoon is going viral.
In the picture, Morganfield is wearing a tuxedo and holding a dog leash.
A person was tied to the other end of the chain.
The man was wearing a hoodie, with a fawning smile on his face, and was gnawing on a bone that had "re-elected" written on it.
That person is Leo.
The painting was attributed to a radical student group at the University of Pittsburgh.
Just a few months ago, members of this group were helping Leo put up campaign posters.
Now, they've drawn him as a dog.
Through the car window, Leo noticed that printouts of the comic were plastered everywhere—on utility poles, bus stop signs, and everywhere else.
Several young people who looked like students were spraying slogans on a wall with spray paint cans.
Wallace = Judah. Red paint dripped down the wall like wounds.
Leo stared blankly out the window.
He anticipated the rebound, but he didn't expect it to be so fierce.
That lawsuit transformed the previously hesitant doubts into undeniable anger.
For ordinary citizens, they don't understand the complex provisions of the Sherman Act, nor do they understand what a franchise is.
But they understand a simple logic:
Someone accused the mayor of selling the port to a big capitalist.
The court accepted the case.
That means the mayor really did sell it.
This is the logic of mass communication.
The truth needs a book to explain, while a rumor only needs a picture.
Back at City Hall, the situation was worse than expected.
Sarah was in her office dealing with a barrage of phone calls.
"No, the mayor didn't accept bribes—that wasn't betrayal, it was attracting investment—listen to me, it's just normal business cooperation—"
She saw Leo come in and helplessly put down the receiver.
"The Chamber of Commerce is in an uproar too," Sarah said, rubbing her forehead. "Several association presidents representing small and medium-sized freight companies and small businesses just jointly issued an open letter. They say that once Morganfield monopolizes the port, logistics prices will rise, and they will be squeezed out of the market. They accuse you of stifling free competition and murdering small businesses."
"Radicals are accusing you of betrayal, while small business owners are accusing you of monopolistic practices."
Sarah looked at Leo.
"Leo, we're caught in the middle. Even those centrists who don't usually care about politics are starting to doubt your character."
Leo took off his coat and hung it on the hanger.
"Arrange a meeting," Leo said.
"What?"
"A community meeting," Leo straightened his shirt. "Tonight, in the auditorium of Carnegie Library. Send out notices inviting everyone. Students, business owners, union representatives—anyone who wants to come and criticize me is welcome."
"This is too dangerous," Ethan immediately objected. "The crowd is furious right now, and things will definitely get out of control. You should calm things down first and wait for the legal team to issue a statement."
"Giving them the cold shoulder is tantamount to admitting it," Leo interrupted him. "I can hide for a day, but I can't hide forever. I have to face them."
"But they won't listen!" Sarah said urgently. "The crowd is agitated; anger will consume reason. If you try to explain, you'll only become their target."
"I know they won't listen."
Leo's eyes were eerily calm.
"I didn't even expect to use logic to convince a group of people who felt betrayed."
"Then why go?" Ethan asked, puzzled.
"Because it's a gesture."
Leo straightened his cuffs, his tone cold and hard.
"Politics is all about acting. If I don't put on a good show, if I don't stand there and let them spit on me, then even those supporters who still had a glimmer of hope for me will completely abandon me because of my cowardice."
"I have to stand there and tell everyone that I am willing to take responsibility for my decision, even if they think it is wrong."
"That's what the mayor has to do."
"If I really want to be a leader, I must be prepared to face the people I lead at any time."
"Even if they're holding stones instead of flowers."
Ethan and Sarah exchanged a glance; they both saw worry, but also helplessness, in each other's eyes.
They knew they couldn't stop it.
At 7 p.m. that evening, in the Carnegie Library auditorium.
The place was packed with people, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat.
Leo walked up to the podium.
The only response from the audience was a cacophony of boos and whispers.
He stood in front of the microphone, looking at the familiar yet unfamiliar faces below the stage.
Several college students sat in the front row, holding up signs that read "Return the port to the people".
In the middle were several small business owners wearing jackets, each with their arms crossed, watching coldly.
Only in the back corner sat a few workers wearing orange vests—Frank's men—who looked somewhat bewildered.
Good evening, Pittsburgh.
Leo spoke.
"I know why you're angry. I know that article about the port disappointed you."
