December 24^th, 202X
10:43 am
It has taken me a few days to return to my old, conscious self. Specifically, it took until the morning of the holiday that is at the centre of so much of my seasonal dread that I’ve finally mustered enough will to get out of bed. I know you’d probably like to know more about Archie and me’s daring escape from the estate, and I wish I had something close to, perhaps, a riveting story of storming out into the whiteness outside alongside the would-be revolutionaries. I hate to disappoint, but all I have is a blank nothingness, broken up by an occasional gunshot and a random scream heard down the street. As much as I am not proud to admit it, for my own sanity, this was a rerun of the night it all began. You will just have to deal with it.

And yet, despite my best efforts to pretend, on the contrary, I was back – painfully aware that the world was still spinning, uncaring of my hubris. I suppose it was nigh time I faced it.

In truth, the thing that finally brought me back wasn’t sunlight or a sudden realisation of what day it was; rather, it was the stuffy cigarette smell. As I opened the window to clear it out (I’d prefer not to acknowledge the overrunning cup-slash-ashtray on the table), I found little more than mockery of sounds outside. Not one of them, for even a single moment, betrayed the picture of perfect serenity: cars sped up and drove away sporadically with occasional honking; the market was busy with holiday-goers; the chatter of life – undisturbed and unbothered – went on as if there wasn’t a violent uprising happening at that very same minute. In many ways, it was like any other Christmas: commercialised and filled with artificial worries but deceptively convincing; so deceptive, in fact, that it took me a minute to even notice, let alone see, just behind the towering skyscrapers of the financial district, great clouds of smoke coming up somewhere in the Northern part of the city. At that moment, I could only speculate its possible source, but noticing a group of strange men, clad in grey camouflage and khaki armour vests, rifles tangling across their shoulders, gave rise to a disturbing realization:

The army was here.

 I stepped away from the window, trying to ignore the unpleasant conclusion and just to make myself some tea. But as I poured the boiling liquid into my other, clean cup, curiosity had gotten the better of me, so I decided to check the frontpage news on my laptop.

I regretted it almost instantly.

Daily Postage: TERROR IN THE NORTH: Radical Marxists, gangs of illegal immigrants, threaten to “take Parliament by Christmas.”

The Protector: Who are the “Suns of Tomorrow?” A profile on the controversial protest movement alleged to be behind last week’s bombings.

Sandwiched in-between, an ad for the end-of-year sale at the “Capital’s favourite retailer. UP TO 70% OFF.” Underneath, a picture of that leather jacket I was pining for since last year.

How charming.

The Capital Times: ST. PANCRAS STATION FIREBOMBING: What to Know.

The Sunrise (unfortunate time to have that name for a newspaper): “IT WAS HARD TO BREATH”: A Police Officer Recalls his Heroism During Last Week’s Clash With Terrorists That Left Three Dead.

The Telegram: Shots Fired in Edinburgh, Manchester; Home Secretary says terrorists will be “punished.”

A looping ad for the newest antidepressant – “Don’t let the seasonal weather get you down!”

The Banker: Unprecedented: In a close vote, government declares martial law. Read the full brief now, only for ED9.99.

Afternoon Benchmark: LIVE: In the wake of last week’s terror, mayor says the situation is “under control.” Home Secretary: military’s role is “supportive” and “temporary.” “Business as Usual.”

Some Christmas Eve, this.

As I sobered myself up, a semblance of a picture was emerging: whatever happened that night we ran from the estate didn’t lead to some sort of an uprising, instead resulting in acts of violence only occasionally underpinned by purpose and some sort of cohesion (go figure people up North ended up having an easier time organising than the Capital). In a way, we were back to square one, as it was post-Festival; it’s just that, instead of armed police, we now contended with armed military personnel patrolling the streets.

With a sigh, I shut my eyes, rubbing my temples, letting the thoughts marinate in my head. It wasn’t a shock, of course – I knew something was happening since that night. But a part of me, wide awake now from that deep slumber I buried my head in, remained in a state of a jolted shock, as realisation of just how bad things had gotten finally hit me. It was hopeless in retrospect, but I guess I fell for the oldest trick in the book: just ignoring the news doesn’t make them go away, no matter how hard I tried to shut myself from the world at large.

Oh, shit, right. I figured I should check my texts.

Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, the sight of 20 missed calls and a bundle of missed texts – most from Miranda, a couple from Brian, a few from mum, and one from dad and Margaret (weirdly none from Archie) – would have scared me to death only a few years ago. But once you fall far enough from your core, the disappearances and missed calls seem much less worrisome; I was willing to take any comfort in that sourness.

First, the family. All of them were some variation of “is everything okay?” or the other. A call would be too much right now, so a simple “I’m safe; call when I can” had to suffice.

Margaret, to her credit, was a little more ‘her,’ I guess: “I know you don’t respond to these things, but please don’t die. Lmk when things settle, or you get out (emphasis on get out!).” My sister knew me too well.

Then it was Brian, which I appreciated despite its inefficiency – “Miri can’t reach you, you okay? We’re worried. Let us know you’re alive.” I didn’t really expect anything more – he’s a boyfriend of my colleague/closes friend, what more could he say? – so no real complaints.

Miranda, though, was a whole other story.

