Edinburgh
The roar of 200,000 voices rolled over the cobblestones, crashing against the old stone façades of Edinburgh like a tidal wave. My heart hammered, not from nerves, but from the sheer electricity in the air. Plaid Cymru had tipped the balance in Cardiff, and here, in the shadow of the castle, the SNP could show Scotland was ready to rise.
I gripped the microphone, feeling its weight steady my shaking fingers. The banners fluttered above the crowd, blue and white saltire flags mingling with green, gold, and black—symbols of a nation refusing to be quiet any longer. The smell of rain mixed with excitement, and the chants of "Scotland! Scotland! Scotland!" reverberated through me.
"Friends," I shouted, letting my voice carry as far as it could, "today we stand together, not just as citizens, but as architects of our future. Today we remind Westminster that Scotland will decide its own destiny!"
A wave of cheers broke out, drowning the street in sound. I smiled beneath the sweat on my brow, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Every face I saw reflected hope, determination, and the quiet anger of people tired of being ignored.
I continued, voice rising, "This isn't just about a vote—it's about our right to shape our country, to take back the power that has been denied us for far too long. Plaid Cymru has shown Wales that change is possible. Now it's our turn!"
The crowd erupted again, hands in the air, voices straining. I let a moment pass, letting them feel the magnitude of what we could do together. Then, with a calm I didn't entirely feel, I added, "And let me be clear: we are not waiting for permission. We are not waiting for approval. We are taking action. Scotland is ready, and Scotland will be heard."
I stepped back from the microphone, chest heaving, as the chants continued. Somewhere in the middle of that sea of people, I spotted familiar faces from the party, young volunteers and old campaigners alike, all leaning in, ready to push forward. I let a small, private grin cross my face. The tides were turning, and for the first time in months, I felt the momentum was unmistakably ours.
I pulled out my phone, thumbs flying over the screen. To Elen: All pieces are in place. I hit send before I could second-guess myself. Relief and anticipation collided in my chest. The board was set.
Cardiff
The streets of Cardiff were alive, a living sea of red, green, and white. Nearly 75,000 voices rose in unison, Welsh flags snapping in the breeze, echoing off the stone facades of the old city. From somewhere in the crowd, the strains of a harp floated above the roar, a Celtic melody threading through the chants—old songs of resilience and hope that had been sung for centuries.
I gripped the microphone tighter, feeling the pulse of the crowd beneath me, every footstep, every shout vibrating up through the stage. For a heartbeat, I was back at fourteen, huddled with Alwenna in the back of the school library, whispering about our favorite bands, plotting our next double date with shy smiles and reckless excitement. Then the memory shifted—us sneaking into clubs on a rainy Saturday night, laughing until our sides hurt, pretending the world beyond Cardiff didn't exist. The way she dared me to try the dancefloor even though I hated dancing, the way we shared secrets over chips at midnight in the corner café, hands brushing, hearts pounding.
I could almost see her in the front row, eyes blazing, chin lifted, that half-smirk she always wore when she spoke of independence like it was destiny. She had always believed more fiercely than me, always been the one to argue in pubs, in classrooms, on late-night walks along Cardiff Bay, that Wales deserved more than what it had been given. I had laughed back then, teased her for being dramatic. "Dreamer," I used to call her, though part of me envied how sure she was.
But she wasn't here. Not in the streets. Not beside me. London had her, carrying the weight of the nation in ways I could never match. Pride swelled in me as I looked over the crowd, yet behind it, a hollow tug of longing twisted through my chest. Every cheer, every wave, every raised fist reminded me that the fire she had lit between us now burned alone in my hands.
The memory of her at eighteen came back—shivering on the curb outside Tesco, black tee soaked, mascara running, still fierce, still wild, still mine to protect. "You don't have to be alone," I whispered to myself, a silent promise. But the words felt heavier now, stretched across miles, between city streets and quiet offices in London.
I looked out over the crowd. Faces lit with excitement, determination, hope. Children perched on shoulders waved small flags, couples clasped hands, and older folk lifted fists in solidarity. The chants grew louder: "Annibyniaeth! Annibyniaeth!"—Independence! Independence!—a drumbeat that matched my own racing heart, echoing the very conviction Elen had once stoked in me.
"Fellow citizens," I shouted, voice steady, "today we are not just standing in the streets of our capital—we are standing in the footsteps of those who dared to dream before us! We are standing with Owain Glyndŵr, who fought for the freedom of our land, who refused to bow to outside powers, who believed that Wales deserved its voice and its sovereignty!"
The crowd erupted, voices shouting and clapping, flags snapping in the wind. The harpist's notes soared above the chants, weaving through the roar like threads of history, of pride, of stubborn courage. And still, a shadow lingered—a wish, sharp and quiet, that Elen could see this, could feel this, could stand here beside me.
"We are the sons and daughters of a land that refuses to be silenced! Our valleys, our mountains, our coasts—they have borne witness to our resilience. Today, we honor them not with words alone, but with action! With unity! With courage!"
I glanced down at the front rows, where children perched on shoulders, faces shining with excitement, and older folk whose hands had held flags in protests decades ago. My heart ached, and not just with memory—Alwenna laughing as we snuck into clubs in the rain, sharing secrets in back alleys and libraries, daring each other to imagine a bigger, freer life. Now the ache had two edges: pride and absence intertwined.
