Mar 14th, 2026
Richard MacNaomhán, a native of Scotland now pursuing his studies at MIT, is a striking figure. His robust chestnut-red hair, neatly trimmed at the sides, and the constellation of freckles across his face and arms speak volumes of his Gaelic roots. His accent, rich and unmistakable, weaves further threads into the tapestry of his heritage. At nearly six feet, his frame is lean yet rippled with the kind of muscle that hints at unexpected prowess in a brawl. His pale blue eyes, usually stern if he's lost in thought, soften into a captivating gaze when at ease. True to his Scottish upbringing, even in the grip of anger, his expression is often betrayed by a bemusing smile — one must look to his eyes for the true barometer of his mood.
On the eve of his 26th birthday, a time he didn't need prompting to remember—as it marked the beginning of the world's end—Richard found himself in a classroom bathed in the warm glow of an unexpectedly bright day. As the wind playfully tousled the New England leaves in the courtyard outside, his phone, positioned next to his open textbook, vibrated with a new message.
The text from his father read, “It's begun. Go. Now! More to follow soon.” Richard found this startling. His communication with his somewhat eccentric father, who rarely remembered birthdays or anniversaries, was often limited to three or four terse texts consisting mostly of financial advice per year. The urgency in the message left no room for doubt. Abandoning his books, Richard hopped up from his seat.
"Mr. MacNomhand?" the teacher interrupted him mid-sentence, once again mangling his name. Her typically commanding and stern glare failed to elicit even the slightest pause from him.
"Sorry, got to run. World's ending," Richard exclaimed. His Celtic roots were evident in his accent, which was understandable when he put in the effort to speak English fluently. However, on this occasion, he spoke hastily, and Maggie could only comprehend 'Sorry.' He did not even glance in her direction as he bolted through the doorway and toward his dorm, sprinting along one of the quad's trampled dirt pathways.
As if his progress was being followed, as Richard pulled out his survival 'go bag', the buzz of his father's next instruction sounded on his phone. His oversized, heavy green duffel had been a constant reminder, drilled into him during his teen years, to keep it packed and ready at all times. His father's text advised Richard to rent a car that was fuel-efficient and could travel the furthest on a full tank. His father assured him not to worry about expenses since savings would soon be rendered irrelevant with the looming collapse of the US dollar.
Richard had taken two classes in psychology along the way and recognized that his father had cut himself off from his emotions as a way of not feeling them and not grieving. It had separated him from his family. But it wasn't until this second, as Richard paused to think of who he should call, that he realized he too had cut himself off from the world. There wasn't even a person here on campus to whom he needed to explain his absence.
The car selected and rented, Richard's next destination was Utica. The world around him was changing, and Richard had to adapt in order to survive.
“ACK,” Richard promptly replied, adopting his dad's curt shorthand for 'acknowledged.' Utica, his next destination, was five hours away.
A series of errands followed. He arrived in Utica only to exchange twelve pounds of gold and his rental car for an old, rusted station wagon. A warming chest stocked with hot meals, assorted snacks, and a case of warm soda made him feel foolish, but he carried on.
His next stop was Buffalo. To avoid suspicion at the border crossing, he traded everything conspicuous, including three handguns, an AR-15, a supply of ammunition, a prized knife, and his last concealed bar of gold. In return, a kindly elderly German lady gave him three keys, each on a separate chain, bestowing upon him a purpose they both treaded cautiously around.
He presented his MIT ID, student visa, and Scottish passport to the border guard. The American side approved his passage with a few keystrokes and stamps, while the Canadians conducted a retinal scan, checked the displayed information against his passport, and issued a written guest visa. His grip tightened on the steering wheel in frustration—he could have kept the weapons.
In Sudbury, Ontario, Richard received a burner phone in exchange for nothing. Navigating to an unknown destination, he texted 'Next?' to the number preprogrammed in the phone. Instantaneously, he received an address and a nine-digit number. The next leg of the journey to Thunder Bay, 11 hours away, almost broke him.
Accompanied by Red Bulls and an alert from an unknown contact informing him of the DJIA's 27% fall, Richard powered through with brief rests.
Five days passed in a whirl of texts and skull-and-dagger games and not nearly enough sleep. Had his dad finally gone over the edge and was sending him on some lunatic's quest? His dad had said two days, and it was now two days after that, yet still the world, while visibly shaken, continued to function.
There were moments in history that were etched in lives. They locked where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news. His grandfather often told the tale of having been debating whether to enjoy the unseasonably nice October day by reading his paper outdoors when the head butler entered and solemnly informed him of the children buried alive in Aberfan. Likewise, his dad recalled precisely the day he heard about Lockerbie and, especially, the Dunblane massacre, which occurred less than 150 kilometers from the family estate.
He himself was a few months shy of birth, but he felt like he experienced the Paddington collision from the family recollections.