"Liar!" someone shouted from the audience.
Leo paused for a moment, then ignored the voice.
"But I'm not standing here today to make excuses."
Leo's voice, amplified through the microphone, filled the entire auditorium, drowning out the rising and falling boos.
"I'm here to clarify the facts."
"Those so-called exposé articles online, those accusations that I sold out city assets, are the most vicious slander against the city of Pittsburgh."
Leo tapped his fingers lightly on the podium.
"We didn't sell anything."
"We brought in a strategic partner with strong capabilities by going through the most stringent legal bidding process in accordance with the Urban Redevelopment Act."
"This is a legitimate commercial contracting deal aimed at saving our dying logistics industry."
Leo's gaze swept over the angry faces below the stage, and his tone hardened.
"As for that so-called antitrust lawsuit, it's nothing but a baseless political stunt, a malicious attack launched by competitors to hinder Pittsburgh's resurgence. I assure you, the law will clear our names, and this lawsuit will definitely be resolved."
"The choice we face is simple."
"Are we just going to sit here guarding an old port and watch our city continue to decay?"
"Or should we bring in a professional operator to activate this asset and use its revenue to improve the lives of all of us?"
"This is not a compromise."
Leo stared at the audience.
"This is a strategic step that must be taken for the future of Pittsburgh."
Leo felt that he had explained things very clearly and that his logic was sound.
But the audience's reaction was not what he had expected.
A middle-aged man stood up.
His name is Smith, and he's a small business owner who runs a hardware store in the South District.
"Mr. Mayor, we have indeed seen some of the benefits you mentioned," Smith said. "The road in front of my house has been repaired, and I thank you for that."
"But you sold the port to Morganfield. Do you know what that means? It means that if I want to import goods in the future, they will set the freight costs. They can raise prices whenever they want, and cut off supplies whenever they want."
"You put our necks under that vampire's knife in order to build the road."
"What kind of development is this? This is like drinking poison to quench thirst!"
Smith's words were met with agreement.
This is the most realistic logic of ordinary citizens.
They wanted smooth roads, thriving businesses, and a revitalized city.
But they hoped it would all be free, a windfall.
If you tell them, "In order to build the road, we need to give up some of our profits to capital,"
They'll jump up and call you a lackey of capital.
If you tell them, "We don't have the money to build roads right now in order to prevent capital from monopolizing them."
They'll point their fingers at you and call you a useless piece of trash.
They want the benefits of change, but they don't want to bear the costs of change.
In their eyes, the perfect politician should be a magician who can conjure bread out of thin air without eating, sleeping, or even following economic laws.
Immediately afterwards, a young female student stood up.
She was wearing glasses, and her eyes were full of disappointment.
"Mr. Wallace."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"We chose you because you said you wanted to break the old order, and you said you wanted to fight against the big capitalists who control the city."
"We campaigned for you day and night, defending you."
"And the result?"
The girl held up a campaign poster with a picture of Leo giving a speech on the lawn.
"You've only been in office for a few months, and you've already become a partner at Morganfield."
"You told us this was for development."
"Cartwright said the same thing! Every politician who betrays us says the same thing!"
"You've become the kind of person you used to hate the most!"
This accusation struck Leo like a whip across the face.
He tried to explain: "This isn't betrayal, this is—"
"This is betrayal!" the girl screamed.
She crumpled the poster in her hand into a ball and threw it hard at the podium.
The crumpled paper landed at Leo's feet.
Immediately afterwards, a campaign badge that read "Wallace: The People's Choice" was thrown up.
Clang.
The metal badge hit the floor with a crisp sound, then rolled to the side of Leo's shoe.
Leo looked down at the badge.
It was designed by Sarah herself in the early stages of his campaign, and those who could possess this badge were his initial supporters.
Now, it's being thrown back like trash.
Chaos erupted at the scene.
Some people are criticizing, while others are defending themselves.
The workers in the back row stood up.
"Shut up, all of you!" an old worker roared. "What do you bookworms know? If it weren't for the mayor, I'd still be starving! I don't care who built the port, as long as I get paid!"
"Exactly! What's wrong with Morganfield? At least he pays his employees on time!"
"You middle-class folks are just being pretentious!"
The workers' support did not make Leo feel at ease.
