The echoes from the pub in Lambeth spread faster than wildfire. The next morning, my words—spoken amid the scent of stale beer and tobacco—were splashed across the front pages of The Daily Mail and The Sun under blazing headlines:
"THE LION ROARS" and "FINALLY, A PRIME MINISTER FOR US."
My support among the working-class and rural demographics soared. The phones in the offices of Conservative MPs rang off the hook, flooded by constituents who, for the first time in a generation, felt heard.
But in the cities, in the universities, and in the newsrooms, the echo sounded different. It was a war drum.
Kaelan Richards made good on his promise. In an unprecedented alliance, the largest trade unions, student activist groups, immigrant rights organizations, and various liberal charities announced a
"National Day of Resistance."
It was a euphemism for a general strike. The railways would grind to a halt. Teachers would walk out of schools. Civil servants would abandon their desks. The day would culminate in a massive march on Parliament.
London held its breath. The air felt heavy and electric, like the silence before a thunderstorm.
I called my Cabinet for an emergency meeting. The faces around the table were even paler than they had been days before. Alistair Finch, my Chancellor, looked as if he had seen a ghost.
"Prime Minister, the preliminary estimates from the Treasury are horrific," he said, his voice trembling.
"A single day's strike will cost our economy at least two billion pounds. If this continues… we could tip into a recession by the end of the quarter."
Eleanor Vance chimed in, "And diplomatically, it's a catastrophe. Every EU embassy has lodged a formal protest. Our ambassador in Washington was summoned to the State Department. They see this as proof that Britain is collapsing into anarchy."
I let them voice all their fears. It was necessary. They had to fully comprehend the abyss we were staring into before I showed them the bridge I intended to build across it.
"So, what's your solution?" I asked quietly, looking at Finch. "Should we negotiate? Should we repeal the Border Security Act? Should we release the 198 criminals we arrested and apologize to them?"
Finch stammered, "Of… of course not, Prime Minister, but perhaps we could… delay…"
"To delay is to surrender," I cut in coldly. "To negotiate with a mob is the end of governance. They don't want a compromise. They want our heads. They want to drag us out of this building and hang us."
I turned to Sir James Sterling. "Security report."
Sterling, as always, was concise and to the point. "The Metropolitan Police are on the highest alert. All leave has been canceled. We estimate over a hundred thousand protesters in London alone. Among them, our intelligence has identified at least five hundred organized anarchists and left-wing extremists. They are coming for violence."
"Good," I said.
The entire room stared at me in shock.
"Good?" repeated Eleanor Vance in disbelief.
"Yes, good," I said. "Because their violence will be our justification."
I looked at Sterling. "I want your public order teams fully equipped: body armor, shields, tear gas, water cannons. But I want them to hold the line. I want them to show extraordinary restraint. Let the world see who the real aggressors are. Let the protesters throw the first punch. But make sure… when they do… we are prepared to retaliate with ten times the force."
I turned to Simon Blackwood. "Simon, I want you to use this. Every rock thrown, every window smashed, every policeman spat upon—I want it broadcast on every screen in this country. Contrast those images with our officers standing resolute. We won't win this on the streets. We'll win it in the living rooms of the British people."
Blackwood smiled faintly, the smile of a wolf that has just been given permission to hunt.
"A narrative of order versus chaos. I like it."
…
The Day of Resistance arrived. I watched it not from a window, but from the screens of COBR once again. It was a sea of humanity. They flooded Whitehall, a tidal wave of anger and banners. There were families with children, students chanting tired slogans, union members in brightly colored vests. But among them, like cancerous cells, were the black-clad groups, their faces covered with scarves and masks. I could see them, moving on the edges of the crowd, testing the police lines, looking for a weak point.
For hours, the line held. The police took the jeers, the thrown bottles, and the spit with cold discipline. I could feel the tension ratcheting up, like a violin string pulled too taut.
Then, it happened.
In Parliament Square, at the foot of Winston Churchill's statue, a group of anarchists broke through. One man scrambled onto the plinth and spray-painted a red hammer and sickle across it. Another set a Union Jack on fire.
That was the spark.
The formerly hesitant crowd was ignited. They surged forward. Police shields rattled under a hail of projectiles. A Molotov cocktail exploded near the police line, sending a fireball into the air. Chaos erupted.
The System sent a notification.
High-Level Threat: Civil Insurrection.
New Task Accepted: Restore Order.
Description: Use the power of the state to quell the riots and reassert the government's authority. Failure will be seen as fatal weakness.
Reward: Level 1 Emergency Authorization (Power to temporarily suspend specific laws for national security).
I didn't even have to think. "Accept."
I pressed the intercom, my voice ice-cold. "Sir James. You have what we need. They have defiled Churchill's statue. They have attacked our police. They have declared war on this country. Authorize the use of full force. Clear that square. Arrest the leaders. I want this over by tonight."
"Understood, Prime Minister," Sterling replied.
On the screens, I watched a ballet of fire and order. Water cannons unleashed high-pressure jets into the crowd, shattering their formations. Tear gas canisters arced through the air, landing among the rioters and releasing acrid clouds. The lines of riot police, once defensive, now advanced in unison, their batons beating a terrifying rhythm against their shields, pushing the panicked mob back.
Amid the chaos, smaller snatch squads—who had been given target lists by Blackwood—moved with precision, plucking the anarchist leaders and key instigators from the crowd.
It was brutal. It was horrifying. It was necessary.
I watched without blinking. This was no longer about immigration. This was about something more fundamental. This was about the question of who governs the United Kingdom: its democratically elected government, or an angry mob in the streets.
That night, there was only one answer.
As sirens wailed across London and the smoke from tear gas rose into the night sky, I stood there, in the heart of power. I felt no victory. I felt no sorrow. I felt the cold resolve of a surgeon who had just completed a difficult, bloody procedure. The disease had fought back. But the scalpel had won.