Opus Veda

A week passed with two successful assignments. To avoid suspicion, Kasia took no leave with Riese Elektronik, working both jobs back to back. She managed with energy pills charged with amphetamines. These, added with her anxiety tablets and Sermon's sport enhancers, left her with the shakes and a lethargic gaze. Luckily no one mentioned it, and she endured the hormonal tempest in her body by fixating on the cash - and the fantasy of a lover - heading her way.

Her day job was insufferable. She had a new role now; no aspect of her old one was free from scrutiny. When would she leave this office of terror? What was she offering to society? Why did these customers lack the humanity to use an AI service? And why did Riese make products forever needing repairs and upgrades?

Of course she knew the answer to that.

She hit her call targets. With every incentive dangled on her screen she wondered what she could have been doing elsewhere. One lunchtime Leah ventured downstairs to meet her, offering to help with German so they could work together again. Kasia detected virtue signalling but played along to maintain cover.

Still, her revolution job was anticlimactic. Getting into a van, collecting parcels, sorting them at a warehouse into the early morning. Her heart clamoured for something greater - something to match the death-defying battle she had fought in, an event a month behind her and a lifetime ago. Reason reminded her the current job was both safer and easier to succeed in.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

She trawled her socials, propelled on with the occasional kick of dopamine. Her viral moment with Varma had left society's eye, but it remained her proudest content. She saw how she had changed because of it. Like much of the public, Kasia refused to upload real images of herself, mindful of deepfakes. The rare photos she had uploaded were ruthlessly edited, blending her face beyond recognition; even they felt exposed. Yet here she was, unedited and unrestrained, taking the first serious handshake offered to her. It gave her no anxiety.

She read the comments with guilty indulgence. None of the messages were about her - a blend of blessing and curse. Most reactions were spinning the video into content about themselves. Trending high was a story of cultural appropriation: a privileged foreigner wearing Revolution Britannia's uniform to a fancy dress do. Listed beside it, recommended watches: a carnival of supposed experts picking apart the revolution's tactical errors.

Kasia fell into one of the debates - the choice of red uniform over pattern-camouflage. The former came from the demobilised British Army, when private investors demanded brand impact over battlefield safety. Red fatigues were thus condemned by anti-establishment commentators. But camouflage connected to white-supremacy - still a fresh memory - and was heard by progressive minds as a dog whistle.

Before she knew it Kasia had frittered two hours away immersed in arguments, stubbornly pro-camouflage herself, fuming over accusations of racism she would never face.

Ignorant that none of this affected her.

She returned home from the week's final shift and found the estate fully cleared up from the vagrant attack. Residents clamoured around the square, loud and numerous. It was clear that whatever they were gathering for, wasn't good.