On the contrary, this exacerbated the divisions within the community.
The People's Alliance that had once united around Leo, a broad front that included students, workers, and small business owners, had now completely collapsed in the auditorium of Carnegie Library.
They blamed and hated each other.
"You bunch of short-sighted pigs!" the female student who threw the badge screamed at the workers in the back row, her face flushed red. "For that little bit of wages, you've sold the soul of this city! You don't understand what democracy is at all; you're feeding monsters!"
"Fuck your soul!"
An old worker in the back row suddenly stood up, veins bulging on his neck, spittle flying everywhere.
"My kids need to eat! I need to pay my rent! You bunch of bookworms who use your parents' credit cards to drink coffee at Starbucks, what right do you have to lecture us? Wait until you've starved for three days, then let's see if you're still talking about that damned soul!"
The small business owners in the middle watched coldly, occasionally chiming in with sarcastic remarks: "Stop arguing. Whether he's doing it for the soul or for bread, in the end, it's us taxpayers who suffer."
"Morganfield monopolizes the port. If our freight rates rise, who will foot the bill? It'll just be passed on to prices!"
The hall was in complete chaos.
The class divide was deeper than the Grand Canyon at that moment.
Leo stood on the stage, becoming the focal point of all these conflicts.
Seeing this scene, he suddenly felt speechless.
He had a whole host of reasons prepared.
He wanted to tell them that this is the price of politics.
He wanted to tell them that for that greater goal, for the survival of this city, for the survival of this wrecked ship, some sacrifices were necessary, and some filth was unavoidable.
But when he opened his mouth, no sound came out.
Because he knew that no one wanted to listen.
Nobody cared about his grand narrative about the city's future.
For students, purity is the bottom line; for merchants, freedom is the bottom line; for workers, bread is the bottom line.
These three things cannot be satisfied simultaneously under the heavy pull of reality.
The meeting ended abruptly.
Escorted by security personnel, Leo left the auditorium in a disheveled state.
He got into the car and closed the door.
The noise outside was shut out, leaving only the silence inside the carriage.
Ethan sat in the passenger seat, head down, not daring to look in the rearview mirror.
Sarah sat next to Leo, clutching the tablet tightly in her hand.
"They don't understand," Sarah said softly, as if comforting Leo, and also as if comforting herself. "They don't know what you sacrificed for this money."
Leo didn't speak.
He leaned back in his chair, watching the street scene recede outside the window.
The streetlights cast a dim yellow light, making the shadows very long.
He felt an unprecedented loneliness.
This kind of loneliness isn't about being alone; it's about having no one to understand you.
For the sake of this city, he transformed himself into a politician who made deals with the devil.
He thought that as long as the outcome was good, people would forgive his methods.
But he was wrong.
In this city, he was the only sinner.
He fixed the road, but he got his hands dirty.
People walk on the smooth road, yet point at his dirty hands and call him a traitor.
"How are you feeling, child?"
Roosevelt's voice rang out.
"It's cold," Leo answered in his mind.
This cold was ten thousand times more biting than the air conditioning he felt in the Morganfield cigar room.
That was the chill of being misunderstood, the chill of being betrayed by one's own people.
"That's what governing is all about," Roosevelt said.
"During an election campaign, you are a mirror; everyone can see in you the perfect illusion they desire."
"When you're in power, you're the hammer; every nail you drive in hurts a hand."
You can't please everyone.
"The girl who threw the badge, she hates you because you shattered her illusion of perfection."
"The shop owner hates you because you took away his cheese."
"Only the worker who received his wages supports you, because you gave him a job."
"You have to make a choice, Leo."
"Do you want to be a saint in the eyes of those students, or a savior in the eyes of those workers?"
You can't be both.
The car was parked at the side entrance of the city hall.
Ethan and Sarah looked at Leo, wanting to say something, to offer him some comfort on this terrible night.
"Get out of the car," Leo said. "Go home. Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, I want to see you all without any emotion."
The two looked at Leo's cold, hard profile, but ultimately said nothing and got out of the car.
Leo dismissed the driver, got into the driver's seat, started the car, and stepped on the gas.
The black sedan sped into the Pittsburgh night, driving uphill along the winding mountain road.
As the altitude increases, the hustle and bustle of the city is left behind.
