The Council Chamber thrums with a feverish hum—a blend of brisk footsteps, clipped voices, and the rasp of paper. Wall screens stream maps of the capital and the neighboring provinces, constellated with red points and jagged lines. Each mark signals an attack, a sabotage, a derailed train, or a depot set ablaze.
Octavia keeps her back straight, hands clasped behind her. Her immaculate uniform cuts against the disorderly agitation of the officers quarreling around the central table. She doesn't need to raise her voice; presence alone is enough. But today, even her usual composure struggles to conceal the gravity of the situation.
— ...tracks destroyed on the southern line, a general thunders, jaw tight. Three days' delay on heavy equipment shipments!
— And the city's people are murmuring louder, another adds. Those videos... those kids...
He doesn't need to finish. They all know what he means.
Octavia keeps her eyes on the map. Two faces haunt every screen, every conversation: Mira and Elijah. Youth turned into symbols. Their testimonies run everywhere—shared across civilian networks, copied, reposted, commented to exhaustion. Even she can't escape their voices, not in the midnight silence of her office.
The Minister of Propaganda slams his fist on the table.
— We have to take back control of the narrative. Immediately. If we let these... these orphans paint the State as a monster, public opinion flips.
A colonel gives a bitter laugh.
— It's already flipping! Yesterday we had to send two patrols to calm spontaneous demonstrations in Sofia.
A heavy silence settles.
Octavia chooses that moment to speak. Her voice is low, firm, glacial.
— Then we adapt.
All eyes turn to her. She steps forward, pointing at the map.
— The sabotage is effective, yes. But what truly shakes the State isn't a derailed train. It's the image. The story. A girl and her brother, stolen from their family, tortured, raped... The whole country projects itself into those faces. Into what they say they endured.
The minister nods, taut.
— So?
Octavia meets each gaze.
— So, we turn this story against them.
A ripple of murmurs runs around the table, but she doesn't blink.
— We fabricate evidence, she continues. We paint them as unstable, as liars. We say they made it up. That their so-called testimony is a stage play commissioned by the Citadel. That they're delinquents—violent, drugged, manipulated by radicals.
A general frowns.
— People see their eyes, hear their voices. It's too... raw. Too real.
Octavia inclines her head slightly.
— Truth is malleable. If we repeat loudly enough that they're liars, actors, public opinion starts to doubt. And once it doubts, it steps away from their camp. We can always claim they've been indoctrinated to the point of believing their own lie.
The minister scribbles, jittery. Octavia's tone stays blade-sharp:
— And we hammer that the Citadel is a den of criminals. That they recruit child soldiers, manufacture heart-tugging stories. We don't vilify them head-on—that would make them heroic. No. We make them filthy, corrupt, pathetic.
Silence falls again. Then, slowly, heads nod. Cruel, but logical.
Octavia folds her arms.
— This isn't the first time we lose the crowd. But this time, we scream louder.
She finishes, pivoting toward the minister:
— I want a dedicated cell. Copy, edit, influencers, compliant doctors. And mothers on camera crying because the sabotage keeps insulin from getting through. Film empty shelves. Count the "lost" minutes because of them. Turn their courage into a public nuisance.
The minister agrees, already on the phone, while the officers trade knowing looks. The machine begins to whir.
---
When she steps outside, the sun strikes the marble facades and Sofia's crowded streets. Her official car waits, armed escort around it. She slides into the back without a word, her face smooth.
Through the window she watches the capital. Regime posters cover every wall: Vlad in uniform, patriotic slogans, immaculate flags. But the posters are torn, smeared with graffiti. A stylized black bird—a hawk—keeps returning everywhere, sprayed in a hurry.
People whisper as she passes. Some lower their heads; others stare at the car too long. She sees it: fear still lives here, but something else slips beneath it. A spark of defiance.
The car slows. Up ahead, a squad arrests a group of teenagers caught tagging. They're barely sixteen. Their faces are pale, but their eyes shine with a mix of fear and insolent defiance.
