Opus Veda

Her injuries stiffened. The morning frost bit. The world echoed as Kasia entered her flat. To be declared dead would archive her online life - she could never access it now. Instead she took in the memories of her physical home one last time, before police returned to take everything. The old hallmarks lifted her spirits: her rota stuck to the angry fridge, the broken umbrella, the useless fan above the table.

She washed her face and gazed into the mirror. Something like a terrorist's mask looked back, pallid, bruised, and distorted. Her hair was crusted, her clothes torn, her extremities blue. She reached under the bed to grab her money and knife, and caught a lump under her blanket. It was Pikachu, in its paw a note with Eva's chaotic handwriting.

'its Eva if you read this please call me..'

Kasia broke down, weeping and rocking herself for comfort. She pulled Eva's blanket down and cuddled it, the closest she could get to a girl existing in the centre of her heart, under whose shadow everyone else fought with their hideous noise.

The smell of the blanket made Kasia sick with grief. She had to leave. After a final look at her home, she locked herself out.

Someone spotted her. Her secretive second neighbour, the Hong Kong refugee, sneaking home with a food box. They stared at each other, but the old woman's startled eyes became understanding. She held out a shrink-wrapped sandwich. Kasia accepted it and ran off. The old woman hurried inside.

Grey morning rose once Kasia reached the shingle car park - the one discreet place she could think of. She prayed nobody would park here now the revolution wouldn't be needing it. The city meanwhile busied about as if nothing had happened.

Of most interest was the iron staircase at the car park's rear. A heat vent jutted underneath. Kasia fell on it and warmed herself, gaining a moment's broken rest as her body nagged her.

She assessed her situation. Her cash would last a week at most. She walked to a high street with outdated shops and bought new clothes. A local gym let her use their bathroom if she bought a day pass. She cleaned in the hottest shower she could handle, weeping as brown and red water poured off her body. The gym staff overheard, and didn't ask questions, but they offered her a tea as she left. She took it gratefully.

The rest of the day she spent pitched by her heat vent, cradling herself and rocking. She nibbled at her sandwich, pitying herself for accepting the privilege of food. Something about the image triggered a thought. A fantasy danced in her head. She had imagined it before, on implosive nights, always regretting it later, never planning to follow through with Eva relying on her.

Eva was gone now. The fantasy came to replace her. This time suicide felt less severe - not stormy waves of emotion coming and going, but a tranquil, persistent pond. Something telling her 'well, that's it then'.

It stilled her, relieved her chest's tension, showed her worries as finite, and as short term as she desired.

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Kasia made her choice. She would spend her cash on a final meal and drink, and whittle down feasible methods until one remained.

* * *

A nuisance arrived at Kensington Palace. 16 nuisances exactly, pixelated by urban camouflage.

First Division Marines. They swanned into Hyde Park, goading Varma's regiment with maroon berets - something Second Division were entitled to but unable to get. Varma's soldiers looked on in their mismatched gear, still shaken from the night's attack, milling around the palace and waiting for survivors to trickle in.

"Captain Varma," the Marine's leader approached with a lazy salute and an untoward handshake, "Major Kinnock."

"Major… I was not informed you were coming."

"No neither was your Marshal," Kinnock spoke in a soft Irish accent; he flicked his eyes towards the ragtag Second units, "after last night you looked like you could use some help."

Varma sized him up, "if you're here to take over-"

"To watch," Kinnock grinned, "don't worry captain, I may outrank you but your mission supersedes mine. You will remain in charge."

The marines unpacked, gloating again with their Grayburn rifles, customised to their individual preferences. Kinnock watched the grumbling Second guardsmen and snorted through his nose.

"Since my job is to watch, captain, I have to ask what you were thinking separating your regiment? Your task is to hold this palace until the showdown. A tenth of your strength has been thrown away."

Varma glared, not caring to explain himself.

"We had two income streams in Morden. I needed them guarded."

"Whores and fights, correct? Not a glorious look for the revolution now is it?"

"It pays your salary, so you'd better make do with it," Varma scowled, "Sir."

"I believe you meant to say 'paid'," Kinnock lowered his head with a friendly smile, "captain."

Commotion grew. Soldiers pointed to the sky. A dark and surreal object was flying towards them. Fear murmured through the ranks.

It was a carrier drone, dangling a bloody trophy on metal hooks. The roads it drifted over ground to a halt, baffled by it.

Varma pushed through the guardsmen and ordered its landing spot surrounded. Kinnock fell in behind him and assisted. The drone lowered the sergeant major's body to the ground, wished everyone a pleasant day, and levitated away.

Only Pierce's torso remained, the limbs cauterised into stumps, the eyes and mouth sewn shut. A gashed message scrawled over his chest.

'Fighters belong to war, lovers belongs in clubs, guardsmen belong up north. Head back where you friends are, where we are not, or like your friend here, you may find you have no leg to stand on.'

Varma felt his regiment waver. He had to look decisive. He approached Pierce's body, holding its jaw and moving the head around.

It twitched. The regiment jumped before Varma did, doubling his fright.

He jumped backwards but Pierce fell forward and floored him, screaming muffled words through sewn lips. Kinnock pulled the lurching sergeant major off, revealing Varma's fright to the entire palace.

Varma stood, drew his revolver, and blasted Pierce through his skull.

Opus Veda were back underground, but when Varma set out for first watch, reports of desertion reached him. His first since their arrival in London. At last the atrocities had stolen their spirits.

Even Pardo had gone back, calling Varma's bluff and choosing citizenship over life as a guardsman. For her and the other young people joining to belong somewhere - to bravely confront a harsh world - there didn't seem to be anything worth saving. Marines bagged some of the deserters. Varma ordered them released.

As his watch ended, three guardsmen plodded onto base, weary and distraught. Varma recognised the face of one - Guardsman Sermon Mkenda. He shook the lad's hand and gave him a look of respect, but it had no effect.