“I can see that you’ve made it home on my my tracker wtf is going on???”

“Xxxx what the FUCK happened at the estate & WHERES ARCHIE ANSWER ME”

And a few others in that general vein. Except for the last one, earlier today:

“Hope you’re ok. Don’t bother coming to the office today. I’ll try calling later.”

That, rather than any other of her texts, alarmed me most. Miranda wasn’t one for blunt texts that leave you to speculate – normally, you get exactly what it says, be it solace or doom.

Not this. Not “Don’t bother coming to the office today.”

Having thought about it for a moment, I dialled her. Sure, the conversation about missed text would follow, but who cares – different priorities at that moment.

Dial tone; ring; ring; ring.

Nothing.

Dial again.

Tone; ring; ring; ring. More nothing. An impenetrable abyss of silence. A trench of worry and speculation, with little assurance of relief outside of the general fact that Miranda would probably be able to handle it – whatever the “it” may be. Helplessly, I returned to bed, aimless. For a second, I thought of trying to call Sam, but I quickly banished the thought – he wouldn’t pick up; he never does.

With a sigh, I contemplated the state of affairs that morning: a tenuous, reeling, begrudging Christmas, with all of us pretending whatever violence had occurred last week – month – year – was not a thing to worry about. Archie laying low. Miranda sending concerning texts. Business as usual, or so they say.

Do you see now, why I hate this holiday so much?  

There was only one thing to do: go to the office, and see for myself, what is it that Miranda has been so desperate to keep me away from. It beat sitting on my ass the entire time.

11:30 am
As I stalked the gross, grey streets, snow and dirt haphazardly pushed to the sides of the road, the whiplash of the situation began settling in considerably deeper. The street vendors, attempting to sell the last of their inventory, were no longer targeting the unaware citizens, but instead began bartering and heckling the army boys, who did their best to not engage with them. One fresh-faced soldier, carrying a drone backpack on his shoulders, gave in, and was now arguing over a tiny Christmas tree, barely big enough to notice, just small enough to hold in one’s hands. An old Christmas song, one that seemingly came back every year around November, played from somewhere through a shitty speaker.

At the intersection, the road leading to the train station was cordoned off by an armoured car; a masked soldier, his eyes obscured by a pair of ski-like goggles, sat behind a heavy, grey gun, its visual weight and oppressing stature serving as the final deterrent for anyone who would dare to try and use the tube. Right opposite of it, in front of the hospital that I passed by every day to the office, a queue now formed, in front of which an old doctor was arguing with an armoured policeman wearing an opaque helmet (sending shivers down my spine when I saw him), doubtlessly about needing to either let everyone in or the best way to disperse the crowd; the policeman, threateningly, kept one hand on his taser baton the entire time.

Above us, a swarm of drones hummed, like the static, as they moved in a sequence, reminiscent of migrating birds leaving this fresh hell for warmer shores. The green and red blinking of their eyes permeated even from way down here, reminding us – reminding me – that no one was safe. I buried my head deeper into my jacket, affixing my hat to cover my eyebrows, as if that would help.

Further down, by a shut grocery store, a trio of what I assumed to be policemen (it was hard to tell – none of them wore the usual uniform, ditching it for plain, dark jackets, only covering their faces with ski masks and scarves) gathered a few meters from their car, blue lights pulsating down the street. Surrounded by them, a man was lying in the snow, handcuffed and restrained, a giant bruise covering his face. Over his shoulder, a bag – not unlike one I was carrying with me now – laid wide open, with orange and black flyers, their wordings too obscure to figure out from far away, scattered around him like spilled guts. Above them, a halo of a streetlamp blinked sporadically, clearly broken. The man wasn’t resisting; there was no longer a point in doing so.

I did my best to not to stare, quietly swallowing the dread as it crept up my throat like an acid reflux, as I intensified my step to get off the street as fast as I could.

11:44 am
As I reached the office, a sense of comfort, however fleeting, returned: the windows were not barred, the sign shone brightly in its neon brilliance, and the light in the lobby was clearly on. Even with Christmas being our day (or, well, night off), that wasn’t until 3 pm on the eve; and somehow, to my mind, the signs pointed to the fact that Miranda was still inside, and that everything – the weird text notwithstanding – was alright.

That illusion disappeared the moment I got close enough to peek into the window, as I saw two men in trench coats – one blonde, taller; the other bald, shorter – standing in front of the desk. In front of them, Miranda, her face contorted into a mix of restrained rage and horror, abated only by her ruthless professionalism. Without hesitation (and only a slight tremble of the gut, beckoning to turn back and hide in my apartment), I went in.

“Absolutely not,” Miranda shook her head, defiantly holding her ground against the visitors, “I’ll tell you the same thing I said to that pipsqueak intern of yours you sent earlier: you want a search, that’s fine by me – once you back with a warrant.”

“Ms. Xxxxx, this really doesn’t need to be this complicated,” the blonde spoke, his voice calm but piercingly cold, “Under the Emergency Directive, we have an absolute right for searches without warrant of any places of interest that might assist in our investigation. The Directive has been in full effect since the martial law was declared, your business is a place of interest. This seems like a pretty easy chain of reasoning, no?”

