Blunderball

The Damocles Protocol

Challenge #11: Write a story that takes place within either a utopian or dystopian setting. It must make use of dramatic irony and a key scene must revolve around a musical instrument.

At 2:47am Michael Johnson died of a heroin overdose on the third floor of a multi-storey car park just outside Hull.

At 9:18am his body was discovered by an Ikea employee, who subsequently called an ambulance.

At 9:44am the death was reported and a unique identification number sent to a server at the Ministry of Justice.

At 9:45am the code was broadcast, detonating one specific half-gram charge of plastic explosive.

***

Julia Walker's phone was broken. She got out of bed, pulled on her clothes and turned on the TV.

"...collapsed in Parliament shortly before 10am and was pronounced dead on the scene. When approached for comment—"

The time in the breaking news banner read ten fifteen. Julia switched over to some ancient sitcom and stuck two slices of bread in the toaster. Then she boiled the kettle. The noise drowned out the voices on TV, but it was one she'd seen before: Ross had left a sandwich in the fridge and somebody else ate it. The camera cut to progressively more distant scenes as he shouted about it, prompting a flock of birds to take flight on a street somewhere. The effect was only slightly hampered by the weird square aspect ratio and grainy image.

Her breakfast ready, Julia returned to the sofa and minimised the episode to check her bank balance: £0.18. Not exactly new phone money. She finished her tea and toast, watched the rest of the episode that had been playing at the time, then picked up her guitar and got on the bus.

There was a TV fixed near the front, on mute with subtitles, and Julia found herself looking at it as she settled in for the journey, though not really following what was on screen. It was the same 24-hour news programme as before, now featuring an interview with two people she didn't recognise.

"I completely agree," came the slow words, cyan-on-black, as one spoke. "But—"

The other interviewee interrupted, her text yellow-on-black: "I mean how can you expect these people to function with that kind of threat looming over them?"

"But what's the alternative? We can't go back to the days when MPs were allowed to profit from private healthcare while dismantling the NHS." He pressed a finger to the desk in front of him. "Anybody who claims to represent a constituency must be willing to share the risks of the people in it."

"That's completely barbaric. The Damocles Protocol was only ever supposed to be a temporary measure. It—"

"But this—"

"It was introduced during the worst riots this country has ever seen. It's a complete anachronism. It has absolutely no place in—"

"Life expectancy is up. Voter turnout is up. Crime is at an all-time—"

The presenter came on, text white-on-black: "Please. Please. Clearly this is a sensitive topic, and there will be time to..."

Julia diverted her attention to what she could see through the window. As the bus passed the café, she pushed the button for the bell and got off at the nearest stop.

Kieran was at the counter. He checked his watch: "Little early, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't know." She held up her phone, the screen shattered.

"Oooh." He winced.

"Yeah." She put it back in her bag. "I was sort of hoping to take in a little extra today."

"Well, we're always happy to have you."

Julia set up on a stool near the door and began to play. She'd felt lucky to get the spot in the café to begin with—she hadn't really taken the guitar seriously since school—but the steady practice had soon made a difference and she was certainly learning new songs. Her takings for the afternoon were £22.77 and a free coffee and cake. It wasn't exactly a spectacular day.

"There's a fruit farm that's always looking for pickers," Kieran offered as she zipped her guitar back into its case. "Some of my mates do alright out of that right now."

"Yeah," said Julia. "I'd really rather hold out for something more permanent. The UBI covers most things. It's just, you know, emergencies."

"Oh, right. I meant to ask: did you try that place across the street? The guy in there fixed my phone when the speaker blew. It was cheaper than I thought."

Julia checked the clock over the counter. She had time before the bus. "Thanks, I'll try that."

The place across the street was a very small, fairly shady-looking shop with a rack of water-jet speakers flashing garishly in the window.

"Hi." Julia got her phone out as she approached the counter. "Any chance you can fix this?"

The guy behind the counter took the phone and examined the screen, then flipped it over and looked at the back. He plugged it into the laptop in front of him, then almost immediately unplugged it. Finally, he pulled a plastic drawer out from the counter and began rummaging through the sea of phones inside. He retrieved an identical model with a large yellow sticker on the back.

"Yeah," he said. "I can do that for £25."

"I've got £22.77," said Julia, opening her purse. "And, uh...18p on my card."

The phone shop guy paused, then laughed uproariously.

"Yeah, alright," he said at last. "Close enough."

Julia got back on the bus a few buses later than she'd intended and made her way back home. When she got there, she found her latest box of food rations had already arrived. She cooked up some pasta, enjoyed a quiet evening at home, then went to bed.

At 8:00 the next morning, a notification from her news app appeared on the phone's new screen: "Thomas Smith MP confirmed eighth fatality of Damocles Protocol. Parliament to reconsider controversial practice."

At 8:06 it was joined by another: "Addiction treatment centres to be given additional financial support."