London, England - 2022
Our streets are dark, even at dawn, with the shadows of death and defeat. What once used to be a thriving city now stands bare, terrorised and alone, just as those who live amongst its haunted suburbs.
They call themselves, The Night; that is after all, their ultimate weapon. Terrorists, thugs, thieves and murderers joined to an elite force, to watch over the days that one by one, we all die. Politics and economy struggle to continue with rising mobs of anarchists and all law and order has been overturned to them. London, as we once know it, has been abandoned by her once reliable neighbours.
Welcome to the end.
London, England - 2015
“Your methods of rationalising with these… terrorists can go on no longer! In your position as Prime Minister, I plead with you to think of those that you stand for!”
General Gillman had planted his hands firmly upon the edge of the desk in the throws of his speech. The wood gave a low creaking whine of protest as his thick fingers gripped with fury. Beads of sweat had begun to form upon his ever lengthening brow and his uniform was slightly askew.
“General, I think you do not understand the position that I am in at the moment. Those at Parliament have voted me out, ten to one. What would I look like if I fought against my own party? The situation is being handled and if you object, then you are free to withdraw the whole of your Territorial Army. By all means, do what is best for your troops.” This was the reply of the Prime Minister, who was seated behind the desk that was whining still. His voice remained at a steady calm tone, although his eyes were strained and time had left its mark across his worn face.
“This is outrageous! I will not allow my troops to follow orders from a leader who does not do his duty. From now on, may you fight without Her Majesty’s Territorial Armed Forces,” Gillman’s once booming voice had now lost its edge and his eyes were wearily staring down at the Prime Minister.
He had lost his mind.
----
“Reports that the Armed Forces have backed out of Government’s new negotiations with terrorists have yet to be confirmed, as rumours have began to escalate--“
The images of General Gillman died from the screen into a black abyss, followed by a static crackle.
“C’mon man, you don’t wanna be watching that crap.” Gretchen remarked, almost in a gentle tone, as she crossed her arms and let her back rest against one of the rooms crème coloured walls. A pair of dungarees were slung about her waist, paint splattered over the stomach of an old shirt beneath them. Flakes of maroon paint clung to strands of her silk blonde hair, which was held back loosely in a clip. The paint looked oddly like blood.
Malcolm looked away from the silence of the TV screen, a crease forming on his forehead as he frowned. A paintbrush dripped maroon paint onto the sheet covered floor as he stood from the small stool he had placed himself upon.
“Makes you wonder what kind of negotiations they’re making, huh?” He quipped, the corner of his lips turning up ever so slightly in the form of a sardonic smile. “Let’s just hope the rumours aren’t true.”
Gretchen winced ever so and studied him a second. His streak of mahogany brown hair hung around his grey eyes shaggily, while his face looked younger than his twenty three years. Yet only a year of being in the police squad had turned his smile sour, and bitterness fogged his eyes when they spoke of the new acts of terrorism. She reached out and touched his arm gently, making him turn and look at her properly, his smile turning to that of a caring nature. He took her hand and drew her up close to his chest, his arms sliding around his waist loosely and he swept away strands of paint stained hair from her face.
“Forget about them. Today, it’s us.” Gretchen’s smile touched her eyes as she let her cheek rest against Malcolm’s chest, but she soon felt him slipping away from their embrace as he walked to turn the TV on once more. Sightings of gangs and Government claims blared from the set and Gretchen felt her eyes grow hot.
“I’m sorry. I gotta keep an eye on everything,” and with that, Malcolm was once again absorbed into the TV set, the images reflecting in his owl-like eyes, which now seemed dead. Obsessed.
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