“I don’t care what some asswipe of a directive says,” Miranda was rarely cornered, but in her voice, I caught the hint – a miniscule, barely audible hint – of desperate realisation of her position, “I know my damn rights; I am not consenting to a search without a lawyer or a written explanation, on what grounds you people are-” her eyes suddenly darted in my direction, as I stood slightly behind the two men, “Xxxxxx, what- why are you here?!

The two men turned around with their shoulders, just enough for me to see their faces. There was no mistaking the two detectives who interrogated me only weeks before.

“Ah, Mr. Xxxxxxxx,” the blonde detective – what was his name again? – spoke, his partner’s face still stone cold, “What a pleasant surprise. I thought your couriers were on their day off today?” he turned his gaze back towards Miranda, who was noticeable growing paler.

“We, uh- We are,” I spoke up, trying to take some heat off her, opening up my bag, “I just came by to drop my S-Pad and wish Miranda a happy holiday.”

“Is that so?” the blonde man said longingly, as if tasting my words for truth, “Well, I am glad that you are keeping stock, despite the rather strange circumstances of the season,” he stepped up towards me, eyes transfixed on me, “If I search that bag right now, I wouldn’t find anything illegal in there, will I?”

“Illegal, ah, like… what?” I sheepishly replied.

“Oh, I don’t know, what is it they check for at checkpoints these days?” he turned to his partner, “Propaganda flyers, pipe bombs, guns?” back to me, gaze unchanged. A single drop of sweat creeping down my neck, “Those kinds of not holiday-appropriate things, you know?” I stood silent, doing my best to not betray my composure. At last, his eyes shifted to my bag, holding nothing but the S-Pad and my phone, “I guess not. Good on you for being a model citizen,” I held in the sigh of relief, as he turned around back to Miranda, “I’d like to speak with someone more senior than you.”

“There is-” she cleared her throat, “There is no one more senior than me.”

“What about your boss?”

“He is not available right now.”

“Ma’am, I will write you up for obstruction of justice.”

“I am sorry, was I not clear? I said he is not-”

Suddenly, the tense silence was broken by a singular notification ping on Miranda’s computer. Instinctively darting her eyes to it, she froze, mouth slightly agape, as she read whatever she was seeing on her screen.

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat again, “My apologies, there was a… miscommunication. He will see you now,” she gestured towards the door in the back, its imposing stature reinforced by the gold plaque drilled into the very top.

“See, isn’t this so much easier?” the blonde detective smiled, gesturing to his partner, “Don’t go anywhere – both of you – we have some questions,” their boots clicked across our laminated floor, an oppressive rhythm echoing through the building. With a polite knock on the door, they entered the dim room, throwing one last glance at us before closing the door shut. The tension in the air had eased, and me and Miranda were finally alone.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she reiterated her question, whispering it forcefully through her teeth, eyes wild and lips pouted, “I told you not to come in today!”

“I was worried!” I tried to defend myself, leaning in towards her, “It’s not like you to send a text so vaguely distressful.”

“Oh, well, ex-fucking-cuse me, I was just trying to be direct after not hearing from you for days after the bullshit you two pulled at Barbican!” her tone shifted then, only so slightly, but, even from this minor adjustment, I could hear that she was genuinely hurt, which made me feel all the worse for it, “God, Xxx, I even came by your place, and you weren’t there – what was I supposed to think?”

“You came by my place?” I tried to mask my alarm, because I sure as hell did not remember that, “When?”

“I don’t know, earlier in the week? You didn’t respond, so I assumed- I hoped you were out or something, but then you kept blanking my texts, and-” she shook her head, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter; you’re a dick, but what’s new and who gives a shit,” she sighed, letting her body drag her down back into the chair.

I paused, catching the argument – the stubborn, insistent desire to talk back – almost escaping my mouth. It didn’t feel right, even as I wanted to stand my ground; what was there to argue about?

“I’m sorry,” was all I mustered in the end, “I should’ve let you know what was going on. I’m not proud of not doing it, and I regret it.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, meekly but earnestly, taking her glasses off, “I’m just glad you’re alright,” she spun her chair over, towards where the door to the main office was.

“What do you think he’s talking with them about?”

“Knowing boss, nothing at all; he’s stalling,” she shrugged, pulling her e-cigarette and taking a quick, barely noticeable puff of it, “That’s the most we can hope for, anyway, but by God does he know how to spin the yarn.”

I stood silently, trying to catch a glimpse of anything coming from behind the door, but nothing followed. It was as if the room on the other end was a vacuum, enveloped in a soundproof casing, from which not a single shred – or slip – of information would escape. It was a fruitless exercise to try and gage into, so I turned my head to the wall-mounted tv that was on this entire time, just without sound. The channel was looping morning news, showing naval fleets in the Xxxxxx Sea and men in uniforms patrolling along a tall grey wall. “Border Escalation: Xxxxxx Premier Rallies the Military in Response to the Rumours of an Attack to Breach the Berlin Wall; NATO Emergency Session to Convey at 2 PM, GMT.”

“What’s all this about?”

