He pushed the box of files to his side. The clock was ticking down to the last minutes of the day. Another box rolled towards him, passing through a flap in the wall, on a conveyor belt. He picked it up dutifully, uncapped a biro pen, and signed his name on top of the box. Alexander Rykov. He pressed a stamp into ink, and held it down on top of the first folder. He turned the page, and saw it had bled through.

The face of the topmost rebel in the folder was stained with blood-red ink. He took the page out, and stopped as the sharp sound of a bell ringing filled the room, alerting him that his day was complete. He took a second to breathe in, looking down over the names, except for one, that had just been sentenced to death. He pushed the folder to the side, and took in his surroundings. It didn't take long, the room was devoid of much decoration.

He looked past the glass wall in front of him, at the office in front of him. They were all diligently writing at their desks. He pressed a button to activate the intercom, and spoke.

"You may leave." was all that was necessary from him. The workers stood up quietly, and proceeded to the hallway in an orderly fashion. Alexander followed suit, standing up from his chair and opening his own door. A single picture remained outside of his office, the Union Jack flag, with the word "BRITANNIA" emblazoned in bold capital letters underneath. It stood almost three times your height at the end of the hall, ominously growing larger in front of you as you approached it. It stood above all to him.

He reached the base of the flag, and stopped to salute. "Rule Britannia.", he said.

He turned to join the line. In front of him was a line of suits and carefully trimmed hair. Only the sound of footsteps, in unison, were heard as he stood at the back. He was out of sync, a gentle tapping coming through past the rhythmic stomps, beating like a heart. Each figure at the front of the line would raise their arms in turn, and place their beige Labour Card through a slot in the wall by the exit.

There was no glass, the employee situated behind the wall would operate completely faceless, remaining only visible through the small rectangular hole. The men in suits did not wish to look at whoever it was. The nameless figure preferred it that way too, in the darkness.

He saw the same scene as always unfold in front of him, a disembodied hand would stretch out to grasp the card, and punch a small hole through one corner to mark another day. The second stamp was brought out. He heard it before he saw it.

It clacked as the clock inside of it turned, churning the gears. The metallic typewriter-like sound of the different parts spinning bored a hole into his ears - until it was paused for a moment as a button was held down, forcing a clamp upon it. He could hear the voices of the gears inside, straining to turn and spin, to rattle and scuttle up a shirt sleeve. The clamp held, and the hand brought it down to brand the Labour Card with the exact time of the employee's departure - down to the second.

Alexander did not look at the machine when it was his turn, and tried to block out the sound of it too, squeezing his eyes closed until it ended.

As he walked out of the building through the sliding doors, he was greeted with surprisingly mild weather. No hint of wind, as if he were in the eye of a storm. Or the calm before one. Either way, as the storm moved on without him, he would be unable to move, watching as the graceful stillness would turn into a breeze, a gale, a roar. It would capture him eventually, twisting his body like a house caught in a tornado. Or he could remain intact, be transported by it. From sepia, to colour. Away from the 'London Filing Division' nameplate that was pinned to his blazer.

These thoughts would occasionally fill his head - but they never showed on his face. He maintained a perfectly practised blank demeanour. He was better at it than when he first began. He turned to walk down the path back home. The Filing Division was in Mayfair - it was called Mayfair, once. He would take the same path back home every day. The second stop of the bus, then left, straight, two lefts, right, another left. Into the gardens, the apartments, the seventh floor, the eleventh door.

When he arrives back, he will stamp his Labour Card again. He has a book in his apartment - "The History of Britannia" - a gift from a superior, one of the Heads.

The Heads of each division are rumoured to be allowed to watch films. It must have been around twenty years since the last screening he attended. Alexander closed his eyes, remembering that it had singing and music. The closest thing that he had now were the roughly-weekly broadcasts, displayed upon the sides of large buildings and skyscrapers, sending messages to the adoring supporters. You would cheer with the crowd, and then forget, only patriotism remaining, and go back to your daily routine.

What was worse was seeing a projection upon a single apartment, or on a single house. Sometimes a small crowd gathered, sometimes there was no crowd around, it played for you, the pedestrian. A traitor - their crimes would be described aloud, blared for all to hear. Their punishment would be read aloud too, described in detail. Sometimes it would even be displayed. The projections were closer to the ground, they looked larger, life-sized like they were about to come forward and talk to you. You could even make out the slight imperfections in their crying faces. A day-unshaven beard and moustache, or stray hairs crossing the forehead. It was harder to cheer. And impossible to forget.

He wondered what the films the higher-ups watch are like now. Perhaps they are laced with propaganda. Perhaps they are entirely propaganda. How would they produce an original creation in the first place? All they can do is take them away. They are only able to deprive others o-

This thought rolled around, simmering inside of Alexander's head. Reason came back into play. He sensibly removed the thought, and chose to ignore it. But it wormed its way inside, intruding, becoming pervasive and threatening a permanent occupation. It could be a direct challenge to his superior. A man more proficient and experienced than himself. Not just one, but all of them, struck down within his own head. He found the honourable strength and courage within his mind to purge the thought, kill it, gut it with his axe. A degenerate and corrupting influence upon him.

He'd been distracted, his physical body walking back through muscle memory. He shook his head to snap out of it. His unfocused eyes looked directly at a passer-by, meeting her gaze. It was magnetic, both their heads instinctively turning to meet. He was mentally stuttering, thinking of something to do. She continued to look back, unfazed. She was of a lower rank, a Quota-Worker, the symbol of a hammer pinned to her grey coat. Eye contact was not recommended.

He moved his eyes downward. A black-on-white name tag was seen, emblazoned across the right pocket of her chest. Lydia Demille. He felt an odd electricity between them, as if a stone had been dropped into a lake, a ripple emerged, speeding and spreading outwards. A supernatural feeling. The dirt specks on the path, the clouds tinge of white and grey. The obscured sun, a possibility of rain. He filled his mind with the surroundings to get away from it.

Alexander sat on the chair in his room. For some reason, he couldn't get her out of his head. Her eye contact was unusual, as was her stance. Leaning casually against a sign, almost lounging. Like she didn't have anything to worry about at all.