No matter how great or small, influential or insignificant, famous or unknown, everything in this world dies. Once the breath of life is gone, the body lies in decay until nothing is left but bones. Eventually these bones endure the drudging process of being buried and unearthed by countless circumstances, ranging from a curious animal’s paws digging at the faint scent of a carcass to nature’s fury tossing them around like a discarded ragdoll. The end result is a jigsaw-like collection of remains all but forgotten by the rest of the living world.
       Nowadays, France is that old pile of dusty relics, abandoned by everyone else in their own proud countries. Of course, we used to be more powerful than those puny states; we were a mighty lion, if you will, a rather majestic empire everyone feared for their own good. We did have it good, too. Everyone was working, had money padding their trouser pockets, and kept food steadily on the table, night after night.
       This glorious peace lasted all until Parliament decided we should be involved in the Chess War. Stupid, stupid, stupid! You see, we are -were- the third most powerful country in the world, but stayed ever neutral (unless outwardly threatened by whomever wanted what we had and was willing an attempt to steal-fools!). The first and second runners, the United States and Russia, have been in a weapons race for almost a century now and have been monopolizing all nearby territories to get back at one another (hence “Chess War”).
       It was about the forty-second year of the conflict or so, and Prime Minister Poisson decided to intervene on Russia’s power play on our long time trading partner, Germany, for all of their armory stock. All went silent across the continent as Poisson’s step against Russia rang out like an unexpected slap in a heated courtroom debate. Everyone held their breath to see what exactly would happen.
       It must have not been too deep of a breath, because a short two days later, firebombs fell on our beloved country like the rain used to in the summer time. Old footage I was shown as a child showed smoke clouding the streets as people from all walks of life swam in and out of the haze, looking to cling to one another as their reality fell down around them in a massive cloud of ash. Once the dust settled, orphans and widows wandered the streets crying out to one another; some calls were answered and others fell into agonizing silence. This silence carried all around the world, as the blanket of trauma lay down on our country, seemingly never to get up.
       There we sat, at the lowest of the low, fighting to survive. Poisson and half his cabinet were wiped out with the Parliament building left in shambles. The rest of Paris was almost completely leveled. Miraculously so, our only statue of our honor left standing intact was the Eiffel Tower, which served as the people’s symbol of hope through immense strife.
        This massive cataclysmic attitude would last for about ten years, until what was left of the Parliament tried to covertly reboot our government and economy with money that we could only guess came from anonymous donors paying out their feelings over what happened a decade before. This spark lit the rest of the country like dry tinder, igniting initiative to restore us to at least a working condition. Then, we’d take back what was rightfully ours, power.
       As an “initiative kid,” I was raised on the fiercely prideful patriotism and virulent hatred of Russia that fed not only my generation, but gave my beautiful country the drive we needed to stick to our guns and rebuild. And rebuild we did. As a vital –but not so physically skilled- instrument, I stuck with the logistics side of the massive cover-up: covert tactics.
       It has been another thirty years since the initiative, and we are almost back to an empire state, but with such great work requires a great amount of money. The Parliament knew that if we started outwardly showing signs of improvement too quickly, the donations would stop flowing. So, here we are, a massive facade in the works as millions fake their strife and poverty. Entrepreneurs make millions but wear patch-work coats to the soup kitchen everyday. Bankers internationally report an income low enough to make vagabonds cringe, all while their plump wives have maid-servants clean the drapes and do the cooking at home.
       We French are a proud, endeavoring people, and we do not take pity lightly. But, when all is said and done, we play poor and smile at the donor’s manicured faces as we pocket another city’s restoration money. So close now, we will soon rip the mask off our entire country and fly up the ranks only to pause a moment to repay the favor to Russia and pass the United States to the leading position. Then and only then, will we put out the Chess War like a guttering candle in a pauper’s windowsill.
       Not much longer now, not much longer.