Opus Veda

To the destitute Kendi locals the revolutionaries could have been a knightly order. Most were guardsmen: civilian militia in motley combat fatigues, ballistic helmets, and balaclavas. They followed the viral words of their General, who in response to China's amnesty declared plainly, 'if we can't have guns, we'll use swords'.

And so they did. His guardsmen wielded their weapons with pride, ready to run through bullets to the melee if ordered to.

The veterans were dressed traditionally, in royal red tunics and silver armour. They were ex-military, disbanded and outcast until the revolution gave them purpose, belonging, and salaries. Starved of firepower, they made do with shotguns and sporting rifles, painstakingly acquired and repurposed for civil war.

All ranks wore the revolution's symbol: a gold lion stamped over the old union flag. They were here to be seen.

The rising noise of excited crowds travelled over the Thames from the north. Sermon could only imagine how many phones were recording the red mass around him, here on the empty side of the river. Their leader approached, face shadowed beneath a plumed helmet.

"Captain Faizan Varma," the man looked Sermon up and down, "Londoners fighting for their community, isn't this a rare treat Sarnt Major?"

An older veteran, robust and weathered like a slab of granite, agreed with a 'Sir'.

"Welcome to the capital, Sir…" Sermon fluttered with awe. He wished he didn't have such an appalling group of his own showing him up, "we were headin' underground. Fancy a tour?"

Varma laughed warmly and slapped Sermon's arm, "hold the door open for us and we'll deal with them. If any slip through you can give them a taste of London pride. If you think you can manage it…"

The locals buzzed. A few dared to take pictures, which the revolutionaries made a show of ignoring. They formed a rough column and marched. Varma took to the front and bellowed back.

"Revolutionaries! We are here for hostages before anything else! We don't know how many await us. Find them for me! Get them outside. And put any stray dogs down!"

His soldiers responded with a collective grunt. The clattering sound of readying weapons told the locals this was it. Kasia and Sermon eyed each other with sheer adrenaline.

The revolution pushed into the deep, and they followed.

The tunnel was rank with sewage and scummy water. Discarded needles tinkled and crunched underfoot. Kasia noticed mangled condoms strewn over one nook - Imany's warning returned. A dull bassline resonated from further down. Then barking.

The host entered an abandoned tube junction and found their target; dozens of vagrants dancing around a circle of sunken tents. A strobe light cut coloured lines across the cavern. A towering sound system roared. Dogs barked again, louder and angrier, alerting the soberest revellers.

Gunshots hammered the speakers, killing the music with a fountain of sparks. The strobe light fell and sent its beams bouncing against train tracks. A triumphant horn blew as if it had already won.

The soldiers cried 'Rule Britannia', and charged.

The dogs, bullish and packed with muscle, broke their leashes and bore down on Varma. His veterans dropped most of them and let the survivor be carved by his sabre. Guardsmen hustled around him to engage the vagrants. Some were able to fight back; they were the first to fall. Any who fled were picked off at range. The red host enveloped the campsite and hemmed the stragglers in. Many were high and unable to realise the danger. Some kept dancing as they were cut down; one tripped into a fire pit and set alight; another made a pass on the granitic sergeant major, who beat them down with his shotgun's butt and fired through their head.

The Kendi locals were useless; shocked and deafened by gunfire. The floor, serrated by obscured train tracks, tripped them. Support columns blocked their vision and the soldiers ranks were too dense to pass. Sermon moved around the side, machete aloft, and found Jason tearing an opening through a tent. Kasia stumbled after them, squeezing her cricket bat in two hands, her senses overwhelmed.

The attackers inflicted more violence in the tents. Jason dragged one vagrant out by his feet and was hit over the head with a glass bong. He roared over shattering glass, barred the man with one arm, and bludgeoned him with a tire iron. Inside another tent three vagrants were undressed and entangled. Guardsmen gave them a similar ending.

Varma searched for captives, but saw no sign. Before he could order a search, chanting echoed down the tunnels. Two squares of white beamed at him.

The carcass of an abandoned train loomed ahead. The vagrant leader watched from its cabin, his face wrapped in a mask of gold scales. Dubbing his gang the Goldsmiths, they in kind called him Goldie, content to follow him for the paid work he brought. The Goldsmiths had covered their train in graffiti, their squiggly logo covering its face, the words 'Graduate Schemes' sprayed underneath.

