Morning arrived not with the light of dawn, but with the shriek of newsprint. Rottington had laid the morning papers on my desk, and they all sang the same tune.
THE GUARDIAN: DARKNESS FALLS ON DOWNING STREET.
THE DAILY MIRROR:THE NEW FACE OF FASCISM.
THE TIMES: EINSTEIN DIVIDES THE NATION: MARKETS TUMBLE AMID FEARS OF UNREST.
I sipped my Earl Grey tea, hot and bitter. I felt no anger reading their vitriol. I felt a cold satisfaction. A lion does not concern himself with the opinion of sheep. Their screaming was confirmation. Confirmation that I had struck the central nerve of the disease paralyzing this nation.
"Morning report, Mr. Prime Minister," Rottington said, entering with a tablet. His face was tense, the dark circles under his eyes suggesting a sleepless night.
"Give me the summary, Rottington. International first."
He swallowed. "The White House has issued a statement. President Biden expressed 'deep concern' over the Prime Minister's 'divisive' rhetoric and reaffirmed the United States' commitment to 'diverse and inclusive societies'."
"Translation: the old dog is afraid I'll inspire a similar movement in his own fractured country. Next."
"The German Chancellor and the French President issued a joint statement, calling on the UK to honor its commitments to human rights and international law. They called the cessation of aid to Ukraine a 'betrayal of the Western democratic order'."
"Of course they did," I muttered. "They'd rather see British taxpayer money burn on the Ukrainian steppe than see Britain stand on its own two feet. What else?"
"The London stock market opened down three percent. The pound is weakening against the dollar and the euro. The overnight protests have spread to Manchester and Birmingham. Thirty-seven arrests so far."
I nodded slowly, absorbing it. All of it was expected. Chemotherapy always makes the patient feel sicker before the healing can begin.
"Have the car ready. Cabinet meeting at ten."
The short drive from Downing Street to the Houses of Parliament was a tour through a diorama of decay. I deliberately had the driver take a slightly longer route, through areas politicians usually avoid.
I stared out the bulletproof glass of the Rolls-Royce, and my stomach churned. This wasn't the London I remembered from history books or even from the residual memories of this body's owner. This was an open wound. Bins overflowed onto the pavement, their contents spilling like disemboweled guts. Graffiti in Arabic and Urdu defaced the grand Victorian brickwork. A group of young men—Somali faces, American sportswear—lounged on a street corner, their stares both vacant and menacing. They watched my car pass with a mixture of resentment and envy.
This isn't diversity, I thought with a burning rage. This is colonization in reverse. They didn't come to build. They came to take.
I saw an old English woman, bent with age, shuffling along, clutching her shopping bag to her chest as if she expected to be robbed at any moment. Her eyes darted around nervously. She was a foreigner in her own country.
It was then that I knew, with not a single shred of doubt, that my actions were not just correct, but a sacred duty. I wasn't a tyrant. I was a physician called to the deathbed of a beloved patient. And my verdict was: this cancer had to be cut out, without mercy, before it killed the host.
…
The Cabinet Room was cold. The long, polished coffin of a table was surrounded by anxious faces. This was my Cabinet, the lieutenants who were supposed to aid me in this war. But as I looked into their eyes, I saw doubt, personal ambition, and fear.
Sir James Sterling sat at my right hand, his face a granite cliff. Across from me, Alistair Finch, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, tapped his pen nervously against a notepad. He was a pragmatist, a man who measured the world in balance sheets. Beside him sat Eleanor Vance, the Foreign Secretary, an aristocratic woman who believed in soft diplomacy and keeping up appearances.
But the eyes that held my attention the most were those of Simon Blackwood, the Government's Chief Whip. Blackwood was a snake. Slim, pale, with slicked-back jet-black hair. He cared nothing for ideology; he cared only for power and how to keep it. He was a master of the political dark arts, the man who knew where all the bodies were buried because he had often held the shovel. He was a dangerous, but necessary, tool.
I began without preamble. I repeated the three points I had discussed with Sterling the night before: the creation of the Department of Immigration and National Security for mass deportations, the revocation of immigrant privileges, and the banning of liberal and Islamic propaganda in schools.
When I finished, a tense silence filled the room. It was Alistair Finch who spoke first.
"Prime Minister," he said, his tone carefully measured, "with all due respect, have you considered the economic fallout? Mass deportations will create labor shortages in key sectors. Revoking benefits will trigger even larger riots, which will shatter investor confidence. And these measures… they will make us an international pariah. We could face sanctions."
Eleanor Vance nodded in agreement. "Alistair is right, Prime Minister. Our alliances, especially with the United States, are built on shared values. If we abandon those values, we will find ourselves isolated. This is a reckless course of action that will destroy our reputation for generations."
I listened patiently. They spoke of economics, of reputation, of alliances. They were fussing over the curtains while the house was burning down.
"Reputation," I said quietly, but my voice cut through the silence. "What reputation, Eleanor? The reputation of a doormat nation that allows itself to be walked all over? The reputation of a people who care more for the opinions of foreigners than the safety of their own citizens?"
I turned to Finch. "And the economy, Alistair. What economy are we trying to save? One built on cheap, imported labor that suppresses the wages of our own people? An economy that spends billions of pounds to house people who contribute nothing but crime and social unrest? That's not an economy, it's a national suicide pact."
I rose to my feet, placing my hands on the table. I felt the *System* give me a subtle push—my words felt heavier, more resonant.
"Listen to me, all of you. You are thinking in the old political framework. You're worried about the next election, about tomorrow's headlines. I am thinking about the next century. I am thinking about whether there will even be a Britain left for our grandchildren to argue over."
I looked at each face around the table. "You have a choice. You can be the Cabinet that goes down in history for trembling with fear as your country fell apart. Or… you can be the one that saved it."
Silence returned. I saw them wavering. It was then that Simon Blackwood, the snake, spoke for the first time. His voice was smooth as silk, but cold as steel.
"Let's put philosophy aside for a moment," he said, his dark eyes sweeping around the table. "Let's talk practical politics. The Labour Party and the media have declared war. They are calling us fascists. They are painting us as monsters. In such a situation, hesitation is death. To take even one step back will be seen as weakness, and they will tear us apart."
He leaned forward slightly. "The Prime Minister has drawn a line in the sand. Like it or not, we are all on his side of it now. The only way to survive is to advance. To push his agenda with overwhelming force. To show our voting base—the sick-and-tired people who elected us—that we are serious. If we falter now, we won't just lose the government. We will be annihilated."
There it was. The perfect argument. It wasn't about morality or vision, but about brutal political survival. Blackwood had translated my revolution into the only language these politicians understood: power.
I could see the effect it had on their faces. The fear of personal ruin was trumping the fear of controversy.
"Very well," I said, sitting back down. "I'll take the silence as assent. James, proceed with the formation of the department. Alistair, I want you to find a way to fund it; cut the budget from wherever you need to, start with foreign aid. Eleanor, your job is to manage the fallout, not prevent it. Simon, I want you to make sure every last one of our MPs is in line. No dissenters."
I looked at them one last time. "Meeting adjourned."
They filed out, one by one, leaving me alone in that cold room. I had won. The first battle was won. But I knew the real war had just begun.
A notification from the System blinked into my vision.
Task Completed: Set the Agenda
Reward Received: +5% Charisma for next public address (Stored).
New Task Available: Pass the Border Security Act.
I allowed myself a small smile. It wasn't just a proposal anymore. Now it had a name. It had momentum. And soon, it would be law.