"This is the oath of the Pennsylvania Blue-collar Party caucus!"

The workers looked at each other’s hands.

They were covered in grease, calluses, and scars.

That was their common language, a credential more reliable than any party charter.

"Now, some people want to stand in our way."

Leo’s voice turned cold.

"Some are putting up roadblocks in Harrisburg, some are playing dirty tricks in Washington, and some want to starve us with that damn ’compliance’!"

"They think we’re beggars. They think we’ll get on our knees and beg them for handouts."

"They’re wrong."

Leo pointed to the bustling river behind him, to the cargo being loaded onto ships.

"Tell Washington."

"Without people like us, the United States couldn’t build a single inch of highway!"

"Without our steel, their buildings would collapse! Without our coal, their lights would go out!"

"We are done asking!"

"We demand a seat at the table!"

"We will use our steel, our resources, and the millions of votes in our hands to get the budget we need!"

"And if they refuse?"

"Then let them see the wrath of the Rust Belt!"

"Let them see what happens when the gears of this nation grind to a halt!"

The atmosphere in the square reached a fever pitch.

The power of this class, suppressed for thirty years, had now fully awakened.

"We are not red!"

Leo roared.

"We are not blue!"

"We are the gray of steel!"

"From this day forward, whoever pays the workers’ wages is our ally!"

"And whoever lets us starve is our mortal enemy!"

Leo swung his arm, pointing to the cranes on standby, to the trucks ready to depart.

"Get back to your stations!"

"Grip your wrenches!"

"Start your engines!"

"Let us declare war on that arrogant old era!"

"WHOOOO—!"

The barges on the river sounded their horns.

The cranes on the shore began to turn.

The truck engines roared to life.

A thousand workers raised their arms, letting out a deafening cheer.

Their voices merged into a torrent, piercing the clouds and surging eastward.

Leo stood on the platform, his chest heaving.

The near-shouted speech had drained every last bit of air from his lungs, but it had also ignited the tinder in the hearts of the thousand workers below.

At that very moment, the voice deep inside Leo’s mind erupted.

"Hahahaha!"

It was a wild, gratified, even brazen laugh.

Franklin Roosevelt was laughing.

The laughter echoed in Leo’s consciousness like a sudden thunderstorm, making his very thoughts tremble.

"Leo! Did you see that?"

"This is a repeat of 1932!"

"This is the very scene I saw back in my day!"

"While those well-dressed economists were still debating the size of the deficit, while the conservatives were still talking about the self-correcting nature of the free market, while Hoover was still in that damn White House saying prosperity was just around the corner."

"I went into the coal mines of Appalachia, I went into the factories of Detroit, I walked among the crowds lining up for relief food."

"And I saw the exact same thing you’re seeing today."

"Hunger."

Roosevelt’s laughter gradually subsided.

"When ideology can’t be eaten, when those high-and-mighty ’isms’ can’t be turned into coal for heating."

"Whoever can put food on the table is God."

Leo stood on the stage, looking down at the rough, grimy faces filled with yearning.

He understood what Roosevelt meant.

’They don’t care who I am,’ Leo thought. ’They don’t even care if I’m using them.’

"That’s right," Roosevelt affirmed.

"Politics, at its core, is a transaction. You give them the hope of survival, and they give you the scepter of power."

Roosevelt’s voice carried an absolute conviction of victory.

"You’ve won, kid."

"It doesn’t matter how they attack you in the media, or what conspiracies they hatch in Washington."

"As long as you hold fast to this key called survival, as long as you carry the livelihoods of these millions on your shoulders."

"They don’t stand a chance."

"Now," Roosevelt’s tone grew impassioned.

"Go get John Murphy elected to the Senate."

"Go and spread this fire to Harrisburg, and all the way to Washington."

"That is our first step on the road to Rome!"

Leo took a deep breath, turned, and looked at John Murphy, who was standing to the side.

He walked over to Murphy, reached out, and clapped his ally firmly on the shoulder.

"Your turn, Senator."

Leo’s voice pulled Murphy back to reality.

"Go shake their hands, embrace them, tell them you’ll turn that five hundred million US Dollars into wages in their pockets."

Murphy froze for a second, then snapped to it.

He plunged into the crowd, grabbing every worker’s hand, shaking it vigorously, and making loud promises.

"I promise! Every single cent will end up in your hands!"

"We’ll get the factories built!"

"To hell with those bastards in Washington!"

Murphy’s shouts triggered a new wave of cheers from the crowd.

Leo watched the man being swarmed by the workers.

Murphy’s jacket was soaked with sweat, his face was flushed red, and veins pulsed on his neck.

He looked like a foreman, like a drinking buddy boasting at a bar after work, and even more like a demagogue.

He laughed heartily, slapping their coarse backs, loudly promising a bright future, and basking in the crowd’s cheers and adoration.

That fanatical look in his eyes, that thirst for power, had been thoroughly ignited.

Standing here now was a candidate for Senator who would tear anything apart for the sake of victory.

"Mr. President," Leo called out softly in his mind.

"He’s ready."

Roosevelt’s voice rang out from the depths of his consciousness.

"Yes, Leo. He’s ready. This is what a gladiator who can survive in that colosseum should look like."

"Ambition is the best fuel. Right now, he is more dangerous than ever, and more powerful than ever."

Leo raised his head, his gaze traveling past the roaring crowd, toward the distant east.

There stood the white dome and marble steps, a place of endless conspiracy and power.

’We’re sending him to Rome.’