Opus Veda

Kasia wandered wherever London let her. Hyde Park first. Its palace, draped in revolution standards, mocked her from afar. The acres around it swarmed with civilians, jostling to connect with their idolised faction. They insulted Kasia's pride, presuming to be closer to the Reds than her. She did not care to feel less recognised than them.

She continued to Great Ormond Street and found an ordinary hospital. Pro-bono queues besieged it - those waiting for a morsel of free healthcare. Crying ambulances severed the queue, carrying the more fortunate.

But no signs of battle. For those working here, Kasia supposed, a mass of dead bodies was a regular day.

She walked till her legs faltered. Pain grounded her to reality. She tucked into a bar, ordered a vodka shot and cup of tonic, and searched for Eva's man. Eva's socials said nothing. Whatever she was doing online, she had outwitted her mother. Her profile looked too innocent - a false front Kasia had, until now, fallen for. What crimes occurred in those dm's? What images were exchanged?

Kasia toasted herself and drank - a 29 year old unemployed drug mule, whose teenage daughter no longer wanted her.

She needed to feel something. There was a club next door: tasteless chain-venue On the Pulse. If clubs had a mean average, Pulse was it.

The pre-bar swipe was competitive; the attractive men snatched quickly. Their less desirable peers would be worthless tonight - low odds for little reward. Refusing to match, Kasia paid the early-leaver charge and went to a lesbian club, thinking a woman might provide better comfort.

The nearest: Fragment 36. She swiped someone with an easygoing vibe. But the woman went too eagerly, bleating rehearsed noises. Overacting. Kasia withdrew consent mid-hookup and made an awkward exit. At least, having performed enough, she faced no leaver fee.

Three drinks in, two clubs down. Nothing was working. Another club nearby; a converted warehouse she knew by reputation, for an urge she never entertained.

Blurred Times. On the surface a mainstream club.

A cover. Inside, unmarked staircases led to fantasies for those in the know. An underground for people who matched too much, became numb to pleasure, and stooped low for flickers of dopamine. There were no tablets, no ways to match. Phone signals were blocked. Instead of a pre-bar, daters took a cubicle, then braved the interior.

Kasia took hers. The rear door closed. The front door would open when she pulled a fob - either a red 'D' fob or a white 'S' fob to attach to her waist. To chase or be chased was her question, to feel power over others or submission to them. One more demanding, the other more costly. And there would be no withdrawal. There was no 'C' fob for consent.

She rested her hand on the one calling to her, and considered what it meant.

She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to fall lower to survive a world that wasn't her fault; to manage problems she hadn't created.

Hate rose in her for the cruelty of being offered this choice.

She wanted to be back with the revolution.

She paid the early-leaver fee and left.

Four drinks down, one text sent. Ignoring Sermon's message - Imany's, Leah's - Kasia contacted her revolution number, demanding to know when the next job was on.

She kept walking, and found something fun.

Two men were fighting in an alley. It was violent. The larger man shouted how sick he was of being rejected, when all he'd been was patient. The younger man sobbed and negotiated, crushed against an overflowing bin.

Kasia smiled, found her balance, and lurched towards them.

"Oi!"

The aggressor turned around, "yea not your business sweetheart is it?"

Kasia swayed into the bin, attempting to maintain dignity by propping a casual elbow on it.

"Why don't you leave tha' boy alone?"

"No it's okay!" the smaller man held his hand to Kasia, "please don't make it worse..."

Kasia stayed put. The aggressor snarled.

"You don't just approach strangers on the street... how fucking drunk are you!?"

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"Ah'm jusht a lil' tipsy," Kasia squinting through her thumb and index finger, "lil' bit."

"Well piss off into some nightclub then! Partners fight sometimes? It's normal? Go on! Piss off!"

She steadied herself.

"Naaah…"

"What!?"

"Hugh leave her alone!" the victim tried to break free. A window closed. Hugh shoved a finger into Kasia's shoulder, making her rock.

"I won't ask you again girl, you're doing nothing to help like my boyfriend just said. So fuck off!"

"You need to loosen up Hugh..." Kasia poked her thumb up her nose, "why don't you 'ave a nice popper?"

Hugh clawed for Kasia's neck, but she was less drunk than she'd let on. She gripped his wrist and wheeled under his arm. With her full weight she bounced him along the concrete, kicked his nose, and started stamping his face.

"Stop it! Stop it you're killing him!" the victim rushed to intervene, pulling Kasia's hoodie and searching up the street, "oh Jesus Christ why does this always happen to me!?"

