Scene 1 — BBC World Report
The broadcast opened with a drone sweep over Birmingham's skyline — scaffolds, cranes, and the skeletal rise of new tower blocks cutting through the grey morning haze.
"Three months into the Republic's National Reconstruction Programme," the BBC correspondent began, her voice even but edged with fatigue, "tens of thousands of immigrant families have been resettled across England's urban centres. The plan — devised jointly by the Welsh and Scottish ministries — promises housing, employment, and education for those displaced during the economic crisis. But not everyone welcomes the change."
The screen shifted through a sequence of clips: A Somali nurse in Leeds, smiling faintly. "It's not perfect," she said, "but at least it's a home. At least someone remembered us."
Then a man in Dover, red-faced, shouting through a megaphone. "We're strangers in our own towns! The government's shipping migrants out of Wales and Scotland into England itself!"
Next, a fisher from Newlyn, his hands weathered, his voice calm. "They talk about unity, but unity means learning each other's stories. The English never learned ours."
The feed cut to Truro — thousands gathered in Lemon Quay, waving the black-and-white Cross of St Piran beneath rain-streaked skies. "Ombroth rag Kernow! Autonomy for Cornwall!" the crowd roared.
Thomas Penrose, mayor of Truro and leader of Mebyon Kernow, stood at the podium, his voice echoing off the old stone façades.
"Mebyon Kernow's victory across Cornwall proves what we already know — we are not England. We are a nation, and we will fight to be recognised as one. Ombroth rag Kernow!"
Applause and chanting filled the frame before dissolving into a quieter scene: a London café. A young Pakistani man leaned forward, speaking to the reporter.
"I get what Elen Ross is trying to do, yeah? But it's a bit mad hearing the Celts talk about being colonised when they helped build the Empire too."
Then, Butetown — Cardiff's Somali quarter. A woman in a headscarf spoke softly into the microphone. "All this time, we thought it was the British who colonised our countries. But the Welsh will tell you — they were the first British colony, taken by England nearly a thousand years ago."
The anchor's tone tightened as the montage faded back to the studio.
"While some immigrants remain wary of Wales and Scotland's historical roles in the British Empire, support for the Celtic cause is growing among communities from the former colonies. Meanwhile, in England, resentment mounts — with many accusing Prime Minister Elen Ross of deliberately diluting England's population through managed relocations from Scotland and Wales."
The feed faded into the red-and-black insignia of the new national broadcaster: BRBS — The British Republic Broadcasting Service.
Somewhere in London, Elen Ross watched the report in silence — the flicker of the screen reflecting off her eyes, unreadable.
Manchester, England
By dusk, smoke crawled over Manchester's Piccadilly Gardens.
A BBC reporter crouched behind a news van as chants rolled through the square like thunder.
"England for the English! England for the English!"
The camera trembled, catching riot shields glinting beneath streetlights, banners whipping in the wind. Families huddled in the underpass — mothers clutching plastic bags and children, the smell of petrol thick in the air.
Placards jostled above the crowd, slogans scrawled in black paint:
SEND THE MIGRANTS HOME!
ROSS AND THE CELTS CAN FUCK OFF TO INDIA!
The reporter's voice cracked through the static.
"What began as a protest against the new housing quotas has escalated into violence. Police confirm that far-right groups — some linked to the United Reform Party — are among the demonstrators."
A bottle ignited mid-air, arcing like a comet before shattering against a van. Flames bloomed across the street. Sirens wailed. The camera lurched as officers fell back.
Then, amid the chaos, the chanting shifted — rhythmic, swelling, almost devotional:
"Our president! Our president!"
The reporter gasped. "Interim President Collin Fairfax has entered the square — we're told he's addressing the crowd remotely through party broadcasts—"
A sudden cut — the image on screen split between the riot and the stage.
Fairfax stood before a grey backdrop marked UNITED REFORM PARTY. His tone was solemn, his voice composed — a contrast to the chaos his words were feeding.
"Good evening, Britain," he began.
"We are told we live in a republic. But what kind of republic divides its people by birthplace and belief? What kind of unity is built on forced relocation?"
In the square, the words echoed from loudspeakers rigged to lampposts, picked up by phones, replayed on loop. The crowd cheered through the smoke.
"I do not oppose reform," Fairfax continued. "I oppose manipulation. England deserves dignity — not dilution. And I promise you this: we will rebuild without erasing. We will restore without ruling. We will make Britain ours again — all of ours."
The chants rose like a tide, thunderous and fevered. Protesters clambered onto police vans, waving torn flags, their faces bathed in the flicker of firelight.
