Article 17B

Prologue

The squeak of stiletto heels on polished tiles echoed throughout the corridor.

Had this been any other day, she would have had the cleaners shot. The thought didn't even cross her mind. She rehearsed what she was going to say in her head, the clumsy words drilled into her by the Public Opinion staff. She knew no matter how hard she tried, they'd never sound genuine. A cold sweat ran down her back.

The doors at the end of the corridor swung open. She approached the podium. A lump formed in her throat. She coughed, twice. Paparazzi cameras flashed, but apart from the shutter clicking, the room was silent. She leant into the mic.

"I am inciting article 17B. Prepare for the evacuation."

"Fuck you!" a voice shouted.

And just like that, the silent room came to life; people screaming, shouting, fighting. Security guards swarmed into the crowds, armed with batons, tasers and handguns.

The first gunshot filled the room. Then another. And another. At the fourth, the crowd stopped fighting. The people fell silent. And she was still standing, gawking at the podium. Her eyes fixed on one solitary figure, darting through the crowd. She watched them zigzag through the audience. She watched them take aim.

She watched them squeeze the trigger. She watched the bullet fly towards her, dancing over the crowd. And then she was on the floor.

That night, twelve billion people across the globe witnessed the body of the most important woman in the world get dragged across the floor and out of sight.