“Oh, that?” Miranda followed my eyes, fixing her hair into a bun, “Man, you must be really out of the loop, this was the only other things on the news since the night at the estate. There are talks that these Suns, or whatever the fuck they call themselves, are going to breach the Wall. Xxxxxs-” she caught herself, realising she used not the nicest word to describe my nationality, “Sorry, Xxxxxxs suspect the West might be behind this and are threatening to retaliate. Same old shit, if you’d ask me, but,” she didn’t quite finish her thought, be it out of uncertainty or, more simply, a desire to not speak anything worse into existence. And I couldn’t blame her; the words ‘how bad can it get?’ seem to have completely lost their value by now.   

“Listen,” I turned around to her, “We gotta talk about the- about what happened that night.”

“I know,” she closed her eyes, covering them with the palm of her hand, “I know, we do, and I owe you an explanation, but not now, Xxx. Not with… this,” she titled her head towards the menacing, heavy door on the other end of the room, “Is that okay?”

“I guess,” making a scene was both impractical and not something I wanted to do, so I relented. But I did need to know one thing, “Is Archie alright?”

“Couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to,” she shook her head, “He dropped off his S-Pad the morning after, and then just vanished into thin air.”

“How do you mean?”

“Doesn’t call, doesn’t text, doesn’t come to work. Complete ghost. Sort of like someone else I know,” she affixed her glasses, a slight bit of disdain still lingering behind the frames.

“You don’t think he’s…?”

“No. Maybe? God, I hope not,” it was clear that Miranda wasn’t as concerned or upset about Archie as she was about me – there was a hint of indifference in her voice, even as her face betrayed a clear worry about not being able to supply a clear answer; yet if she couldn’t care for him as a friend, I’d like to think that, at least in her professional capacity, she carried a sense of responsibility, “Look, if it’s worth anything, Archie may have fucked priorities, but he ain’t dumb – he’ll be okay. When’s the last you saw him?” I gulped, mustering the will to recall that night. I know I told you no details earlier, but the truth is that a few moments did stick out – moments that Miranda, at this point at least, deserved to know.

“Well, after we got out, we-”

A creak of the door interrupted me: the blonde detective, his short partner in the back, emerged out of the room. As the door swung, I tried to peek inside, but, except for the lamp on the corner of the table and only a vague outline of a silhouette beside it, I saw nothing. Seeing the two return, Miranda jumped to her feet, straightening out the wrinkles in her trousers.

“Right,” the blonde detective said with a sigh, patting his coat as if looking for something, “Ms. Xxxxx, apologies for the inconvenience. We will be back with a warrant tomorrow,” his eyes darted at me, as I felt my stomach drop, “Mr. Xxxxxxxx, pleasure as always. Stay out of trouble. Cheerio!” and as if nothing has happened, the two went for the door, without insomuch as a glance thrown at either me or Miranda.

After a momentary silence, a sound of car pulling away broke through, sirens following like a delayed thunder. Miranda, still standing upright, looked back at the boss’ office, as if contemplating if she should go back and ask him something, before another sound interrupted her – a ring of the company phone, one of those old landlines that no one used for at least a decade, lying by the keyboard. Her hand ever so slightly shaking, she picked it up, and pensively brought it to her ear. Silently listening, she only nodded a gave a stale, disinterested “got it,” before hanging up and returning to her seat like nothing happened.

“Well?” I asked.

“Well what, Xxxx? I’ve got,” she sighed, deeply, “A lot of work to do before those fine gentlemen come back,” she shook her head, scrolling through something on the computer, her eyes glued to the monitor, “Some fucking Christmas Eve, this- hey, do you know if the paper shredder in the breakroom still works?”

“There’s a paper shredder in the breakroom?”

“Ugh, you are utterly hopeless- look, I know you wanna talk, but let’s put a pin in that – how about you come by tonight? Brian’s dusting off the car to pick me up later, since the trains are all stopped; we could actually spend Christmas together for once?”

“I can’t,” I confessed, remembering the promise I owed Sam, “I, uh, gotta see Lena tonight.”

“Lena?” Miranda looked up, stopped in her tracks, “Why- Why would you be seeing Lena, today of all days?”

“I have- I’ve something of Sam’s for her. And I promised him I’d give it to her- look, I just gotta see her tonight.”

“Jesus, can’t it wait a day? There are checkpoints everywhere, no one is allowed West towards the city.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really- Jesus, Xxxxxx, come on!” I couldn’t tell if she was getting genuinely mad at me, but she clearly was not enthused about my plans, “You hide away in your apartment for days on end; you don’t call, you don’t text; and then you show up, as the company’s getting raw-dogged, on the one day in the year when there are roadblocks and the fucking British army is patrolling the streets, talking about having to go see Lena?! Do you not hear how utterly mad you sound?” her face was shifting from confusion to annoyance; I could tell that my line of reasoning was not resonating with her, per se.

“Miranda, I- I just have to do it, okay?”

“You are just like him,” eyes closed, she rubbed her temples, “In fact, all three of you are one and the same – just can’t sit still, can’t FUCKING act rational if I begged you for it!” she buried her head in her palms, letting out a groan, its frustration reverberating through the lobby, “Do what you must, I-I don’t give a shit anymore. But,” she raised her eyes at me, tittering on the edge of a cry, finger pointed between my eyes, “If you change your mind, and decide to be a normal human being for once, you call me and we will come and get you. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” I affixed the bag on my shoulder, sensing it best I get out as soon as possible, “I’ll be okay, Miranda. Don’t worry about me.”