A soldier slams one boy against a wall; his forehead splits on the stone. Octavia clenches her jaw. She says nothing. It isn't her role. But inside, she knows already: the more you crush, the more the image fractures.
— Slow down, she tells the driver.
The window slides down. The officer in charge stiffens, salutes awkwardly. — Ma'am?
— A medic. No spectacle. And sworn cameras only. We show that the police "protect" public space.
Her tone leaves no room for debate. Paramedics are called, bystanders cleared. The teens are hauled away. An official cameraman films the fresh tag—the black bird—then pans to a nearby shop's shattered window. An easy cut: cause, effect. They will narrate "delinquency."
Octavia raises the window. Her eyes return to the passersby. A mother holds back her son's hand as he tries to approach. The boy asks, "What's the bird?" The mother doesn't answer. Public silence stands like a wall, but children are already bumping into it.
---
Back in the operations room, Octavia takes her place before the giant screen. A map of Sofia and its outskirts glows there. Every sabotage, every blast, marked.
She begins without preamble.
— We can't hit the Citadel directly. Not yet. But the cells multiplying in the capital must be crushed.
She quarters the map, assigns squads.
— These groups are small, mobile. They cut rails, torch depots, sever power. We hunt them like rats. Capture if possible. Execute if necessary.
She points at several quadrants, lips thin:
— Here: two fires at parts depots. There, in Slatina: burned-out transformers. In Poduyane: mined tracks. They use logistics corridors—service canals, abandoned tunnels—and rigid radio discipline: very few transmissions, mostly rendezvous set the day before on paper.
A colonel asks:
— And the population? Civilians see these arrests.
Octavia fixes him, cold.
— The population believes what it sees. In this case: bands of armed men and women wrecking the city, snarling communications, jeopardizing people's ability to get around. We shout louder than their doubts.
She carries on, technical:
— At Signit: activate passive sensors around stations, filter pulses from improvised relays. In working-class districts: discreetly pay superintendents, concierges, lookouts. I want a database of habits—who leaves when, who carries heavy bags on sabotage nights, who changed routes since last week. The "good" don't hide; they never deviate. The others do.
She singles out a young captain with a closed face.
— Captain Kolarov, I want mobile plainclothes units, unplated bikes, encrypted radios. Stick to suspects, let them take the bait, climb the chain. Don't net the fish—drain the pond.
— Yes, ma'am.
— One more thing, she adds. We let a "lightly protected" fuel convoy run tomorrow at dawn. Bait. We stage our teams at the off-ramps and seal the exit. They want a showy hit—let them try.
Faces harden. The smell of powder feels almost tangible in the sealed room.
---
Level -2, Ministry of Information. A windowless space, walls padded with acoustic foam. Files fan across a table. Octavia nudges one folder labeled in graphite: "M&E — lines." A staff writer with round glasses hovers, pen poised.
— The angle, Octavia says, isn't "they're lying." It's "they've been manipulated into believing their lie." Nuance. Bring in a tame psychiatrist to talk about false memories, emotional contagion. Have him mention a "fraternal symbiosis"—clean, impressive, not overtly insulting.
— And the boy? the writer asks. He shows his scars...
— Editing. We juxtapose footage of schoolyard fights, dredge up three teachers willing to say he's "impulsive." We slip in a minor fabricated offense—stolen bike or cigarettes—nothing serious, just enough to tint the reputation. We conclude: "a problem temperament." It blurs things.
— And the girl?
A half-second pause. Octavia won't say certain words before subordinates—not out of modesty, out of calculation.
— We don't deny outright. We insinuate that "outside hands" may have coached her. We film a mother sobbing: "the sabotage keeps me from finding my son's medicine." We lay the moral weight at the rebels' feet. We pit small daily suffering against grand tragic narrative. Everyday life wins in the long run.
