The daily newspaper, which usually came in the morning, was the first meal of the day, where they fed people as many lies, stale and fresh, as possible. What most failed to notice, or probably already did but ignored all together, was how appealing a newspaper was. They told a lie and had an audience. Between the columns of rigid text, every image was alive with movement, sound, and color. Under the uppercase headline which read, COMRADE LIONOKK TO ACCEPT NEW BATCH OF REFUGEES, was a picture of the president addressing the Awakening Party. As soon as his finger touched the image, it roared to life. At one side, there was a volume bar that reacted to his swipes. It went up or down. Out of curiosity and interest in this peculiar magic, he played with sound and listened to the president’s voice fade and explode out of the pages.

"Of course I will accept more refugees,” President Lionokk said. “If your neighbor had his house burned down to ash and rubble, would you deny him your roof until he fixes his? If you don’t want to think about it this way, how about this? Refugees are cheap labor.”

He silenced the video and looked to the editorial. Above it was the paper’s title: Roaring News. This silly title came to be because the paper belonged to Winter Lionokk, the president’s eldest daughter. Her writing was rigid and blunt but turned flowery and purple as soon as she discussed her father and his Party.

Democracy at Last? said the title of the editorial.

In the wake of the twenty-seven-day war in Fortressna, are the enemies of the state finally going to let it choose a leader? Will they relent and leave the flow of democracy uninterrupted? Apparently not. As we approach the upcoming elections after a two-year delay under a state of emergency, can we expect life as we once knew it to resume? How much death do we have to give for a chance at life? I have the answer for that and I hope all of you will agree. As many enemies as possible.

“There won’t be another attempt the president’s life,” Sir Calesta Crowster, President of the Political Security Directorate, assures us. “All extremists in Fortressna have been wiped from the face of our country. The rest that remained are in hidden concentration camps even God himself can’t find. If, however, he decides to use a miracle, he will be met with enough force to push him back to heaven.” This bold statement was met with applause and renewed faith in our security system, which now grew to include as many as sixty-eight bureaus scattered around our cities and provinces. (For more information on our newest defense companions, Homekeepers, check page ten!)

In a demonstration of absolute loyalty – one which our enemies don’t understand for they change their leaders as frequently as if they were employees – people took to the streets in spontaneous parades. They called for the arrest of anyone competing against President Lionokk in the upcoming elections. The president, however, addressed this warm support the usual way, advocating for peace and democracy.

“Every Sillyrian is a son of mine,” the president said. “Under the same roof, it is only natural to have opposing views as long as they don’t bring about the desolation of the household and familial ties. As their father, I will always listen to them and allow them their freedom and personal space. As a father, I will be firm in the face of anyone who trespasses on my household. No enemy will be spared. Life is a cheap price to pay for democracy and freedom.”

In the war for democracy, our enemies should know, we are all soldiers.

Long live Liothel, long live the state, long live the people.

He flipped away from politics, which people could only read about but never discuss, and read the ad section. Trash, all of them. However, he paid closer attention to those that used sound, motion, and color, as opposed to lifeless, image-filled ads. They were trash, indeed, but at least they won his attention for the duration of the video. The music they used varied from classical to modern and to magically-generated. Some of them used the voice of long-dead singers for the ads, either through simple voice-over or lyric. The rest varied greatly. He arched his brows at the voice of the Dictator, their deceased president, now advertising woman’s lingerie. A moment later, the Dictator appeared in the ad, trying out the lingeries, in turn, himself. He made silly poses, some of them explicit and showed too much hairy skin, but in the next clip he was simply cat-walking.

The next section was about security achievements. For five pages straight, he watched video after another of raids, shootouts, executions, torture, and freeing Sillyiran war prisoners from enemies. It was gory and explicit, without a hint of blur or edit to tone down the violence. Winter Lionokk’s motto in her paper was clear. “As it happened.”

All the raids and arrests happened at night, always at night. This action, even though he doubted they thought about it this way, had a philosophical ring to it. They tore you from your dreams and threw you to nightmares, just like life often did to us. One moment we were smiling, the other we were crying, as abruptly as possible. As fast as the death of a loved one.

Security officers wore horrible Crow attire: long-beaked mask, black, feathered mantles, and strong combat boots, but at least their top hat was fashionable. The videos were loud and filled with uncensored swearing. Crows killed without mercy and presented their signature move to the viewers: walking on and stomping the corpses. One of them must have thought a corpse was a trampoline, bouncing to cackles and panting of his mates. The Crow who filmed it zoomed in to show the scarred and bloody faces of the deceased. Laughing and swearing, he burrowed his booted foot into their neck, leaving a wet print behind and parting with a chef’s kiss.

“Liothel or we send them to hell,” one of the Crows said, as he reached on to a corpse’s pocket and looted a roll of silver paper.

Mike swallowed hungrily.

I am not afraid of this dystopia, I want to enforce it. If I can’t change it, I have to be part of it. No revolution, no rebellion, just status quo.

“Liothel,” he found himself saying, “or I will send them to hell.”

*****

An hour later, Nair sent another message telling him she wanted to go out together and that she was waiting under his window.

Where do you want to go? he asked.

We’ll think about it out loud.

He shrugged out of his pajamas, put on a nice, black tunic, and checked his wallet. Satisfied, he told his mom he was going out with Nair, to which she smiled and wished him luck.

Once out of the apartment block, he found her trying to swat a mosquito, slumped against the trunk of an oak.

"Where do you want to go?” he asked.

"I don’t know.” Her hands were in the pockets of her pants. “Somewhere.”

"Want me to choose?”

"Sure.” She dug her feet in the gravel, crackling and separating it until she made a hole.

"Lunch?” he finally asked.

"Already had it.”

"Broom World?” Mike suggested.

"Something else, but you are getting closer.”

"Mall?”

“What’s there to see?”

"Not a stupid, normal one, Nair. A Magical Mall!”

Her eyes twinkled as she leened into him. “How much time can we kill there?”

"As much as you want.”

"Perfect.”

Nair didn’t notice it, but what she was doing wasn’t a retreat. She was battling a bad memory and a worse future with a good feeling.