Kasia stopped. Hugh cowered. She patted his victim's cheek.

"Boy... Why don't you come wi' me? We'll 'ave a drink and a chat..."

His lip wobbled. He shook his head, choosing the man on the floor. Kasia blinked and scoffed.

"Fuckin' suit yourself then. You look after 'im…"

She crouched and swept the aggressor's pockets, taking his cash and e-cigarette and waving them in his face.

"Protection money... You should be careful messin' with someone when you dunno their loyalties. Fuckin' Rule Britannia bitches."

She staggered back with her middle fingers up. The younger man helped his sobbing abuser up and carried him home.

Kasia found a self service hotel - a tranquil retreat soundproofed from the city's churn. She bought a bedroom pod with the stolen cash and locked herself in it. Notifications stacked on her phone.

One mattered: the anonymous Red switchboard inviting her to base, tomorrow morning.

Rule Britannia indeed. Kasia was back. Secure in her pod she breathed through an abuser's vape until, doped and spinning, she collapsed.

* * *

Mick clattered through the door, tired and nauseous. He should never have worked on a hangover, but one sick day was already risky.
And boy had it been worth it.

Tomorrow was a day off, tonight was free, and he knew who he'd be spending it with. Not that she'd know.

Something felt wrong. He smelt aftershave and nicotine; felt motions he couldn't hear.

Someone behind him. They jumped, gagging his mouth and driving him to the floor. Pain fired up his spine. A shin barred his neck. A polished boot stamped by his face.

Vape steam billowed. A man's voice drifted into his ear, icy and arrogant.

"There once was a plumber named Mick, who told his workplace he was sick. He went out all the same, and landed in shame, detectives exposed all his shit."

Someone snorted. A woman. She stepped forward.

"Seriously? Sick and shit don't even fucking rhyme."

The man paused, shifted.

"You're welcome to try..."

"The thing is I don't want to," she knelt by Mick's head, "Mick, maybe you'd like to sing for us instead?"

Mick saw them: brimmed hats, ultramarine overcoats with high collars, aviators cascading data.

Detectives.

Say nothing. See what leverage they bring up.

The man sighed.

"No singing? Perhaps we can encourage Mick with some reminders of his past. Let's see now…"

Mick saw his social life in the man's glasses.

His cock appeared, his hand tight around it. The detective grinned.

"Looks like Mick doesn't sing after all! He much prefers the skin flute."

"You shouldn't grip it like that Mick," the woman tilted her head, "you'll get E-D."

Her partner faced her.

"How you would know that?"

"Been speaking to some of your matches-"

"I'm not interesting in them, neither is Mick. We're interested in his matches. Or rather... who he's wanting to match with. Let's see, who's Mick been wanking over lately?"

Mick froze. The detective felt it. Leverage was coming.

"Who's… Sammy Manson?" the man gasped, "Your cousin!? Mick! You can't bang your cousin! Imagine what the baby would look like!"

"I think they'd have… Mick's chin," the woman poked Mick's chin and leant close, "and Sammy's restraining order. You know, the one she'll get when we show her what Mick does to her deepfake."

"Fuck alright!" Mick punched the floor, "what d'ya want!?"

Luis doffed his hat to Gemma. Mick's fetish was annoyingly legal, but still embarrassing enough for blackmail. He let Gemma take over.

"We saw you leaving a gym last night. I'd like you to describe it."

Mick relaxed.

"Are you 'avin a laugh? 'Course I'll tell you. It's a fight club. They take you underground to the old pool-"

"Who's they?"

"The guys who run the place."

"What do they look like?"

"I dunno? Bouncers? Staff?"

"Describe their uniform."

"What? Just like bouncer uniform, how the hell should I know?"

"Any other type of uniform?"

"What you mean... I..." Mick twisted about, "the strippers? They look like you'd expect strippers to look..."

Gemma nodded once, "is there anything else worth mentioning, so we don't need to come back."

Mick paused, "...there was another buildin' next door. Some guys go with the strippers for a handjob or summat, I never went. Could be a brothel but don't ask me."

"Oh?" Luis frowned, "Sammy working another venue?"

"That's all I got mate!"

Gemma looked to Luis for confirmation. Luis believed him.

They released Mick and skulked away. Mick stood and saw them leave, hunched and brooding like old gangsters, faces covered by high collars and shades.

He locked the door and backed against it, exhaling.

His phone pinged.

Sammy.

She knew.