qim

Sorry for the HTML crimes, hope The Vision still comes through.
Content Warning: mass death, loss of agency, of thought, of self

"And now, ladies and gentlemen..." The gaunt runner-up of last year's televised Who Could Predict You Had This Talent? competition has a slightly manic look in his eyes as he gazes out over the human sea, hundreds of hungry, expectant faces staring at him. No, at the stage he's currently occupying, an elaborate, patriotic centrepiece ensconsed in scaffolding erected by the Ministry of Plenty just for this occasion.

He chokes.
The giant speakers squeal.
Collective tinnitus, mercifully brief.

He's eternally grateful for this opportunity to be a needless — useless — warm-up act, for he knows he is nothing. Nobody.

The main square of Glorious Prosperity, this small, regional capital on the outskirts of the Empire, it's initial name lost to time, can't contain the arterial blockage of people, spilling out into the streets beyond, the air a constant, electric susurrus of anticipation.

They're not here for him, but he desperately wants to think they are. Cling to the illusion. Delusion. A mangy stray nibbling away at the edges of a greater glory one can only dream of, born of the same desperate, pathetic need that made him sign up for the competition. Jump at this chance.

People hang out of windows surrounding the square, craning their necks to catch a better glimpse.

"... it is my immeasurable honour and privilege to present to you... the valiant she-wolf who prowls the length and breadth of our great and mighty Empire astride her magnificent mount, who protects our proud pastures and bountiful natural riches, who stalks our secure borders and defends you from the vile barbarians beyond who only want to do you harm, the undefeated Hero of the Fatherland! You all know her callsign, and the innumerable tales of her daring exploits! Without further ado, I give you... Mother!"

An unnatural hush descends as the crowd seems to draw a collective breath, and hold it. This is a once in a lifetime event. Something they will remember for the rest of their lives. Something that will give their life meaning. Fulfillment. A tale to tell their children, and their children's children. "I was there," they will crow, over the simmering jealousy of those who weren't. "I saw Her, and was this close." they will embellish for their rapt audience, then lie shamelessly. "I could almost touch Her."

From backstage, a bulky figure in an impeccable, eye-searingly pristine white pilot's suit appears. Its smoky visor gives away nothing. An intimation of eyes. The shadow of a mouth. She climbs the stairs, each footfall inexorable, precise, ponderous, as if used to navigating hundreds of tons of metal death. A rising flare against the subdued red and blue bunting, until Her tall frame eclipses the little weasel of a man, already forgotten. Her bright presence draws the eye of everyone in the town square, everyone watching at home, for she is truly larger than life.

She is Legend.

The tension builds to an untenable, strained frenzy as agonisingly slowly, still mute, a mailed fist is raised to the sky... then comes crashing down on Her chestplate, the sudden, surprising crack of thunder echoing off the walls. Swallowed by the incoming tide of sheer noise, the tension carried past the breaking point, the crowd unleashed, liberated as they loudly cheer and adore their protector. As the band strikes up a rendition of Our Empire Fair and Bold.

Every girl wants to be Her, or at least become one of the Chosen, fight as one of Her Pack. Every boy wants to work hard, so that the arms he toils away at in the factory may one day be used by Her. All for the Glory of the Fatherland.

As cacaphony reigns, an anomaly in the Brownian motion of the teeming mass of humanity. Joyous faces turning in annoyance. Shying away from something moving in their midst. Something that is slowly but surely approaching the front of the audience as it slips through the gaps it creates for itself. By the time Ministry security notices and tries to intervene, it is far too late.

The crowd spits out a blonde youngster who reaches under his oversized infantry jacket. Shouts something at Her, words forever snatched away by the commotion. Suffocated by the swelling cries of people buffeting and trampling each other in a vain attempt to get away from him.

A trembling thumb presses down hard.

People will later insist that they saw Her smile, right before everything went white and the feed cut out.

Another time.
Another square.

Much, much larger this, in the Heart of Empire. Just as full. Grimmer. An older man commands the rostrum this time. Graying. Portlier. A veteran orator. A Ministry of Safety man. His meaty fist smashes down on this, his pulpit, and spittle flies from his lips, his face beet-red as he reaches the full steam of his righteous rage, baring his teeth at the world for its insolence. "... the cowardly and unwarranted foreign provocation last week in Glorious Prosperity, which thankfully only caused minor damage and martyred a bare handful of our fellow compatriots, cannot go unanswered!"

A brief, pregnant pause as he mops his sweaty brow. Looks off to the side. Smiles at something. Someone. Looks straight into the camera.

"Will not go unanswered. It is my great pleasure to officially announce that Our Supreme Leader and the Twelve have decided to call a new Cleansing Hunt, to let Her lead our reply to the world, Her response to the failed attempt on Her own life!"

A pandemonium of cheers as he gestures stage left and a bulky figure in an impeccable, eye-searingly pristine white pilot's suit appears. Its smoky visor gives away nothing. An intimation of eyes. The shadow of a mouth.