“Fuck you, Xxx. Get lost. Merry Christmas to you too,” she lowered her gaze back to the monitor, typing something into it, before raising her eyes one last time at me, “If you do decide to act stupid, you share your location with me – otherwise, I swear to God, I will find and kill you myself. Understood?”

“Understood,” I tried to smile at her, but she was reallynot having it. I decided to get out of dodge, for hell had no fury like Miranda in a bad mood, so I pulled out my beanie over and hurried back outside.

12:30 pm
As I embraced the cold again, I saw exactly what Miranda was talking about earlier: looking West, towards the glass skyscrapers on the edge of Old City, a makeshift checkpoint has been erected in the middle of the road. Sandbags, a metal gate, held up by grey cement blocks on either side; a watchtower and searchlights; armoured cars in the front, its garrison spread around. Any paths that would lead to twisting and whirling side streets and alleyways were completely blocked by similar measures, essentially forcing all traffic – human or otherwise – through the road. And, by the looks of a crowd that was beginning to gather, no one allowed to leave without a reason good enough to convince an old soldier wearing some sort of an authoritative cap and a scanner, not unlike the one that the principal from a night that seemed so long ago now used to check my identification.

There was no point testing my luck there and then, so I headed home, deep in thought of what to do. I should have, probably, asked one of the onlookers if they knew what to do about all this, but the last two things I needed right now was to linger in front of a military outpost and social interactions with strangers who on a good Christmas would tell me to get lost.

12:43 pm
I didn’t quite want to head home; it was still too early in the day, and I wouldn’t leave until nightfall in any case (not because of habit, don’t get me wrong – this time, I had a tactical reason, underpinned by misplaced confidence, that it would be easier to slip by somehow), so I went to a park not too far from my apartment instead. The nice thing about the East, especially on a day like this, was that the further away you got from the entrance to the Old City, the fewer patrols you saw, bar an occasional drone (the hums of which I’ve, by then, learnt to ignore).

I ended up at Mile End Park, in front of one of the city’s numerous universities and just an earshot away from the train station, which was at that point also on lockdown (but rather than being a national security matter, this was purely local: someone, once again, got stabbed on the platform, which was not at all unusual for this part of town). The trees, lacking transparent bubbles of bio covers or any artificial support, unlike those in Kensington, now filled the park with their withered corpses. A massive circular fountain in the middle, bursting with life during summer heat, laid bare, bits of snow stuck atop its grey stone carcass. The fact that the park was completely empty by that point, both because of the season and the day in question, didn’t help the overall picture; even the local Lando’s, just on the edge by the entrance to it, was sustained by a lonely skeleton crew, waddling aimlessly from one end to the other.  Funny, if you didn’t know any better, one’d think he was at a graveyard, but of course those were being phased out in favour of cremation for some twenty years at this point to make space for “more ambitious” developments; even being buried on our own terms became a luxury that only trees could afford.

Still, the setups was ideal – I had time to think, andI would get my takeaway quickly – so I found a bench and plopped myself down for some contemplating time.

As the wind gently swept dead leaves across the ground, the feeling began sinking in that maybe I was trapped, after all. With no trains running, armed patrols on the street, and checkpoints set up around town – or, certainly, the part where I lived – there was no shot I could sneak my way through the treacherous streets of the Capital, not tonight, nor even maybe for the foreseeable future. A tediously normalised sight of another surveillance drone, close enough to be visible above the trees, only further confirmed my worries. For a moment, I even thought that it was specifically assigned to monitor me, but I quickly rejected that idea; I was nowhere near important enough.

Granted, I was important enough for those two detectives to stay glued to my ass in the most inconvenient of times. The difference now, however, was that it began affecting me, but the company, too. I hoped that it wasn’t my activities that brought them on (or at least, not just whatever my activities may be that did), not because I had a particularly warm feeling towards my employer or any corporate loyalties; I just hated the strain it was putting both Miranda and Archie under.

For now, the detectives promised they would be back later with a warrant. Not that I trust the government, but there had to be at least some innate interest for them to investigate us. After that night in the estate, I was tempted to investigate us myself.

However one was to spin it, we were in a pretty shitty spot, and I couldn’t help but blame myself for it.

So that was it: the city was overwhelmed with the military and armed riot police at every corner; there was 24/7 surveillance from the sky; every path leading into the city was cut off; no trains, no taxis, no buses; a complete lockdown. And on the other end of it, Lena, a promise to uphold. Impossible; impractical; painfully like any other promises tends to be. But a promise is a promise, as my mum would say. How terribly unhelpful.

