Kasia had days to prepare for what was coming. She tried figuring the job out based on the training videos provided.

They weren’t helpful. The first file contained a promotion reel of the revolution’s goals, which she had already seen online. Next, she met General Enver Byron and his closest companions - the marshals. They were well known and heavily followed online, engineered to lead before a camera as adjutants and chiefs of staff managed the war machine behind them. First was Galloway, a former SBS man aware of his own heroism, which he contained in a lordly, aloof air. His task was to create a first division, and form from it a marine force.

Next was Ferdinand, a northern bruiser leading the more aggressive soldiers without clipping their wings. The Paratroopers were his lineage, and so, in time, would be the revolution’s second division. His actions in Israel had earned him the nickname ‘Tank Slayer’, and it was his men, under Varma, staking a claim in London.

The third marshal was less familiar by choice. Bhandari had bitterly fled Nepal after Imperial China’s occupation, taking the Gurkhas with him. To the Han living in England he struck in their nightmares. Sometimes a Chinese tourist took a wrong turn; a drunk soldier strayed from his friends. Sometimes their nightmares came true. Bhandari recruited from all nationalities to create a foreign legion, accepting only the most physically fit, and making ghosts of them.

Kasia pushed through the material, taking her attention span as far as possible, until ‘Military and Civilian Ranks of Revolution Britannia’ defeated her. It frustrated her that this training overlooked real-world scenarios - terrorist masks screeching in her face, as Luca had put it. She skipped ahead to the physical fitness program, but it was time for her main job.

She returned to the office with an assertive air. Ollie, caught off guard by the confidence, simply asked if she was feeling okay, and let her skip the return to work form. She finished the shift on autopilot, and on her way out, she crossed path with her old workmate. It felt flat. Talking to Leah was a step backwards; back to a status quo Kasia was finished with. She checked her socials on the tube, but her friends fictitious lives had no effect on her.

At home she watched Penthouse: Soho with Eva. They jeered when the ugliest housemate was voted out first, condemned to return to the masses in tears. Too unlikeable for anything better. Kasia’s clairvoyant prediction of each week’s loser maintained its streak, to Eva’s wonder.

Afterwards she crossed over to Little Kendi’s forecourt, exercising with Sermon until her limbs trembled. Sermon pointed and laughed when she vomited behind a petrol pump; she got him back when he tried climbing a canopy strut and fell off. Back home she doused herself with cupped hands of icy, stagnant water, while rehearsing ‘Military and Civilian Ranks of Revolution Britannia’. Her body was weakened, but the pain felt good. It signified gains.

In bed she played more videos. The Revolution filled her with angry propaganda: the appalling excesses of the elite, the schizophrenic mania of influencers and podcasters, the politicians serving themselves and their friends yet incompetent with all else. This infernal trinity had ruined countless lives. Statistics of decadence and corruption fed Kasia’s eyes till they strained. Seeing President Adrian Søreni, dull and ineffectual, made her seethe. Seeing the Home Secretary Anita, beautiful and privileged, made her spiteful and insecure. She discovered how the police illegally tracked people, and how they exploited their quarry.

And then there was Opus Veda. They were in another league. She saw doors sprayed with their symbol, heard the faint sounds of horror within. Montages of desecrated bodies followed. The video said words like ‘Gestapo’ and ‘ISIS’, and though she didn’t understand their meaning they still frightened her.

Something touched her arm. She jumped and tore her headset off. Eva looked afraid - asked what Kasia was watching. Kasia had been breathing heavily enough to wake her up.

* * *

A fortnight fizzled by. Work was so jarringly typical Kasia wondered if her dream had been just that. Bored one day, seeking rules to break, she went up to Leah’s floor for lunch. She laid eyes on floor 5, and discovered an office no different to hers below. Her desire for promotion died on the spot. How did Leah feel when first entering this room, after offering herself to Ollie? Kasia kept the thought to herself as Leah gossiped away about her new team, and for once Kasia felt superior.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Then she imagined Leah joining the revolution, and being promoted ahead of her a second time. It made her boil with anger, but she couldn’t help but indulge the idea, replaying it as her mood worsened.

