Shock due to shortages

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In the dimly lit corner of a dusty tavern near Long 15, an old television buzzed as the news echoed throughout the place. The screen flickered, showing images of the barren landscape of Shady Sands, where locals stood in line for water rations.

"In recent news, the water shortage in the Shady Sands area continues to worsen due to the cut in supply after losing control of Hoover Dam," the anchorwoman announced with a tense yet measured voice. "Senators have proposed a bill to limit livestock activities in order to prevent further shortages, but President Kimball argues the law is unconstitutional and assures that the issue will soon disappear once the dam is retaken."

The patrons barely lifted their heads, long accustomed to the steady stream of bad news. Conversations continued in murmurs, accompanied by the soft clink of glasses hitting the worn wooden tables. The men and women gathered there, many of them mercenaries, traders, and adventurers, had little faith in the empty promises of the NCR government.

A weary worker slumped heavily onto a barstool, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion and frustration. His face, darkened by the dust and sweat of the factory, bore the marks of a man defeated by an endless day.

"Give me the strongest thing you've got..." he muttered, his words dragging as he tapped his fingers on the bar. "It's been a damn awful day. The factory's at a standstill because of the constant power outages, and the supervisors don't want to risk damaging the machines."

The bartender, an older man with gray hair and a tired expression, nodded silently. He poured a glass of dark liquor and slid it over without a word, offering only a brief look of understanding. The worker grabbed it roughly, taking a long gulp, seeking to drown his pent-up anger in the alcohol.

Meanwhile, the television droned on, with the monotone voice of the anchorwoman delivering more bad news to the room.

"We've spoken plenty about Caesar's Legion and the chaos they've brought with their barbaric ways. Our brave soldiers managed to halt their northern advance, but reports from the south indicate the Legion continues its rampage, attacking a sister republic. Not long ago, the conflict between the Legion and the Republic of Río Grande came to an end, but tensions remain high. For more on this, we'll have General Lee Oliver in our next segment," the anchor announced as the news network's logo briefly flashed on the screen.

The worker let out a bitter laugh, downing his glass in one swift motion before slamming it onto the bar with a dull thud.

"Lee Oliver..." he muttered disdainfully. "Always talking about victories and how strong we are. Meanwhile, we're breaking our backs in factories that barely run. And those Legion bastards keep pushing through the south like nothing's stopping them. How long can this go on?"

The bartender, wiping a glass with a dirty rag, glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, saying nothing. The radio, playing alongside the television, echoed the same news. The conflict in the south was on everyone's mind, though few dared to discuss the full scope of the threat.

The tavern began to fill up as more people trickled in, seeking refuge from the sweltering heat and the barrage of bad news pounding the NCR. The air thickened with murmurs of frustration, while the smell of cheap liquor and sweat mingled in the atmosphere. Outside, dust from constant sandstorms swirled through the streets, adding to the sense of desolation that mirrored the hopelessness etched on the faces of the patrons.

With each passing day, the Republic suffered more under the strain of water shortages and power outages brought on by the loss of Hoover Dam to Caesar's Legion. The lights in the tavern flickered sporadically, casting a brief, uncomfortable silence over the room before they hummed back to life.

"This paper's worth less every day," a man grumbled, holding up a crumpled five-dollar NCR bill, his face flushed with anger. "My brother in Shady Sands says the machine printing this stuff hasn't stopped. More of these pretty papers every day, and they're worth less each time."

The man next to him, a worker with calloused hands and tired eyes, scoffed in response. "That's why I switched back to bottle caps. Kimball can't just print millions of caps out of thin air to fund his damn wars in the north, south, and east. At least caps have value."

"Where's your patriotism, you ungrateful bastard!" another man chimed in from the bar, raising his voice above the murmurs. "These are just temporary problems. The president said it himself: we'll retake the dam soon, and everything will go back to normal."

His words hung in the air, but instead of inspiring confidence, they were met with skepticism and resignation. Hard times had eroded the people's faith in government promises. Many, like the worker who preferred caps, had long since stopped believing in a return to normal.

The television continued to flicker in the corner, casting unsettling shadows across the patrons' faces. As always, the news brought more grim updates. The anchorwoman's voice cut through the tavern's low hum, drawing the attention of a few while others remained engrossed in their own conversations.