Through the chaos, a loudspeaker crackled to life — the crowd fell into a hush that trembled with expectation.
"As Interim President of the Republic," Fairfax's voice rang out, steady and resolute, "I swear before this nation to resist every abusive decree of the Ross government."
The people roared, the words rippling through the square. Cameras strained to catch his face through the smoke — calm, righteous, perfectly framed by the blaze behind him.
"And tonight," he continued, voice hardening, "I announce my intention to stand for the full presidency. For a Britain that remembers its people — for a republic worthy of the name."
The square erupted. "Fairfax! Fairfax! Our president!"
Beneath the din, the fire climbed higher, reflected in his eyes like a crown of flame
The camera caught the flash of his campaign banner behind him:
FAIRFAX FOR ALL BRITAIN.
The BBC reporter shouted into the mic, her voice barely cutting through the uproar.
"Fairfax's speech appears to be fuelling the crowd — authorities are calling for his immediate condemnation of the violence, but so far—"
A blast — the screen convulsed, a burst of static swallowing her words.
For a moment, all that remained was the flicker of firelight, the chant rolling through smoke:
"Make England whole again! Make England whole again!"
Then the feed died.
Back in Cardiff, the emergency line blinked red.
Scene 4 — Elen and Carys (Private)
The storm had eased to a thin drizzle by the time I left the crisis briefing. The air in the corridor still smelled faintly of rain and burnt coffee. Carys was waiting by the window, arms folded, her reflection fractured by the streaked glass.
"They've declared a state of emergency in Manchester," she said quietly. "Two dead. Seventeen injured. The media's calling it a backlash to your reconstruction plan."
"Our reconstruction plan," I corrected, setting the folder down on the table beside her.
She turned to face me then — tired, exasperated, but still loyal in that stubborn way of hers. "You knew this might happen."
"I did."
"And you're fine with that?"
I met her eyes. "Remember when you said comparing Palestine's fight for freedom to Ukraine's was like comparing a hurricane to a storm?" I asked, my voice steady. "Are you fine with that — fine with kids being bombed and starved just because they're Palestinian?"
Her breath caught. "I— I didn't mean it like that."
Her expression softened instantly, guilt flashing across her face. "Alwenna, that's not what I meant." She took a small step toward me. "Don't twist this."
I nodded slowly. "I'm not. But England needs to feel it — that they're no longer the ones making the rules." I paused, watching the rain thread down the glass. "Cornwall's demanding autonomy. Northern Ireland's marching for reunification. The whole country's burning because of the fuse I lit."
My voice dropped. "Maybe I should've been caught. Maybe that should've been the end of me."
Carys stared at me — really stared, like she was seeing the girl she'd once let into her flat after a police chase, not the Prime Minister the country saw now. Her voice came out low, cracking slightly.
"Don't say that," she whispered. "You don't get to say that — not after everything you've built. Not after everything we've done."
The rain had softened to mist outside. Cardiff Bay shimmered below, gold scattered on black water.
After a long silence, she added, barely audible, "Just… make sure it's worth it, Alwenna."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Scene 5 — Moira and Penrose, Truro
Truro's night air smelled of salt and diesel. The cranes along Lemon Quay were dark silhouettes against the sky.
Penrose leaned over the desk in his office, studying a report. "You're telling me mayors from Bristol to Portsmouth are forming councils of their own?"
Moira nodded, cloak damp from the rain. "They call it the Anglic Union. Nothing official yet — but they're talking about a new movement. Fairfax's people are feeding it."
Penrose exhaled slowly. "And Elen?"
"She'll dismiss it until it's too late. You and I both know she doesn't see England as a threat anymore."
He rubbed his temple. "The irony, eh? She toppled the monarchy only to inherit its ghosts."
Moira's expression hardened. "The title she gave me — Lady of Mann — I accepted it because it meant autonomy. But if the Republic becomes Wales in a different language, I won't serve another crown, even a red one."
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the wind batter the window.
"Then go home," Penrose said finally. "Speak plain to your people. Before someone else does."
She gave a small nod. "I intend to."
Scene 7 — Elen Alone
The television flickered in the dark, Fairfax's image dissolving into static.
I sat in my office, the city outside washed in mist. Somewhere below, Carys was still working through policy drafts. I hadn't told her I stayed.
Fairfax's words replayed in my head — 'England deserves dignity.' He'd learned to sound like a martyr. That was dangerous.
I turned off the screen, staring at my reflection in the black glass.
"They still think England owns this story," I murmured.
Rain pattered against the window. For the first time in months, I felt the weight of the silence between thunder.
It didn't sound like victory.
It sounded like waiting.