You may think that spending Christmas Eve with Miranda and Brian was starting to look like not such a bad idea after all, and I’d be inclined to agree. I felt stupid even considering doing anything but sticking with them, so I can hardly imagine how ridiculous this appears to you. But as much as I would like to think that my obligation to Sam was at least half a reason for me declining the invitation (and believe me, it was, it had to be that night), I also must admit that there was something else there: I didn’t want to be around them, not during the holiday. Not that there was anything wrong with either of my friends, but, for lack of a better way to put it, I just couldn’t bear to be there. For most of my life, my low-points were defined by crippling loneliness and sadness. To that end, human contact – a logical remedy, you’d think – was poison that went both ways. I took no joy out of being surrounded by people that loved me, as much as they tried to; and they, I was certain, did not enjoy having their mood spoiled by my skulking. And yet, I could not help it – I could only power through it, and I usually did; but alone. The holiday period was just the worst time for it, for obvious reasons. This job, comparatively, was a really good coping mechanism, even if, as you know by now, people couldn’t help but be chatty sometimes. Or if, at times, I too couldn’t help but start to resent myself more for pushing so many others away when all I truly wanted was for someone to hold me.

Those bouts came and went unexpectedly, but one that stuck with me was maybe a year and some change ago, a few months before the whole union vote incident on the job. Miranda and Brian were celebrating their anniversary, God only knows how many years together – at this point, it really did feel like forever. After doing their own personal dinner date, they figured to hold a little get together with their closest friends. With some persuasion from Sam, I agreed to come by. Yet at the last minute, he had to skip town, so he was similarly not around then as he is now. I, foolishly, figured I might as well come, even though I wasn’t in the mood and my extroverted anchor of a friend wasn’t there to keep me buoyed.

“You made it!” Miranda exclaimed as I arrived, her hair a lighter shade of brown back then, “I was worried you wouldn’t show!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I’d smile earnestly, even as it has taken me the entire day to build up energy to come. By that point, the party was in full swing.

The place – Brian’s old apartment near the Government Sector, where he lived just before scoring his big Old City job – was packed, mostly with people I’ve never met before. I did see – and made a point to catch up with – a few people from the uni days, as well as a coworker or two who are no longer with the company (Gerald, for one, if you recall him at all), but for most of it, I tried to hug the corner and drink my beer without disturbances. Brian had some special lighting system in place that could change the colour of the lamps, and Miranda made a point to bring a makeshift disco ball that now hung from the chandelier in the living room; the low lights, and occasional blinding flash, made hiding in the crowd incredibly easy. The sound of laugher. People from all walks of life connecting. Bathroom, perpetually occupied since the first person who needed to throw up went in sometime just before I arrived. Colourful cups spread out across the table, bottles of liquor overflowing behind them. Stench of youth and vape clouds and cheap weed. Life lived well. A wonderful and terrifying sight that, with every minute, fostered a strong desire inside me to run away without saying goodbye.

To calm myself down, I stepped out onto the balcony, hoping to have a cigarette. Instead, I found a couple – their faces, at this point, obscured by time and memory – sharing an intimate moment of tender conversation; one that I, unceremoniously, broke by barging through the door.

“Oh, I’m- I’m sorry, I can-”

“Nah mate, you good,” the boy, barely older than me, smiled, smudged outline of his face expanding sideways ever so slightly. His companion was much less enthused, as the smile faded from her face, “Need a light?”

“Yes, actually,” as I patted myself down, I realised I’ve lost my lighter somewhere; how amateur. The boy kindly extended the green, scratched lighter, flicking the flame on, “Thanks.”

“You got it,” I nodded gratefully, quietly taking a barely noticeable step aside, to provide the lovers with some – any – privacy. The lovers, relieved, went back to their conversation.

“There you are- Oh my God, Claire, Charlie, hi!” a familiar commanding voice broke through behind me, as Miranda came out to the balcony, “Sorry, I am not interrupting the two of you, am I?”

“Not at all,” the girl finally spoke up, “We were actually just heading back – we might run to the shop, though, do you want anything?”

“Oh, God, actually, yes, we’re all out of ice- Can you grab some ice? If that’s not too much to ask?”

“You got it,” the boy responded, playfully waving his hand, “Don’t worry, we’ll dash over now. Great meeting you!” he, I realise retrospectively, said to me. I said nothing back.

“So, what’s all the gloom about?” Miranda, ever the straight shot, asked me, leaning by the balcony, “Is the sight of two people in love that much of a burden to your cold Xxxxxxx soul?”

“Not at all, no; if anything, the two of you are the most stable and assuring thing in the world currently,” I let myself smile for a moment, feeling like my guard was finally down, “It’s just, a lot, all at once, you know?”

“What, the party?” she tilted her head back, “Yeah, I admit, I’ve overdone it maybe a slight bit for an anniversary. But hey,” she shrugged, “In this economy, gotta take any opportunity to celebrate, don’t we?”

“I guess so,” I shrugged back, shaking ash off my Myrollboros. From somewhere deep in the room, the lines of “love tearing us apart – again” came through, muffled – an odd song for a party, but I couldn’t complain. Farther away, beyond the courtyard, the embankment of river Thames was getting crowded to welcome in the mid-spring and first genuinely warm weather of the year.

“You know, I brushed it off before, but I see it now,” she smirked, turning her head towards me, “But whenever you’re lying – or at least, not telling the whole truth – you tend to close your eyes for a couple of seconds.”

“I do?” I asked, caught off-guard – having a ‘tell’ seemed extremely worrying to me.

“Yeah; you squint for a moment, and then do like a prolonged ‘blink,’ like you’re swallowing whatever it is that you are about to say,” she said, reaching out for my cigarette with two fingers. I obliged, handing it to her, “You’d make a terrible lawyer.”