He was only 5 on 7/7 but clearly remembered his nanny, her usually perky face slack, glued to the TV screen. Her hands were clenched tightly, bunching the black skirt of her uniform. He remembered trying to stay very quiet lest she remember he was there and take him away. He recalled clearly the images and attempted to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing.
The Great Collapse, as it would come to be called, wasn’t like that.
Currency had been a fantasy for going on 50 years, the last ten or so of which the US dollar continued to have value only because the entire world needed it to. The previous year, the US owed 67 trillion dollars, and its predicted deficit was to be 9.8 trillion. And those figures not only were traditionally optimistic but excluded a host of expenditures referred to as off-book. When you stripped away the obfuscation and accounting tricks, the US owed in the neighborhood of $600 trillion. When you figured in that no country had currency backed by anything more than the property of the State, the world owed much more than all the world’s currency. Something had to give.
The moment the government opened for the day on March 19th, 2026, Ecuador announced that it was defaulting on all debts to the several countries it owed. It was not entering into negotiations to pay any amount. Within an hour, there was a run on banks in several of the lending countries. This led to a growing cascade of bank runs, closings, and currency devaluations.
In the US, the DJIA was down 6,113 points at 11 AM. This, in turn, exacerbated all financial situations in the rest of the world. By 4 PM EST, the US dollar was worth precisely the linen it was printed on.
Flying over the Arctic there was not a lot to see and he was tired.
Richard finally had the chance for five hours of uninterrupted sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, thoughts of his ancestral home haunted him. Fear consumed him as the prospect of never seeing it again loomed ominously. Prior to university, it was the only home he'd ever known. His family and friends took the form of a litany of nannies and servants. Despite his attempts to distract himself, he couldn't shake off the feeling of loss; as he pondered his situation, he wondered how these latest events would fit into what he had come to call the 'family curse.'
Nagging at his consciousness was the guilt for being saddened since he knew many others in the world lacked the resources, skills, and foreknowledge that he possessed. But the sorrow seemed beyond his control, a product of his deep attachment to his heritage and his sense of responsibility for carrying forward his family's legacy.
Shin a' Chion Lairdship has always been home to Richard, nestled in the Scottish Highlands just northwest of Lairg center. The house, a sturdy relic of his heritage dating back to the 1400s, boasts a noble facade of layered stone that reaches skyward with triple and four-storied elegance. Stately corridors lined with timeless chambers frame a striking, expansive courtyard of manicured grass and sculptured hedges—a testament to centuries of sovereign tradition. In 1844, a massive black marble fountain boasting a gaudy, money-themed centerpiece was added, an incongruous reminder of past opulence. It was an eyesore that Richard found to be a source of visual and cognitive dissonance. At the age of thirteen, he took it upon himself to have the hideous monstrosity removed and replaced with a nearly featureless sitting fountain.
Amid nearly 1,000 acres of wild beauty, the estate stands as a bastion of solitude and natural splendor. The gentle Allt a' Choin stream traces the southern edge, its murmurs of lineage flowing steadfastly toward Loch Shin. Surrounded by ancient woodlands, Shin a' Chion Lairdship remains a symbol of history and aristocracy, a haven from the clamor of the contemporary world.
Born in the spring of 1958, Richard's father, Aldus, and his uncle, Dougan, each embodied distinct talents. Dougan, charismatic and politically adept, earned the title of "Laird of Lairg" in the media, serving as the face of the MacNaomhán empire. Meanwhile, Aldus expertly nurtured the family's fortunes. However, Dougan's promising path ended tragically during the unrest of the Troubles, his life taken by a paramilitary attack in the 1990s. He was a casualty of the era's violence, a loss keenly felt yet distant to Richard, who knew his uncle only through legacy and the fortune he helped to build.
Marigold, Richard's British-born mother, met Aldus at university, their shared interests and intellect creating a deeply unified pair. With Richard's birth in 2000, Aldus saw the dawn of a grand dynasty. Tragedy struck again, however, as Marigold battled an insidious blood poisoning that defied proper diagnosis, leading to years of frail health before her untimely demise in 2003. In his bereavement, Aldus sought refuge in the emerging domain of the internet, captivated by its potential. As a result, Richard and his father's relationship became fractured—Aldus was consumed by travel and digital realms, leaving Richard to prepare for the solemn inheritance of the MacNaomhán clan's portfolio, a responsibility he faced with reluctance, immersing himself in perpetual academia instead.
Everyone remembered where they were that day, the day the world nearly ended. Unlike others, Richard was privy to it before the rest. Initially, he feared he was on a wild goose chase, but two days later, confirmation arrived while he was on a privately chartered plane to Iceland, sleep-deprived from the past five days' tasks. Once again, his father had been right about the money, and Richard found himself flying to meet the man he hadn't seen in a decade.