When time allowed it she prioritised Eva, clearing their home out and planning for her upcoming birthday. To give Eva money towards it she gave her things to sell. Sermon made the upcoming teenager a deal to fence the collection for a 10% fee, which he secretly handed back to Kasia.

And every evening he and Kasia trained. The programme was intense. To overcome their aching bodies he procured sports enhancers - chunky tablets of orange gel packed with chemicals that had them buzzing to move. What they could not practice was fighting. The videos explained basic strikes and blocks, but only for unarmed street brawls. Neither of them were content with this, and for fear of being caught they only managed two uninspired bouts in Sermon’s lounge.

Imany kept her promise and didn’t impose. She even admired Kasia’s conviction - the first time she had shown any. And she appeared content, though Imany didn’t mention it, knowing Kasia would withdraw if exposed. Instead, Imany coaxed the two recruits to play strategy games, sharpening their minds until their minds hurt as much as her body. And she taught them of the revolutions that were, from the French Revolution that enabled democracy, to the Second American Revolution that ended it.

The first assignment drew close. Kasia had intended to go clubbing before - a quick hookup to block distracting thoughts - but she changed her mind. Instead she imagined having a partner. Who could it be? She flicked through a mental list of anyone feasible. Each one carried a deal breaker. Someone of Ollie’s standing, who wasn’t Ollie, would be good. That ruled out locals. Detective Alderton was high on the list - a power fantasy Kasia played off with a laugh.

She couldn’t delay it any longer. Sermon had teased her about it already. And in every fantasy she had about her upcoming future, all positives pointed to one man.

How many times she had pressed her finger against that clip, cropping out Joey and Sermon and all her neighbours, until she and Varma remained, their hands locking together. He had been too unreal back then to be desired. Now though, Kasia was finding it easier to construct a story where she got what she wanted.

And she wanted it all. He was, in a sense, perfect. Immediately attractive enough to lure her in, vague enough for her to build something else. Once she was done with him he was a lover and a best friend, fun and stable, mysterious and comforting, spontaneous and safe. With his support what wounds she had in her, healed. What memories haunted her, she forgot.

Her chest overrun, her defences down, she gripped the side of her bed as if she might fall off. Wreathed in gentle fire, she built from the man who was a man that wasn't, and let him, article by article, prise her life's problems away.

* * *

Revolution Britannia formed its borders, scooping up loyal northern territory. Much of England’s public, forever apathetic to northern hardships, stuck to their usual shuffle. The main conflict was in public figures and intellectuals, podcasters and pundits, who cycled through the content circuit spitting anger and guesswork at each other.

The masses chose their sides and fed on naked tribalism. Friends unfriended; followers unfollowed. Those of the shrinking cohort - the ‘trad’ families - split down the centre. The disenfranchised poor leant Red; the possessive affluent leant Blue; Middle England sat passive and carried on calmly.

Such audiences did little beyond gesture. Those who went further - the fringe radical groups - enforced too many purity tests to be valid in the real world. Revolution and Parliament wisely responded to their vocal supporters with indifference.

General Byron marched from Manchester to liberate Leeds, his home city. Citizens crowded his column, waving his flag and cheering as he thundered through the streets in Britain’s last Challenger 2 tank. As night fell, mobs in red hoodies ran amok, looting, smashing, and taking their ills out on each other.

The Republic braced with it’s unreliable band of military contractors, which it posted east of Leeds to stop the Reds cutting England in half. China made a minimal sign of support, handing some firearms over but nothing too decisive, wary as it was of defectors. The empire paraded its army along Hadrian’s Border, and its fleet along the Irish Sea, to ward Scotland and Ireland off.

The corporate world noticed another threat: some investors were starting to hedge their bets on the wrong faction. Billions in sterling and foreign currency found its way to the Revolution, who turned their bank into a political nightmare. Every penny was spent with incorruptible precision, fixing infrastructure in Red territories and raising the salaries of its followers, starting with the lowest earners. Contrary to the fiscal fears of Westminster, society did not collapse. The revolution made sure the public noticed.

Opus Veda kept underground. President and General conferred with their respective councils and reached the same conclusion: the terrorists were quiet because everything was going according to their plans.