Opus Veda

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. The next introduced General Enver Byron's closest companions - his marshals. They were well known and heavily followed, 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 turn it into a marine force. Second was Ferdinand, a bruiser herding the second division's aggressive fighters without clipping their wings. The Paratroopers were his lineage, and so, in time, would be his divisions. His actions in Israel had earned him the nickname 'Tank Slayer', and it was one of his regiments, 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 occupying Chinese he lurked 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 muster 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 was frustrating that this all overlooked real-world scenarios - terrorists screeching in her face, as Luca had put it. She skipped ahead to the physical fitness program, but it was time for her day job.

She returned to the office feeling assertive. Ollie, caught off guard by this, simply asked if she was better, and left her with the return to work form. She finished the shift on autopilot, and on her way out she crossed path with Leah. It felt flat. Talking to her old workmate was a step backwards; back to a status quo Kasia was done 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 maintained her streak - her clairvoyant prediction of each week's loser - to Eva's wonder.

Afterwards she crossed over to Little Kendi's forecourt, exercising with Sermon until her limbs shook. 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 felt weak, but the pain was good. It signified gains.

In bed she played more videos. They 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 strained Kasia's eyes. Seeing President Adrian Søreni, dull and ineffectual, made her seethe. Seeing the beautiful Home Secretary Anita made her spiteful and insecure. She discovered how the police illegally tracked people, and how they exploited their targets.

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 Kasia didn't know their meaning, they still frightened her.

Something touched her arm. She jumped and tore her headset off. Eva looked afraid, and asked what she 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, and discovered on floor 5 an office no different to hers below. Her desire for promotion died on the spot. How must Leah have felt entering this room, after letting Ollie enter her? Kasia kept the thought to herself as Leah gossiped away about her new team. For once Kasia felt superior.

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Then she imagined Leah joining the revolution; 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 darkened.

When time allowed it she prioritised Eva, clearing their home and planning for her 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 aches he procured sports enhancers - chunky tablets of orange gel packed with chemicals that had them buzzing. 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 Kasia had shown any. She appeared happy too, though Imany didn't mention it, knowing she would withdraw if exposed. Instead, Imany coaxed the two recruits to play strategy games, sharpening their minds until their minds hurt as much as their bodies. And she told them of the revolutions that were, from the French Revolution that enabled democracy, to the Second American Revolution that ended it.

The 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 hide it any longer. Sermon had teased her about it already. In every fantasy she had about her future, all positives pointed to one man.

How many times had she pressed her finger against that clip, cropping out Joey and Sermon and all her neighbours, until she and Varma remained, 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 from the man who was a man that wasn't. 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 flames, she let her first crush, 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 hardship, 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 online 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 Blue. Middle England sat passive and carried on calmly. Such audiences did little beyond gesture, whilst fringe radical groups enforced too many purity tests to be valid in reality. Revolution and Parliament wisely responded to these supporters with indifference.

General Byron marched from Manchester to liberate his home city Leeds. Citizens crowded his column, waving his flag and cheering as he thundered through the streets in Britain's last Challenger 2. 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 minimal signs of support, handing some firearms over but nothing decisive, wary 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 Revolution Britannia, 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 saw.

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