They disgorged from the carriages and flooded the tunnels with cheering and crashing weapons. The revolutionaries merged into one line to protect the locals.

Shrill whistles cried. Bolts of steel sprayed the line and thudded into riot shields. One lodged into a guardsman's knee. She howled but kept standing. The veterans returned fire but they were low on rounds. The Goldsmiths pushed closer.

Varma shoved his way through the shield wall, drew his revolver, and started blasting. Any vagrant who made it through was downed in close quarters. As quickly as the gang had attacked, they started to doubt. In that moment of hesitation the revolutionaries broke rank and fell on them.

Sermon waded through the carnage. Kasia kept on his tail, incapable of helping. They followed Varma as his sergeant major heaved the train doors apart. A vagrant leant from a window, pointing a crossbow down. The old soldier yanked them outside before they could loose it. He called for the soldiers to reinforce as Varma climbed into the carriage, arcing his sabre in circles and claiming another life. One by one, revolutionaries climbed in behind him.

Kasia clambered in last, as singing blades sent bloodied streaks crisscrossing up windows. She became dizzy and swayed, lunging for a carriage handle as she would on a commute. Her eyes squeezed shut and she nuzzled her arm, desperate to regain her baance.

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Outside, gang members fell back in a crushing melee. The guardsman with the skewered knee mounted her attacker and made them watch, as she reloaded their crossbow and shot them back. Goldie, realising he had lost, fled down the carriages. Varma followed in a slow, purposeful pursuit, deflecting any surprise attacks.

The battle became distant. Kasia opened her eyes. She found figures shifting under a light down the rightmost tunnel. A platform light. It was clear three of the figures were children; it was clear they were being taken to the surface entrance.

She yelled for attention but received none. Her allies were too far away and too busy. She looked to the children, gripped her bat, and leapt down with a painful crash. Two vagrants ran at her. She moved to protect herself but they sprinted past in flight. The captors vanished around a corner.

Once she reached the platform help was far behind. She pulled herself up the ledge, paused for her lungs to recover, and crept around the corner.

The captors were at the escalators. Their eyes turned from surprise to confidence as they realised Kasia was alone.

One flicked a switchblade and attacked. Kasia staggered with fear but swiped, batting the girl in the face and wheeling her to the floor. Another vagrant jumped from Kasia's side. He grabbed her bat, forced it down, and raised his knife to strike.

He panicked. Spun sideways. Sermon dived into his waist and tackled him down. They wrestled for an advantage, the man gripping Sermon's wrist to block his machete. Kasia kicked him in spine, allowing Sermon wriggle free and restrained him.

She saw her chance. The children were unguarded; their captors wavering. She ran to them and wrapped her arms around all three, using her back as a shield, hiding her face from whatever danger headed for her. The vagrants looked to one another, uncertain if they should flee or lunge for their captives first.

Varma made their choice for them. He strode calmly around the corner, reloading his pistol's wheel with six gleaming rounds and levelling it at them.

They fled upstairs. He steadied his aim. Each shot pounded Kasia's ears. Sermon dropped for cover. The last escapee turned around to plead surrender. A bullet clipped his face, lashing his head sideways and sending him careening down the stairs. The sergeant major took Sermon's machete and turned it on his restrained man, lifting him by his hair and digging into his innards. Sermon crawled from the rushing pool of red.

The sound of battle cleared. Kasia recovered and checked the children over; dirty and pale, too scared to look up, but unharmed. Varma wiped his sword clean and severed their bonds. After squatting and pinching each of them on the cheek, he motioned to Kasia.

"Your name."

"Yes!? Kasia! Sir."

"You will all follow Kasia here and hold on to her tight. And you will keep your eyes closed. Am I clear?"

One of the girls nodded and clutched Kasia's sleeve. Joey and the other girl followed. She led them to the intersection, where Varma surveyed the damage. Several wounded revolutionaries were being tended to, but they had sustained no fatalities. Mounds of vagrants lay dead, most having fallen as they routed behind their leader.

A problem for later. Varma called the retreat.