The writer scribbles without looking up. Octavia continues:
— Schedule "citizen testimonies" for late afternoon tomorrow. Blocked roads, ambulances delayed, lost parcels, and two elderly couples who can't buy coal. We want irritation, not hatred. People tolerate discomfort poorly. In politics, hunger screams louder than justice.
She turns away already. Another team waits.
Studio 3: a cold set, three cameras.
A lacquer-smiled host rehearses his prompter: "radicals are using minors—the proof..." Octavia corrects with a pencil:
— Not "terrorists"—too harsh. Say "radical groups." Then add "hiding behind a façade of compassion." Be the cat, not the dog.
She leaves, moves to the edit bay. On a screen, they stitch calm street scenes to sirens and flashing lights—exactly the contrast that makes creeping civil war feel plausible. The director gives a thumbs-up. Saturation stands ready.
---
That evening in her office, she powers on her personal screen. The twins' testimony rolls again. Their broken voices. Their faces.
She doesn't feel empathy. She can't; she has no time for guilt. But she recognizes the power of that image. Two young people telling what was done to them. It doesn't need to be true to shake a country.
Yet... one detail unsettles her. The expression in their eyes. The boy is resolved; the young woman doesn't even seem angry. She should be. They should be smashing down the doors of this office, blowing everything sky-high. She looks away, teeth set. No matter. They threaten order. And order must be protected.
She snaps the screen shut but stays still for a moment, fingers tight on the armrest. An image flickers in her memory: herself as a child, standing on a chair to watch a parade through a window. Her father said, "A country is held together by its stories." She nodded without understanding. Now she does.
She opens a drawer, rests her palm on an old leather notebook, then closes it. Not tonight.
---
Dirty dawn on Sofia's ring road. A convoy of six fuel tankers rolls at reduced speed. Two "lightly" armed jeeps bracket the line. Octavia isn't on-site; she commands from an armored control coach, three screens before her, an earpiece screwed in.
— Status? — In the sign's shadow, Kolarov reports. Likely targets at the northern interchange. Three silhouettes. No visible weapons.
— No visible doesn't mean no weapons, Octavia cuts in. Keep your distance and let the convoy pass. Put drones two and three low.
Minutes stretch. On-screen, two figures run along a wire fence; a third flattens to the ground. A glint—very brief. Octavia's brow tightens.
— Thermal flash. What is it?
— Likely remote trigger.
— Jam it. Now.
The onboard jammer spits a lacework of noise. At the same instant, a puff of smoke belches from beneath a bridge. A charge fails to detonate—smothered. Octavia doesn't move.
— You have your proof of presence. Hold the angle.
— Do we take them?
— Not yet. Let them think it almost worked. Then you seal the exit and climb their line. I want their relays, not these three silhouettes.
But the unexpected arrives, as always. One silhouette panics and fires two shots into the air. The queue of civilian cars above the bridge explodes in honking. A woman steps out and starts filming. Octavia's blood ices for a tenth of a second: viral potential. She cuts clean:
— Flares—smoke screen. No heavy assault. Push your beacons forward; show blue. We're "securing traffic" for the camera. And no live fire unless absolutely necessary.
The choreography runs. The squad advances behind white haze, intervention posture but measured hands. The silhouettes slip down a bank and vanish. Traffic groans. An ambulance siren wails—Octavia ordered one; sound design is part of strategy.
— Ma'am, we lose visual on the targets, Kolarov says.
— Doesn't matter. We have the effect: "attempt foiled." City cams broadcast our presence. Exploit it.
She ends the call, already elsewhere. The day saturates with correct images.
---
Late morning. An impromptu editorial meeting at the ministry. Scripts pile up. In one, an old woman in a cardigan is meant to say, "I didn't get my medicine because of the attack." Octavia strikes through: "because of radical groups." One clean word sticks longer than a heavy sentence.
A psych team pitches a segment: "False memories and the influence of networks." Octavia approves, but demands a manufactured contrarian—an "old pediatrician" of the twins who testifies to their "instability." Two aides leave to procure a modifiable silhouette: an oversized lab coat and a haughty air suffice.