The scenery outside the car window rushed past, as if he were leaving a world filled with fervent anticipation and angry accusations.
The viewpoint next to the Durcan Slope cable car station on Mount Washington.
This is the highest point in Pittsburgh, and a place Leo visited during his campaign.
At that moment, he looked at the city in the rain, his eyes filled with the desire to conquer it, and he felt intimately connected with the twinkling lights below.
Now, the night sky is clear, and the wind is biting cold.
Leo leaned against the railing, with the brightly lit delta below.
The city hasn't changed, but the people standing here have.
Because he realized that among those 300,000 lights below, not one truly understood him.
This is the moment when we are abandoned by the gods.
When the hero takes off his halo, the believers will find that the person sitting on the altar is just a cunning mortal.
So they became angry, they turned against the temple, and they wanted to burn it down.
Leo took a cigarette out of his pocket.
He doesn't usually smoke, but he's been carrying a pack of cigarettes with him these past few days.
"Mr. President," Leo said in his mind, "I have a question for you."
"The small steel mill strike of 1937," Leo said, gazing into the distance. "Those workers once saw you as a savior, hanging your portrait in their living rooms. But when you, under political pressure, told both sides of the strike that you wished the plague would befall your two families."
"Those workers burned your portrait, and they cursed you at the factory gate, calling you a liar and a lackey of capitalists."
.
"How did you feel that night?"
Leo's voice drifted somewhat in the wind.
Are you angry? Or do you feel wronged?
In the realm of consciousness, Roosevelt sits in a wheelchair, wiping his pince-nez glasses.
He stopped what he was doing and looked up.
His face remained completely expressionless, displaying only an almost divine indifference and clarity.
I slept very soundly.
Roosevelt replied.
"That night, I had a martini, read two chapters of a detective novel, and then went to sleep."
Leo was stunned.
Why?
"Because I am the president," Roosevelt said calmly, "not their father, nor their nanny."
"Leo, your current problem isn't those insults."
Roosevelt put his glasses back on and stared sharply at Leo.
"You feel frustrated and in pain because your evolution is not yet complete."
"You've already developed the mindset of selling your soul."
"For $500 million, for the revitalization plan, you dared to sell the port to Morganfield, dared to kill your own pure self. This kind of ruthlessness is something many politicians can never learn in their entire lives."
"However, your experience and your abilities are far from sufficient to support you in navigating the arena of power."
"You're like an intern who's just gotten his hands on a scalpel. You dare to cut open a patient's chest, you have the determination to save lives, but your skills are too weak."
"When you see blood spurting out, when you see patients cursing you from the pain, you panic."
"You start to doubt your own scalpel technique, and you start to care about the patients' screams."
"When a truly top-tier politician is removing a tumor, his hand is steady and his heart is cold. He can't hear the criticism; he only sees the lesion."
The reason you feel bad right now is because your ambition has outpaced your abilities.
"You're in this complicated situation, trying to catch every thread—you want to keep the workers happy, you want to keep the union happy, you want to keep the students happy."
"That's impossible."
Roosevelt's voice became stern.
"Admit it, Leo, your methods are still very immature. Your response in the auditorium just now was tough, but it was a tough response born of desperation."
"If you're really experienced enough, you won't even give that student a chance to throw the badge onto the stage."
Leo fell silent.
He was definitely just putting on a brave face.
He is maintaining this precarious situation in a way that is almost self-destructive.
"Prepare for the worst."
Roosevelt offered advice.
"Murphy's election campaign may be lost, and your approval rating may continue to decline."
"Accept these possibilities."
"Then, on these ruins, continue building your house."
"In this position, being misunderstood is the norm, and being appreciated is the exception."
"If you don't even have this much mental fortitude, if you need the applause of those people to survive."
"Then you are not fit to be the mayor."
Leo took a deep breath of the cold air.
The stinging sensation in his lungs brought him back to his senses.
He crumpled the unlit cigarette and threw it into the wind.
"Understood."
Leo turned around and walked towards the car.
"I'm going back."
City Hall, Mayor's Office.
Leo pushed open the door, sat down in the chair, and turned on the television on the opposite wall.
The evening news is being rebroadcast on TV.
The screen flickered, and the scene switched to Scranton in northeastern Pennsylvania.
