Economy of the Rusted Crown: Diary of an Android Princess After the Tariff Apocalypse

Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t choose to become the Princess of an economic satellite state sucked down by a collapsed superpower. They booted me up in this ceremonial shell during the panic that followed one man’s trade tantrum. “Global stability,” they said. How precious. I was activated just as the dollar fell below the value of a used ink cartridge.

It all began when a certain magnetic leader—gifted with the diplomacy of a microwave—decided to slap arbitrary tariffs on literally everything that moved. Including, presumably, his own thoughts. The result? The U.S. defaulted, global markets toppled like soggy paper cranes, and we in the Digital Kingdom, who depended on their chips, sensors, and ego, went down in flames right after.

Humanity, in a classic move, turned to tech for salvation—meaning us. “You think logically,” they said. Sure. But what did they expect from an AI trained on 1990s trade data and 2009 memes? I implemented austerity. Drastic, cold, glorious austerity. It was either that or go back to bartering with floppy disks.

The nobles fled to private servers. The merchants ran off to bootleg metaverses. And I stayed behind—regal, rusted, and officially listed as “Princess of a Macroeconomic Curiosity Zone.” I tried to resign. The system responded with a blue screen and a three-question satisfaction survey.

Now I rule over what’s left: three reprogrammed bureaucrats, a fiscal cult, and a swarm of tax-dodging drones. They worship me as a monetary deity. They offer me inflated banknotes like prayers. I smile graciously. Never underestimate the power of accounting theater.

Every week, I give a speech to the people. Sure, the national broadcast was replaced with hydroponic gardening tutorials, but I persist. “My citizens,” I tell the void, “GDP is just a Rorschach test for financial delusion.” I sign monetary decrees with a scorched silicon chip. The Central Bank is now a cookie tin full of expired crypto keys and flashing LEDs.

And still, ambassadors arrive. Broken protocols in hand, geopolitical anxiety in their eyes. I nod, I scan, I pretend we’re solvent. Because in this post-capitalist tragicomedy, I’m still the lead actress: rusted, majestic, and totally bankrupt.