The host returned outside to a swarm of drones, each covered in the branding of news agents and influencers. Captain Varma surfaced last, receiving a proud cheer from his fighters. His smile was confident but implied not to overdo it; it was time to go. He hailed the convoy and double checked the children, ensuring cameras were on him. After ruffling their hair he stood to address the locals.

"When you take this story online, tell them all Revolution Britannia stood with you, and we will do so again when you need us to. You all did fine work. If the idea ever takes you, reach out to us. I see a guardsman in every one of you," he faced Sermon and Kasia, holding his hand out to shake theirs, a gesture of respect neither of them were used to.

"I'd definitely like to hear from both of you."

Kasia swooned. The cameras forced her to compose herself. She tried to meet the Captain's eyes and held his grip until shyness won. Before he could catch her embarrassment he had moved on to his regiment. Their vehicles rushed in to get them.

"Gentleman! Ladies!" he lifted the chin of one soldier with his fist, "and my one enbie avant-garde... let's take a victory lap and let London know we're here!

The soldiers laughed and cheered once more, lifting their captain over their shoulders. They mounted their convoy and drove off with waving flags and blaring horns. The drones hurried in pursuit, knocking into each other in their eagerness.

The Kendi mob found themselves alone, hurtling to reality. They regained their senses, and they roared in triumph.

* * *

A cyan screen illuminated the room. Two swivel chairs squeezed around a desk of fake wood. Crammed into one corner, an empty cabinet; cascading over its drawers, the vines of a bushy plant. Vape steam danced around the ceiling. The screen displayed a drone's feed as it hovered pointlessly over the prancing revolution convoy.

In a game of ideologies and branding, in a state of truce before war, the police were immobilised; unable to provoke confrontation and unwilling to be filmed losing.

And so they did what everyone else in England was doing. They sat and watched.

Luis slid into his chair and laughed at the ceiling, vindicated, correct all along. Gemma groaned into her hands.

"This couldn't be worse; how the hell did R-B know about this?"

"Social feeds surely. Joey Abbas didn't do well online but those sisters trended high when they got bagged yesterday. For all our post-race pride it's still the pretty little white women getting reach is it not?"

"They send a new captain in, get him on a popular case the day he arrives… a political canvas framed as a rescue. It's brilliant."

"Wonder what the public are saying," Luis swiped the popular platforms across the screen and aggregated trending headlines. A second later he swiped them away.

"Let's let someone else do that."

Gemma's vape flashed. Out of battery. She clicked it into the charger and held her hand out. Luis slid a spare across the desk, into her palm. She filled her mouth with menthol.

"You were right Luis. We should have been there first, instead of chasing beggars in Southwark."

"Thank you! Going private was meant to cut red tape. When are we gonna get more crooked?" Luis replayed the footage, "the Reds couldn't have timed this better. They'll have a grip on Brixton now when we could have easily matched their manpower. Such a waste."

"However..." Gemma leant forward and paused the video, "have a look at the civvie group that came out with them. They're only our Kendi massive."

Luis tapped a face and plucked his profile out. Sermon Mkenda. The man he had chewed out already, who had lots to hide but too much to brag about. The frame froze on him and the revolution captain shaking hands.

"Well well well…" Luis sneered and clicked his own vape on, "whilst everyone's busy watching the Red's suck each other off, let's go and be crooked."

Gemma drew two platinum tasers from under the desk and handed one over with a smirk.

"We can go for a drink afterwards, who's paying?"

"Oh Gemma..." Luis snickered and threw his overcoat on, "it never gets old does it?"

* * *

London sprawled below. Hooded figures, untouchable and arrogant, watched from on high. Their eyes were of black mirrors, reflecting that which they held in contempt. Their pallid masks grimaced, hateful and smiling, bruised but pure. Beneath them they felt the delirium of the spectacle going online; a subtle key change in a dying city's rasps.

They admired their newest creation.

Why should they use their own resources when a belligerent revolution frothed at the mouth for glory? Public appeal would go Red, for a time, but there were plans to reverse that. Opus Veda were a scalpel, dislodging needles from haystacks and melting them into something useful. Revolution Britannia were a sledgehammer to thrash about. Today, a sledgehammer could be better put to use.

The doctor turned away, satisfied.

His followers drifted off with him. One held back for a final look. She zoomed in on the woman with the children, scanned her face, and found a profile.

The terrorist lolled sideways, intrigued.