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“Yeah.” Rory’s voice is laced with something that makes me nervous. A flash of steel — steel that only comes out when deliberately provoked. He catches my eye. “It isn’t pretty.”
“—because at the end of the day, wehadto take them out,” the radio declares. “The only people waving the old Union Jacks are bigoted ultra-royalists. Sorry, but that’s a fact. We never trusted them not to stab us in the back. So it made sense, from our perspective, to defend King James’s honor by striking first.”
Nobody speaks. Nobody even breathes. Striking first? All they’ve ever done is strike.
“Also, I think it’s a testament to how organized and on-message we were that everyone’s talking about it in a mostly positive way.”
“Aye, because they’re a’ batshit terrified o’ youse,” Finlay mutters.
“Yes, it was bold. Yes, some will have reservations. But all our plans came to fruition beautifully. This is a big win for the British public and the Britishrepublic. We’ve changed minds, we’ve changed hearts. We’ve shown the world that Antiro means business.”
“So what’s your message to listeners who only access biased news reports from the mainstream media? Particularly in regards to any so-called ‘violent attacks’?”
“Well, on the point of violence, remember thatthey’rethe ones being violent against us with their inaccurate reporting. The sooner the new broadcasting laws come into effect, the better. At this stage, however, I think we can all agree that our hand has been forced, and that we need to regard violence as a necessary tool in our political arsenal. Of course, don’t forget that violence is a perfectly proportionate reaction to a fascist movement that wants us defeated at best and massacred at worst.”
“There’s that calm, measured response again,” Rory drawls, folding his arms across his chest. “Theoretical violence rationalizing real violence. And this is changing hearts and minds, they said?”
“And what was your personal highlight of the protest?”
“Unfortunately I wasn’t able to actually be on the front lines,” the speaker demurs, to which Rory gives a disgusted scoff. “But we’ve all seen the pictures from the Tower of London. Our London branch of royalists was able to break in and occupy the Tower. I believe they’re still in there as we speak, in what is, I think everyone will find, anincredibleact of symbolism. We finally set those rooks free! Obviously, the crown jewels had been hidden much, much earlier, before King James came to power — we have our suspicions as to their whereabouts—” Here, the speaker gives an enormous fake cough, and mutters beneath his breath, “Eyes on you, British military establishment, haha. But no, it was an amazing opportunity to showcase our full, ah,disrespectto such an oppressive institution.”
“I’m none the wiser to what actually happened,” Danny murmurs. “They… squatted in the Tower of London? Why would that affect us?”
“Aye, where’s Crystal Night?”
“They’re sanitizing it,” Rory concludes. “They’ve done something big enough to warrant everyone to pretend it was a jolly day out.”
“God, I wish we weren’t a day behind with the newspapers.” This is torture, piecing together information from tidbits from the other side. Although… “Will the newspapers even report anything negative?”
“Only to paint those who complain about Antiro as quaint idiots,” Rory says. “Who knew the whole of our democracy hinged on the output of The Daily Toot?”
“Self-financed, aren’t they?” Finlay muses. “So they can afford no’ tae kowtow tae ootside influence. Smart.”
I pick miserably at my blazer sleeve. “I don’t think we’ll ever find out the full extent of what happened last night.”
“It’ll come out. The truth always does.” Rory gives me a reassuring smile that I wish I could return. “In the meantime, we can try to read between the lines.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“A couple of things. They fucked up their protest with their usual monkey-brained violence, this time hard enough that they’ve admitted the public has reservations. Negativity surrounds whatever happened. They said they’re trying to prove themselves to the world, not the UK. The military, who’ve so far given them a fuckload of leeway, seem to have pissed them off. And the high-up Antiro members who get interviewed by the media, like this charming fellow, don’t bother getting involved in the actual protests.”
“Why’s that a problem?”
“Because he can’t care that much, can he? Where’s the passion? There is none, because it’s all a facade. It’s a political bandwagon, populated by opportunists. Invite all the careerist, money-grabbing, media-trained wankers, give them the precious air-time they’d kill their families for, and have them parrot the party line without otherwise lifting a finger. A win-win and a narcissist’s dream.” Rory snaps off the radio. “It’s image. PR.Spin. Everything is, of course. Nothing in the public eye is real — I’m getting more and more convinced of it.” Over the cross of his arms, a frown pinches Rory’s brows. “Also, they call themselves royalists or anti-royalists, and that’s good, and us ultra-royalists, but we’re bad? Bit of a discrepancy, linguistically. Makes us sound like an even cooler version of what they want to be.”
“The only people allowed tae call themselves royalists are anti-royalists,” Finlay mutters. “How does that make sense?”
“The world went mad long ago. We also have journalists ignoring news, politicians ignoring problems, the military ignoring terrorism…”
With a grimace, Danny adds, “Teachers ignoring the truth and literally getting their ignorance stamped across their face.”
“Can ye imagine if journalists actually reported the news, the bare facts o’ a story, how much better-aff we’d a’ be?” I don’t miss Finlay’s intense gaze at me as he speaks these words, and a small shiver slides down my spine. I still haven’t forgotten his offer, for me to write about his mother as he gives me an exclusive. But I know him. If anything, he has far more experience than I do in writing ground-breaking reports. If he truly wanted the story out, he’d have done it himself long ago, not held onto it as a gift just for me.
“Not for the chancers in power,” Rory mutters. “It’d be verybadnews indeed, I imagine. A few million here and another few million there, and it stops the press from asking too many questions. Our entire establishment functions on hush money.”
“Tomorrow’s Daily Toot is going to be a hot commodity, isn’t it,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. Then again, I don’t think the younger students have caught on that it’s a newspaper with half-naked women in it, and no one gives a fuck about politics more than us. “Think I’ll go down and grab it as early as I can. Take it with us to Dunhaven.”
I hate this. I hate existing in this little box, fed like an animal in a cage only the scraps the world considers me worthy enough for, fighting for every whisper about political alliances and shady backroom deals. I wantallthe information. I want it right here, at my fingertips. I want to learn what people think, hear what people say, and know I’m being served the truth. And I’m sick to death of being fed propaganda, of being told what to think, say and know.
