Jute, Jam, and Journalism. Three words, three hearts.

This is what has come to define the port city of Dundee, Scotland, and what continues to keep it alive, even as Britain cries under the Jackboot. Whilst in another time the jute mills would have been silenced by foreign competition, they continue to creak and whimper indefinitely, feeding its cheap rope and textiles to the military power that starved its people twenty years ago. Whilst the city's publishing houses once brought truth to the people of a once great country, they now only bring the spiels manufactured in Germania for the benefit of none but Downing Street or the Pakt. It is a city that bitterly tastes defeat.

However, it is said that hope still exists here. The people of Dundee have never been known to give up without a fight. If you were to find yourself in some particular back alley, you may even stumble upon a domestic printing of the Washington Post; if you were to find yourself in a more peculiar place, you may find what replaced the jam in Dundee - the blood of garrison troops. Dundee may have three black hearts now, but its soul still fights, and when the time comes, it may be able to bring joy to its people once more.