"In these times of crisis, it's necessary to tighten our belts," the anchor declared, her tone attempting to sound calm, though it only underscored the severity of the situation. "The head of the Farmers and Ranchers Association claims food prices will continue to rise due to the water shortage affecting crops in the Shady Sands area. Citizens are urged to make careful purchases and cut back on luxuries this year."

The silence that followed was brief yet palpable. Some muttered under their breath, while others simply shook their heads, knowing full well that the hard times were far from over. Rising prices and shortages of essential goods affected everyone, but for the poorest, it was a matter of sheer survival.

"Belt? What belt?" spat one of the workers from his table. "There's nothing left to tighten. I can barely put food on the table with these prices."

A younger patron, visibly frustrated, let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, right, cut back on luxuries. Like anyone here can afford luxuries. Every penny goes to just staying alive while those bastards in the government line their pockets."

The tension in the tavern simmered beneath the surface as the harsh realities of life in the NCR weighed heavily on the shoulders of everyone inside. Each day seemed a little darker, with no end in sight to the crises that plagued the Republic.

The frustration in the room intensified, fueled by a sense of helplessness. Complaints and murmurs grew louder, reflecting the tension that hung in the air. Meanwhile, the television continued its broadcast, speaking of austerity measures and promises of recovery that, to many, felt distant and empty.

"Finally, what many of you have been waiting for: we now have General Oliver Lee here to speak about the upcoming campaign," announced the anchor, attempting to inject a sense of enthusiasm that clashed with the palpable tension in the room. The camera focused on the general, an imposing man in a crisp uniform, his expression hardened by years of war and difficult decisions.

The bar fell into a tense silence as attention shifted to the screen. Some patrons raised their half-filled glasses, while others stopped talking, their tired faces turning to the television with a mix of interest and skepticism.

"Thank you, Jane," General Lee began, his deep voice resonating with authority. "We are going through tough times, but our Republic has overcome challenges before, and this will be no exception. The recent loss of Hoover Dam to the Legion is undoubtedly a hard blow for all of us. But I want to assure you that our best men are already preparing a counteroffensive."

"Chief Hanlon led a remarkable defense, managing to halt a crazed group of machete-wielding men, sacrificing hundreds of soldiers in Boulder Town to completely stop the advance of that group of slavers. Unfortunately, his attempt to retake the dam from the forces that managed to escape was unsuccessful," continued General Lee, his tone now more serious. The tension in the room was palpable as he described the challenges faced by the NCR Rangers in their struggle against Caesar's Legion.

"But once the campaign in Baja concludes, we will have the Rangers back in the Mojave to reclaim what is ours and bring civilization to the tyrant who calls himself Caesar."

The words echoed through the tavern, where the tired, dust-covered faces of the workers reflected the doubts many held about this supposed "victory" on the horizon. The promise of the Rangers, once the pride of the Republic, now seemed distant, almost a mirage amidst the growing despair.

"Same old crap," grumbled one of the men at a table near the bar. "Hanlon's bleeding out there, and these bureaucrats make it sound like we're winning. All they ever do is ask for more sacrifices."

"I told you before," the government supporter chimed in. "The Rangers are in Baja. But when they return, the Legion won't stand a chance. We'll take back the Mojave and the dam, and it'll be the beginning of the end for Caesar."

The man who had questioned the situation clicked his tongue, clearly disillusioned. "And how many more have to die for that to happen? Every day it gets worse. While we tighten our belts, they sit in their cushy offices, waiting for everyone else to fight for them."

"Additionally," General Lee continued, his tone unwavering, "the Senate will soon approve a new draft, targeting young men and woman between 17 and 21 to fill our ranks, along with new taxes to fund the essential budget needed to retake Hoover Dam from those savages and push into Arizona, expanding the Republic with new member states."

The words hit hard in the tavern, but instead of enthusiasm or relief, they were met with a deep silence of uncertainty. Faces, hardened by struggle, absorbed every word with a mixture of resignation and frustration. The draft, already a contentious issue, now directly targeted the sons of many in the room—young men who had known nothing but the harsh life in the NCR, and who were now being sent to war.

"Now they're going to take our sons too?" a man muttered, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "It's easy to talk about sacrifice when it's not them on the front lines."

Another man, sitting near the bar, clenched his fists. "Taxes and more taxes... all to fund a war that seems never-ending. And meanwhile, we're still rationing water and living without electricity."

The room fell into an uneasy silence once more, the air thick with tension. The promises of victory and recovery seemed far removed from the daily struggles of those who bore the brunt of the conflict, left to wonder how much more they could endure.