Lisa Carter awoke before dawn, the hum of the city already stirring outside her small flat. Two children still slept in their shared bed—Tommy, ten, and Rosie, seven—wrapped in thin blankets that barely kept out the cold. The electric meter blinked red. Emergency credit depleted. Again. She sighed, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and shuffled to the kitchen, where the fridge hummed its dying breath. Food was scarce, the price of basics rising every week. Not that it mattered; her Universal Credit had been cut for missing an appointment. Automated appeals had denied her reinstatement, citing a ‘failure to engage with reintegration policies.’ A sterile way of saying we don’t need you anymore.

The news played from a battered radio, cheerful voices announcing the latest employment schemes for ‘non-contributors.’ Lisa knew what that meant. The job centre had offered her son Tommy a place at a ‘Community Reformation Camp.’ She had refused at first—he was a child—but soon, the letter arrived. Mandatory Participation. Failure to comply will result in penalties. She didn’t know what they did at those camps, only that the boys who left never came back, and the girls… well, Rosie had been ‘assessed for Corporate Adoption’ the month before. A social worker had promised it was ‘for her own future.’

Lisa had no choice.

The first riot broke out when food rationing was announced. Only registered citizens could buy essentials, and registration required biometric tagging. Lisa queued for hours at the processing centre, holding Tommy’s hand tightly. A woman ahead of them protested, demanding to know why her father’s pension had been revoked. The guards moved in swiftly. A gunshot cracked through the air. Lisa looked away, tightening her grip on Tommy.

By the time she reached the counter, her registration was denied. A flashing red symbol appeared on the clerk’s screen. Status: Redundant Citizen. No further explanation. A guard gripped her arm.

“Step aside, ma’am.”

Panic rose in her chest. “My children—”

“They will be assigned to a corporation, unless they’re found genetically defective. Perhaps or sold overseas.” He said coldly.

Tommy screamed as they pulled him away, and Lisa was thrown to the ground. The last thing she saw was Rosie disappearing into a black vehicle, her little hands pressed against the window.

Lisa and thousands of others were taken to the NEC—once a convention centre, now the National Execution Centre.

A vast, grey expanse of concrete, filled with rows upon rows of caged people. Armed drones hovered overhead, scanning the weak and sick first. Processing lines moved in one direction, towards the gas chambers. The air smelled of bleach and something worse.

A woman next to her sobbed, cradling a newborn. The child hadn’t been registered at birth. “Unviable citizens,” the guards called them. The mother begged. They shot her instead. Lisa stopped screaming long before she reached the front of the line. The guards didn’t wear insignias; they were just men, paid to do a job for the corporations. The world had moved on from jackboots and banners. Oppression was efficiency. Everything was automated. A bureaucracy of death. When the doors hissed open, Lisa stepped inside with the others, her mind empty. She had done everything right. She had followed the rules.

But the rules had never been meant to protect her. They had never meant to protect anybody.

And that’s when Lisa felt it, the first Thelemic explosion spreading across the British Isles, before she took her last breath.

(This a Bonus Post)

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