Opus Veda

Four marines had died. Twelve remained. They had killed three times their number. Major Kinnock inspected their gear, their health, their heads, and let them rest. They settled into the King's Gallery and lit cigarettes.

A company of guardsman - those who decided to join First Division on this penultimate line - grouped nervously nearby.

Kinnock checked the barricade. Opus Veda would overcome it but at great cost. For all their disregard of human life, it remained to be seen how little they cared for their own. In the meantime all the revolution had to do was wait.

He returned to his platoon.

"Well my friends, a moment of respect for our fallen. May they fight on in Valhalla."

"And may we never meet…"

They laughed. Kinnock raised his cigarette as if toasting.

"Aye we're not out of the race yet. Odin can wait."

One of the guardsman blew into her shaking hands. A marine slapped her leg.

"Go back if you like."

"I won't Sir…"

"Sir!? I'm a private. The same rank as you ya daft cow!"

"And I'll be King of England before either of you become Sir," Kinnock reclined on a cabinet, "yes it's a frightening thing to face the end lass, I've been there before. But Second Division put on a good show tonight; there's no need to hide your fears."

"Nothing to hide here…" another guardsman stepped forward, calmer than the others though still agitated, "I've been waiting for this a long time, ever since my only family was taken away. But… I have to admit… that problem covered a deeper one. One I always found excuses to avoid, until now.

I've always been… sort of invisible. No matter how hard I tried. It's like, if I did wrong, I'd get punished, and if I did right, I'd get overlooked."

Kinnock offered his cigarette over. The guardsman took it and nodded thanks.

"I tried hard. Picked up a few skills. Worked on my health..." he handed the cigarette back with a guilty smirk, "tried to find friends, a girlfriend... got the odd club match but you know how that is. Shit sex once a month never kept a man up."

The soldiers chuckled. The guardsman moved to the barricade.

"I did find some mates but I dunno… it felt like they put ideology before love, you get me? Some of them took the piss a bit too much. One was nice; I think I wanted her to replace my sister. To be honest she wasn't great at it; I feel bad for projectin' onto her."

He held an ear against the barricade.

"Bein' invisible has advantages. I hear things no one else does, people assume I'm not listenin'. I can walk with them and never be noticed. Police, vagrants, and so on…"

Kinnock beckoned him back.

"Steady lad, keep your cool. You're coming out with us after this and we'll get you that girlfriend."

"It's a clever trick really, to be invisible in a world where everyone is such a fucking narcissist…" he leant his head against the barricade, closed his eyes, and breathed out, "such a clever little trick..."

Kristoff took one step back. He turned to face the marines. His eyes were soaked with grief; his smile gentle.

In one hand he held a photo of a sickly girl. In his other, the explosives that would kill him with a fraction of the pain the world gave her.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

His smile quivered.

"Abracadabra…"

Kristoff detonated. The marines died instantly. A scrap of photograph fluttered upwards and burned away.

And the barricade fell.

* * *

Kensington Palace groaned. Emergency power dimmed off and on. A wave of plaster dropped on Varma's men and speckled their uniforms.

Varma's mind was elsewhere. Aides in Manchester chattered into his ear. The voices behind them sounded as panicked as those with him.

They were telling him what he and the entire nation had never expected.

Revolution Britannia's army was in flight, pulling away from London and returning north.

They had lost.

Varma hung up. He heard distant cries for orders; echoes of futile combat outside as Opus Veda overran whoever survived the explosion. A guardsman banged on the door. A wail chased them; blinding white shone through the door frame; the banging stopped.

One holdout remained; the command centre, in the domed and columned Cupola Room. Servers and screens towered from its central plinth, displaying irrelevant data. Revolution banners hung between the columns, offering irrelevant symbols.

Symbols of false bravado and weakness. Varma glared at them as terrorists encircled his surviving force. No chance of victory, relief, escape. He could surrender, and he'd die being remembered for trying. He could defend this room but delaying was senseless now. Even if his men pushed into the city republicans would massacre them.

He never loved his family. He loved the Army but China got rid of it. The revolution offered a pale imitation, and now he resented it for its failure against, of all the most dismal nations, the Republic of England & Wales. Varms only hoped the decades he had witnessed were a nadir heralding better times for future generations.

He thought of the one person he had felt something for. Skye, the influencer who singled him out in Iran's infinite sand and conflict. If an afterlife existed, anything without her would be less than heaven. He knew his image of her was a fantasy of his own making. In a land of loners and losers, who would notice?

Varma climbed the Cupola's plinth and demanded the regiment's attention.

"Our army has fled, and we are surrounded. We will not be rescued, and I will not lie to you: we are about to die."

Unreadable silence greeted him. He expected - wanted - nothing more. He continued.

"All we have left is to choose how we meet the end. Do we pray for mercy as we are cut down? Do we hide here and await slaughter? Or do we give our foes one last hour of ruin?

I'm going out to meet them. I allow each of you to make your own choice. It has been an honour to serve alongside you.

You are dismissed."

* * *

Opus Veda regrouped with Andrez around the command centre. He ordered many to take casualties and leave, giving them time to go into hiding.

A hundred remained; the freshest amongst them, though they were still battered and bruised. Only two of Medical remained - doctors pledging to fight as Andrez had. An Armoury band stood attentive with crude guns.

Of his own section Kasia and Esmé remained. Kasia had unmasked - like many of those left, choosing freedom over protection. Andrez felt no urge to challenge it. Maqbool had been too wounded to go on, though he'd insisted on carrying Sima Ren's body in his good arm.

Luis also had two people left, and between his team possessed their only bullet. It was Kristoff's last - bequeathed to his section before he crept off to his suicidal act. Andrez watched as Luis searched the floor, picking at scraps of ashen paper only to see them crumble in his fingers. His mask did nothing to hide his devastation.

Andrez's earpiece rang. Katryna's name scrolled over his lens. He engaged the line.

"London sounds quiet. What's happening?"

"We're in luck dear doctor. The revolution's on the run and the republicans pursue them as we speak."

Andrez looked through a window and scanned the blacked out city.

"Are you certain?"

"I should be, I'm undercover in their officer's tent right now. What's your situation?"

"We have the Kensington regiment surrounded. They've around 30 left. If it's all the same to you I'd like to pull back. We're in a bad way here."

"Agreed. Get out of there and let's skip the message tonight. I'll warn you when the republican force heads back."

"Until then."

Andrez hung up. He hailed the sections around him. Earpieces chimed.

"It's over. We're done. Prepare to retire."

A hundred bodies relaxed. A hundred masks sighed with white noise.

A rank of trumpets followed.

The Cupola Room opened.

Varma drew his weapons and cried a valiant 'Rule Britannia'. His men cried out too, and in a final display of courage, followed him through the breach.

They had chosen a last stand.

Guns exchanged. Many insurgents were taken unaware.

And before Andrez could assume control, Varma was on him.