A New Regime

Current Events. 900 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.

The cardboard box split with a tired sigh, sending Sarah's mason jars skating across the polished concrete floor of her new Austin townhouse. She lunged after them, bare feet slapping against the cool surface, but the jars rolled their own paths – five years of carefully cultivated sourdough starter, kimchi from Mrs. Park's corner shop, garlic scapes from the Hayes Valley market that always smelled like coffee and fog.

The jars survived their journey better than she had. Sarah pressed her palm against the window, then pulled it back quickly. Even the glass felt hostile, radiating June heat like a fever. Her tank top had already surrendered to the humidity, and the AC hummed an endless, expensive song.

Her phone lit up: Orientation tomorrow - 9AM sharp! Welcome to the Austin family!

Sarah's thumb hovered over the message. Below it sat her chat with the San Francisco team – dark since the announcement. "Accept the transfer or accept the severance." HR had delivered the choice with practiced neutrality, like offering someone their preference of paperclip color.

The mason jars watched her from the floor, their contents slowly adjusting to the new temperature, new pressure, new reality. She arranged them in the pantry alphabetically, then by size, then gave up and sat cross-legged on the floor.

"Quite the collection."

Sarah startled. Her new neighbor – Amanda? Amelia? – stood in the doorway she'd forgotten to close, looking concernedly at Sarah's growing pool of sweat on the concrete.

"You're going to want to get some electrolyte packets," the neighbor continued. "Nobody warns the transplants about June. I'm Andrea, by the way."

"Right. Sorry. Sarah." She pushed herself up, tried to look like someone who hadn't just been caught having an existential crisis in front of preserved vegetables.

"Tech refugee?" Andrea's stance was casual but her eyes were sharp.

Sarah nodded. "Content mod at..." She gestured vaguely at her laptop, its screen still open to the company's new Austin homepage.

"Ah." Andrea's mouth twisted. "Y'all have fun with that."

The word hung in the air like the humidity.

---

Morning brought a different kind of heat. The office complex rose from the parking lot like a mirage, all glass and chrome and forced authenticity. Inside, the orientation room buzzed with nervous energy and desperate air conditioning.

"Twenty bucks says someone cries before they get to the benefits package." The woman next to Sarah had hair the color of a deleted link and a laptop covered in Pacific Northwest stickers. "I'm Meg. Seattle, before... this."

Sarah found herself smiling despite everything. "Sarah. SF."

"Careful," Meg's fingers flew across her keyboard, "your coastal elitism is showing."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to a fellow traveler." Meg tilted her screen slightly. She had a spreadsheet open: Orientation Bingo - Texas Edition. The center square read 'Mandatory Y'all Usage.'

Their regional director bounded onto the stage like an overcaffeinated golden retriever. "Howdy, y'all! Ready to begin your Texas journey?"

Meg marked her spreadsheet without looking.

The presentation meandered through familiar corporate territory, each slide more aggressively cheerful than the last. Sarah's attention drifted to the window, where heat waves transformed the parking lot into something liquid and strange. In her pocket, her phone vibrated – another message from her San Francisco group chat, still unread.

"And now," the director's voice cut through her haze, "let's talk about our regional communication initiative."

The screen filled with a PowerPoint slide that made Meg choke on her coffee.

"Our research indicates that authentic regional language builds trust," the director continued. "So we're strongly encouraging the use of 'y'all' in all customer interactions."

Sarah's hand was in the air before her brain caught up. "Strongly encouraging?"

Something flickered behind the director's smile. "We believe in authentic communication."

"And authenticity requires specific word choices?"

The room held its breath. Sarah felt the weight of dozens of displaced careers pressing against her spine.

The director's response was corporate-smooth. "We're adapting to serve our community better. I'm sure you understand the importance of... cultural sensitivity."

The way he paused made the phrase sound like a threat.

After, in the hallway, Meg fell into step beside her. "That was either very brave or very stupid."

"Probably both." Sarah's hands were shaking slightly. She shoved them into her pockets.

"Look," Meg glanced around before continuing, "some of us are meeting tonight. Nothing formal, just... people who understand why 'cultural sensitivity' shouldn't feel like cultural erasure. Interested?"

Sarah thought about her mason jars, slowly fermenting in new conditions. About preservation and adaptation, and the thin line between evolving and disappearing. About how resistance sometimes looks like holding on, and sometimes looks like learning when to let go.

"Where?"

"Place on Fifth. Supposedly decent sourdough, but I wouldn't get your hopes up." Meg's smile was knowing. "We're all homesick for something."

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