— And Mikel? someone asks. Do we keep going?
— Of course. Dead—"murdered by the rebels in an internal dispute." As long as the public has no direct contact, the fable holds. We roll out mourning posters soon. They loved him; we use that.
She sounds like she's talking about the weather. That's her job: make the storm plausible.
---
Late afternoon. Octavia goes out "for air," she says. In truth, she wants to see—feel where the ground creaks.
In a once-upscale district, shutters close early. Luxury shops post private guards. Coats move quickly along the sidewalks. On a wall, a scrawled line reads: "Our children are not your property." She reads without slowing.
At the end of the street, commotion. Two hooded teenagers sprint, chased by three plainclothes agents. Octavia watches with almost clinical detachment. One agent pins a boy to a car trunk; another rips a backpack from the other. A physics textbook tumbles out, a wrapped sandwich, a pencil case. No bomb, no weapon. The third agent raises a fist. Octavia doesn't raise her voice. A look is enough. The fist drops.
— Book them. Call their parents, she says. No zeal. We hunt cells, not children. Apartment cameras don't forgive greed.
The agent nods, biting his cheek. She walks away, neck straight. She contains an impulse. It redeems nothing—nor is it meant to—but it averts an unmanageable image.
---
The next day she is summoned to the presidential office. Vlad stands before the great window, hands clasped behind his back. His shadow carves the marble. When he turns, his eyes are dark with leashed anger.
— Enough, he growls. The sabotage multiplies. Opinion wavers. Those twins... those insects... They become symbols. Octavia stands straight.
— We're already moving to discredit them. The propaganda is ready. The capital cells fall, one after another. We have a material lead that—
He cuts in, whip-sharp:
— It isn't enough!
Silence. Then he steps closer, face flushing with fury.
— I demand a direct strike on the Citadel. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.
Octavia doesn't flinch, but her heart skips. She knows what it means: if the Citadel falls, the twins die—and with them, the story they carry.
— Sir, she says evenly, a frontal assault turns them into martyrs. Do you want to hand them the myth that finishes us?
He cracks his fist against the table.
— They're already martyrs!
He circles her, predatory.
— Every day we let these moles dig, we lose a slice of the city. Every minute those children speak, we lose a slice of the people.
Octavia keeps her voice level.
— Then strike true. But strike without appearing. Unclaimed drones, prior jamming, a "natural" network outage. We blind their systems, crush their exits. No official signature. A storm with no author.
Vlad stares. A beat. Then the smallest dip of his chin.
— A plan.
She draws a folder from her case, as if she expects this (she does):
— Operation STYX. Phase One: "Deafness." On your desk you have the relay sites to saturate; we introduce targeted white noise on their usual bands. Phase Two: "Misdirection." We seed their circuits with fake evacuation codes through "safe" tunnels—shafts our scans have already flagged as fragile. Phase Three: "Sawtooth." Drone raids in salvos, no pattern, over a perimeter wider than the target—we make it look like sloppy iron rain, not guided fire. And at the core, an EMP strike on their information heart.
— Objective?
— Deprive them of eyes and ears. Drive them out, panicked, through exits we choose. There, we wait. We "arrest" useful silhouettes, not crowds. We make people disappear; we don't make them explode. A victory without images.
Vlad says nothing. Only his breathing fills the room. Then he smiles without joy.
— You sound like your mother when she prepped our campaigns. Do it.
He leans in, voice low.
— And if you fail, I level the mountain with artillery. Martyrs be damned. Better to reign over ash than over doubt.
She absorbs it without blinking. She grows up on such phrases the way others grow up on lullabies.
— Very well, she breathes. I coordinate the strike.
She leaves the office with firm steps. But in her mind, a crack widens. She has seen in the streets what her father refuses to admit: fear alone no longer suffices. And if the Citadel still stands, it isn't only by its guns, but because it now embodies another kind of truth.