“And you’d make an excellent therapist.”

“Aw, thanks, you mean it? I only went to school for three years for a degree,” Miranda’s sarcasm was cutting, regardless of if we were on the clock or not, “Does that also mean that I guessed correctly that you are lying just a smidge?”

She got me, admittedly. I wasn’t one to fall for her logic tricks easily, but what can I say – I had a couple of beers by that point and was considerably weakened in the mental fortitude department. Yet even in this trapped, weakened state, I couldn’t do it. No matter how much I wished to say, “I feel like I am starting to lose touch with the world,” the words I didn’t even dare to say to my therapist, – no matter how much I wished for it – just wouldn’t come out; the simple sentence, “I don’t know what I am turning into and it scares me,” would not materialise.

And so, it never did. Not that night, not since.

“I’m fine Miranda, I promise. Just tired is all,” I tried to smile again. Miranda, holding her eyes on me, only grimaced, profound sadness in the corner of her eyes.

“You blinked again,” she said, handing me my cigarette back along with a light rub on the shoulder, before turning back into the apartment. The tune inside switched to something about flowers in December. I didn’t stick around for long after that.

Look, without going into further details, bottom-line of it all: it’s complicated, and that’s that. I’ve troubled myself and my therapist about it long enough, and I won’t dwell on it further – not to you, certainly. All you need to know is this: I was not going to Miranda’s. An evening delivering a gift to my best friend’s complicated on-again/off-again girlfriend was my Christmas that year.

The problem now was figuring out how to do that.

“Excuse me,” a voice broke through the silence of the park, shaking me from my thoughts, “You can’t sit here.”

I turned over to the side, only to be greeted by a not-quite-a-man-yet of an average height. He was dressed plainly – so plainly, in fact, you’d think he was another undercover policeman – except for a high-visibility vest and a bright-green lanyard around his neck. His eyes, miraculously unobstructed by his long, bright-brown hair, were coveted with two dark-blue circles of graveyard shift bags (a trait that, to be sure, I shared with him). In one of his hands, a touchpad, not too dissimilar to the one I slang around on my lengthy nights out.

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t sit here,” he chuffed his nose, looking down at the pad, as if in search of something, “If you want to use the bench, you gotta pay.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. Benches near the fountain aren’t free.”

“But it’s just a bench,” I pressed my hands into the rails to my side – it wasn’t even a particularly comfortable bench.

“Yes, well, and you just need to pay to use it.”

“Are you serious?” I looked around, looking for a hidden camera somewhere, or at least a non-descript police van – anything logical to reaffirm that I wasn’t crazy.

“Serious as ever,” he continued drily, not moving a muscle.

“Why would anyone need to pay to sit on a bench?”

“To prevent people from taking up space for too long. Other people might want to sit by the fountain.”

“Dude, the park is empty, the fountain isn’t working – why would anyone need to be charged to use the bench?”

“I don’t make the rules,” he shrugged, indifferently, “You use the bench, you gotta pay.”

“What if I sit over there?” I turned over, pointing to the grey, withered ground behind the bench, “Do I have to pay to sit on the grass, too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he shook his head, “You want to sit on the grass, by all means, sit on the grass – that is free. But you are on a bench. You gotta pay if you use the bench.”

“That- that is fucking absurd!” I couldn’t contain my frustration; I didn’t really care if this was a setup – on principle alone, none of it made sense, “I am just resting my legs for a moment!”

“Actually, you were sitting here for,” he scrolled through his pad – yes, really – “The last half an hour. I was gonna let it go at first, but, uh, you are clearly using the bench not just to rest at this point,” his face remained unmoved, like a statue. I couldn’t even get angry at him at that point – I was just so perplexed.

“Is this all your job is?”

“What?”

“This – looking to see that people, God forbid, don’t sit on a bench for longer than a moment, even when a park is empty?”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” he shrugged again, unbothered, “You’re gonna pay or not? If you don’t want to pay, I’m afraid I’ll have to write you up.”

“For using a bench?”

“For refusing to pay after using a bench,” he paused, as if thinking it through in his head, “And also for resisting the employee of Parks and Recreations Department,” he blinked, for the first time ever since he approached me, waiting, “So what’s it gonna be?”

I contemplated running – just making a dash for it. But paranoia that this was somehow a deliberate setup, and just general lack of desire to get on a shitlist as an immigrant, prevailed. I sighed, frustrated, closing eyes for just a moment to push down my disgust with myself.

“How much?”

“5 ED; if you are planning on sticking around, I’m happy to charge you 7 for the full hour?”

“No thanks,” unrolling my right hand’s sleeve, I brought my wrist closer to the pad, hearing a ‘ding!’ and feeling a little buzz in my arm, “I’ll be going now.”

“Thank you. Merry Christmas, and happy holidays!” the boy smiled, the lines on his face making it look like a paper mâché model, before turning around and walking up the hill, back to wherever the fuck he sat just to catch people out for using a God damn bench.

At the same time, as I sat there, puzzle pieces fell into place as to why the park was so desolate – not least of all, why not even anyone unlucky enough to be sleeping on the street was trying to find shelter here. And as that realization hit, that disgust – but at least, not with myself this time – came back in full force, halfway up my throat.