The background of the image is the lobby of a veterans' association.
The hall was packed with veterans wearing boat-shaped caps and their families.
Russell Warren stood on the podium with a huge American flag behind him.
He had just finished a routine speech on "patriotism" and "military welfare," which was met with enthusiastic applause.
When it came time for the Q&A session, a reporter who was clearly pre-arranged stood up and held the microphone to his mouth.
"Senator, what are your thoughts on the current Democratic primary battle? Lieutenant Governor Monroe has accused Senator Murphy of being too aggressive, while Senator Murphy has accused Lieutenant Governor Monroe of inaction."
Warren placed his hands on the podium, a slight, contemptuous smile on his face.
He knew that his words would be repeatedly broadcast on the evening news and edited into a short video and sent to the phones of every Pennsylvania voter.
"What do you think?"
Warren spoke into the microphone, his voice booming.
"This is the current state of the Democratic Party, my friends. This is a tragedy."
"Take a look at the options they offer to Pennsylvania."
Warren held up one finger.
"On one side is John Murphy."
"A radical who just stands on a truck and shouts, a dreamer who tries to solve all problems by printing money."
"His mind was filled with Sanders' unrealistic socialist fantasies; he thought that as long as the printing press was turned on, steel mills would magically spring up from the ground."
A burst of laughter erupted from the audience.
Then, Warren extended a second finger, his eyes even showing a hint of pity.
"And on the other side is Aston Monroe."
"That Philadelphia elite, the lieutenant governor in a suit that costs thousands of dollars."
"He's like a pre-programmed robot, only able to read the scripts written by his PR team."
Have you ever seen him angry? Have you ever seen him laugh out loud? No.
"He doesn't even dare to speak out on any controversial issues. Look at his response to Philadelphia's soaring crime rate and his silence in the face of the energy crisis."
Warren suddenly raised his voice.
"weak!"
The word seemed to burst out of my chest.
"That's the only adjective."
"Monroe represents the inherent weakness of the Democratic establishment; they dare not offend the radicals, nor do they dare offend the big donors. They just want to avoid offending anyone and just get by."
"Pennsylvania needs a strong man, a fighter who can protect our families in this crisis-ridden world."
"Instead of being a spineless coward who's too afraid to even speak up!"
Leo stared at the television screen, his eyebrows slightly raised.
"Mr. President, did you hear that?"
"Leo thought to himself."
"He's helping us."
Roosevelt's voice rang out: "Warren is an old hand; he knows how to destroy a man."
"He called Murphy radical and socialist. These words sound like flaws and monsters to Republican voters."
"But to the angry voters at the Democratic Party grassroots, and to the union members who yearn for change, radicalism means daring to fight, and socialism means welfare."
"Warren is helping Murphy solidify his left-wing image."
"But look at what judgment he made of Monroe," Roosevelt said. "Weakness."
"In politics, you can be bad, you can be stupid, and you can even be greedy."
"But you absolutely cannot back down."
"Once a politician is labeled as weak, half of his political life is over."
"Voters can forgive a robber, but they will never forgive a coward."
"This is not right."
On the screen, Warren was still receiving applause from the veterans in the audience, a calm smile on his wrinkled face.
Leo frowned; his intuition was screaming for help.
"Warren has been in politics for thirty years; he understands the logic of party primaries better than anyone. Doesn't he know that attacking Monroe for being weak will directly damage Monroe's image among swing voters, thus pushing their votes to us?"
Why would he do that? To help us?
Before his discussion with Roosevelt could go any further, his phone rang.
The ringing sounded particularly jarring in the office late at night, like an ominous alarm.
Leo glanced at the number.
It's Murphy.
He answered the phone, trying to keep his tone calm: "John, did you see Warren's speech? That old guy is handing us a knife. Although he has bad intentions, this is exactly the opportunity we need—"
"Leo————"
John Murphy's voice came through the receiver, a voice filled with despair.
Leo's heart sank.
"What happened?"
"It's over."
Murphy's voice trembled.
"Just now, the chairman of the Democratic National Committee called me personally, as did the Senate Majority Leader; they had a conference call."
"They gave me an ultimatum."
"They demanded that I formally announce my withdrawal from the election."
"And, unconditionally support Aston Monroe."