The resistance: Chapter 1

I’m not sure whether I’ll write the rest of this over the summer holidays but comment if you think I should. Anywhooo…

Chapter 1:

“The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.”- Che Guevara

It was a dark night. Damp dripped off the walls, and the world seemed dead as the families hid in their houses, hiding away from the nightmares of suburban Britain the 22nd century. Towering over everything was parliament, a 70-storey insignia of corruption in this bleak, dystopian era. But as Britain rested, a group of teenagers silently slunk through the backstreets of London, determined to restore England to its former glory. They were the only survivors of the left wing movement of the late Twenty first century, the only people who would stand up to the oppressive regime of the new conservatives who brought socialism to its feet. These teenagers were planning to burn New London prison to the ground. 

They snuck out to the prison edge and smirked for the first time in months. The resistance were about to bring an empire down, and it started with this. They knocked the guards out and casually set free every single prisoner, every single artist, writer and singer who expressed their free speech against the government. Once every prisoner had escaped, every alarm had been silenced and every guard had been incapacitated, they strolled out into the night, lighting a match and throwing it on the floor, leaving behind the 10,000 tonnes of dynamite that had been strategically placed around the building and leading the prisoners to freedom. 

The next morning was utter chaos. The Prime Minister had condemned the attack as an act of terrorism and was interrogating almost anyone who was in a 10 mile radius of the escape. But the ripples felt through the government were more powerful than the usual act of mass violence. It had sparked something that was more powerful than any institution. 

Rebellion. A word so dangerous in this era the thought of it was like suicide in both a social and literal sense. An army was amassing, a movement more powerful than anything since the punk revolution of the late 1970’s. The disenfranchised British population were contemplating the only escape from the endless cycle of pain and suffering. They finally realised that the only thing more powerful than the corporations and governments were the people and their voices.

John took a long drag on his cigarette, the sweet poison filling his lungs. He knew that he was going to die for this rebellion and he was happy to do so. Sighing to himself, he got up from his chair and looked out over the city he was going to liberate. He looked out at a place of hope hidden beneath the barriers of uncertainty. 

He climbed down the stairs and got into his car, speeding off towards the river where the prime minister would give a speech for the very last time. 

Parking at the docks, he opened the door as the eyes of the press and the prime minister turned in shock horror. A pistol had emerged from his jacket and was pointed directly. 

“I am the herald of peace. A peace that can only be found with death.” There was a bang, smoke rising from the gun and a scream. Then John Steele jumped off the edge of the docks and drowned himself before anyone could do anything.

And on that cheery note, 



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