Cursing under my breath, I gathered my things, and went to Lando’s to grab some takeaway, if for no other reason than to at least have something quasi-festive on this incredibly shitty day.

3:56 pm
Back in my flat, my search for a solution to the impossible problem of the night was starting to become feverish. What started as simple search down the various GPS and map websites had devolved by now to scouring through obscure forums (with a VPN always turned on, of course) and SmokeSignal channels. A few were useful (someone was able to hack into one of the overwatch drones’ cameras, providing a bird’s eye view for the movement of patrols in the area); a couple obvious-but-nice-to-know-for-sure (confirmations and exact locations of checkpoints, as well as general tips on areas to avoid); but most were pretty bad (I saw “This is all a ploy by the XXXS to cancel Christmas WAKE UP PEOPLE #waronchristmas,” or a variation of this exact phrase, a few too many nauseating times). In another life, I’m sure, I’d make a great fed, scouring these channels for a living; alas, fascism – oh, fine, you don’t like that ‘bad’ word anymore, I guess; the bootlicking of it all was a hard sell.

Despite the few useful resources, I felt like I was getting nowhere. SmokeSignal was a goldmine for these things (and, as far as I know, very popular on the other side of the Wall, too), but I was nowhere near savvy enough to use it right. Sam showed me the ropes a few years back, when it got first blacklisted on the various online platforms, but I haven’t really resorted to using it until now. Yet even as I peered – awkwardly and rustically – into the endless abyss that was the assembly of forums and chatrooms, unvetted and anonymous as they were, I felt no greater sense of comfort or deeper knowledge; rather, I just felt disoriented. Worst of all, I was both disoriented and still no closer to figuring out, just what I was to do.

Occasionally stepping up to the window for a cigarette, I saw how the afternoon market wrapped up; how the noises of hobble and everyday slowly ceased into obscurity, as people retired to their homes; how the military grew quieter, setting in for a long night ahead. Only the smoke in the distance continued being omnipresent, its source still obscure and unknown. A tingling feeling under my stomach assured me that it will likely not be put out until tomorrow at least, and that, as much as I may have hated the prospect, it was but an omen of things to come. All signs were pointing that my best bet was to just ‘brute force’ my way through by simply going to a checkpoint and trying my luck. Not the first nor the last time I would do something stupid without a plan.

Suddenly, just as I was finishing the latest cigarette, a barely audible ‘ding’ came from my phone on the table. Certain that it was just Miranda checking in, I leisurely finished smoking, disposing the cigarette into my makeshift ashtray of a cup, before just as lazily coming back to my laptop, where I finally picked up the phone.

It was a text alright; but on the contrary, not Miranda. In fact, it was not a text from anyone I’d known; instead, the number simply showed up as ENCRYPTED. The text body itself, as far as I could tell from the notification, was blank.

I hurriedly opened the message, disregarding all sorts of common sense considerations of safe browsing (I thought it may have been from SmokeSignal, but if my phone was compromised, it would have been so a long, long time ago, given my pirate-adjacent tendencies), when seeing that the textbox was empty – someone was only just now typing.

“https://tinyurl.com/mryzbs2p”

“who tf is this?” I simply typed in response.

“OPEN THE LINK. UNSAFE TO TALK OTHERWISE”

Normally, I’d know better than to open suspicious links from strangers on the internet. A weighty counterpoint, of course, was that the day was anything but normal, and I was intrigued. So, for better or for worse, I obliged.

The link took me to some sort of a secure website with nothing but a chatbox. I could see my profile – “guest2” – and whoever was on the other end – “guest1” – but nothing else gave away who, or from where, was contacting me. As soon as I logged on, the other person began typing almost immediately.

“Good. Much easier to talk now.”

“are you gonna tell me who you are now?”

“Can’t take the chance. Soz,” the frustration of potentially getting my phone infected with a virus and not even getting to know whom to thank for it was by now pointless to dwell on.

“what do you want”

“To warn, and make sure you are ready,” a shiver went down my spine.

“wdym”

“Tonight, the world will change. You won’t have much time. Be ready to go once you see it.”

“how will I know?”

“Look to darkness. You will know when it happens,” was all that followed. I stared at my phone, confused, when suddenly a follow-up message came through.

“Good luck. May we both live to see the sunrise,” and just as abruptly, before I could even type a response, the page crashed into a 404 error. No matter how many times I tried to refresh the page, it was gone.

 I sat in silence for a moment, taking in the shifted dynamics of the day, unsure if I was to thank my mysterious benefactor or curse them for dragging me into the messiness of it all further. In pursuit of a fruitless attempt to erase my steps – and let’s be honest, they really were fruitless by this point – deleted the text conversation, cleared my cache, erased browsing history, and so on, but all those actions felt more like obligatory steps of desperation, a “this won’t work but I might as well try” dance of privacy, rather than meaningful erasure of my digital footprint. If I truly cared, I would’ve started being careful much, much longer ago.

In the distance, the smoke from before began waning, ever so slightly. An overwatch drone whizzed past, hurrying towards the city center. Calm was falling on the Capital once more. I’m ashamed to admit that, for a second, I even believed that maybe it’ll be okay. But nothing could truly prepare me for the night ahead.