"Let the world know," I continued, voice rising, "that Wales will not be ignored. We will stand together, from Cardiff Bay to Snowdonia, from Swansea to the Wye Valley. Our voices will be heard. Our people will be counted. And our future will be ours to shape!"
The crowd's chants surged again: "Annibyniaeth! Annibyniaeth!"—Independence! Independence!—the repetition like a heartbeat beneath my own.
And though I stood here, leading this surge of hope and defiance, a part of me still reached across the miles, silently telling her: I carry the fire you lit. I will not let it die. For our nation. For Wales.
Cymru am Byth, Alwenna.
London
I sank into the worn sofa, slippers soft against the cold floor, pajamas rumpled from a night half-slept, half-lived. My coffee steamed in my mug, warm and grounding, the rich aroma mingling with the faint scent of smoke curling from the cigarette balanced between my fingers. I let the ember glow lazily, hypnotic, like the slow burn of plans long in motion.
The BBC flickered across the screen, one channel sliding into the next. Edinburgh erupted first—Fiona's voice carrying over the crowds, tartans and banners rising like waves against the gray sky. I could almost feel the chill of the Scottish air, smell the peat fires, hear the collective pulse of hundreds of thousands demanding independence. Cardiff answered in kind, Carys standing at the center, flags snapping in the wind, voices chanting "Annibyniaeth! Annibyniaeth!"—a living drumbeat that threaded through the valleys and streets, through my memory, through my intent.
Cornwall was next, the crowd draped in black, white, and gold. St. Piran's flags waved proudly, men and women singing in Cornish, a tongue older than the nation itself, voices rising and falling in intricate, almost musical waves. At the front stood Penrose, the leader of Mebyon Kernow, his jacket damp from sea spray but his voice unshaken. He spoke over the wind-whipped shores, invoking miners, fishermen, and poets alike, demanding recognition, autonomy, a reclaiming of heritage too long overlooked. The crowds rallied behind him, their chants echoing off the rugged cliffs as if the land itself were answering.
The Isle of Man flickered into view, banners of the Triskelion spinning gently as the wind caught them. Local musicians played on the streets, fiddles and flutes twining with the chant of the crowd. It wasn't a roar—it was a rhythm, quiet but insistent, a claim to self-rule and identity, a subtle insistence that even small nations had a voice. At the center, Moira—young, sharp-eyed, and unapologetically Manx—stood on the steps of Douglas Town Hall, her hand raised as she called for the island's right to chart its own course. Her words threaded seamlessly with the music, her presence turning a gathering into something greater: a movement.
Northern Ireland came last. The tension was palpable even through the broadcast. Loyalists and nationalists both held their own corners, but the Sinn Féin contingent moved with precision, disciplined yet defiant. Flags snapped, but so did hearts—every hand raised felt loaded with history, every chant a tether to generations of struggle, a declaration that partition would no longer define the present. At the front of the march, Áine walked shoulder to shoulder with party veterans, her stride steady, her jaw set. Young but unyielding, she carried herself as though the weight of generations sat on her shoulders and yet did not bend her. Her voice cut through the chants, calling for unity, for the right to determine Ireland's future without London's shadow. On my screen, I caught the fierce brightness in her eyes, the same fire I had seen in late-night strategy calls, and I knew she was no longer just a rising figure—she was becoming the rallying point of an entire movement.
I sipped my coffee, savoring the warmth as it spread through me. My fingers tightened slightly around the cigarette. I watched, truly watched, feeling both removed and intimately entwined. The rallies, the chants, the singing of old songs—they were answering to me, to the networks I'd built, to the whispers and nudges and careful timing that had shaped this moment. Every protest, every banner, every voice was a move on a board only I could see entirely.
My thoughts drifted, memories slipping in: Carys and me, sneaking into Cardiff clubs on rainy nights, sharing CDs in bedrooms cluttered with posters, racing each other through empty streets, hands brushing, laughter spilling into the damp air. Even then, we had dreamed of change, in our small, reckless ways. Now, that energy had become something larger, something unstoppable.
I leaned back, cigarette smoke curling upward, coffee cooling in my hand. My lips lifted into a quiet, self-satisfied smirk. The pieces are falling into place. Every alliance, every rally, every subtle hint of loyalty—the game was unfolding exactly as I had envisioned. I could see the threads connecting: Plaid Cymru, SNP, Sinn Féin, even the hesitant eyes of Reform MPs, nudged gently into alignment.
I let myself exhale slowly, smoke blending with the warmth of the room. No one knew I sat here, a simple figure in slippers and pajamas, quietly observing a storm I had stirred. And as the harps and fiddles and chants wove through the broadcasts, threading Celtic songs of resilience through the chaos, I allowed myself the smallest, quietest smile.
The pieces are falling into place. And soon, nothing—not loyalty, not fear, not old allegiances—would stand in the way of what I was building. I allowed myself to sleep early that night, brief flashes of the past slipping in my slumber.
_________________________________________________________
The Situation Room felt colder than usual, the hum of monitors and the soft clicks of keyboards a constant undercurrent to the tension pressing against my shoulders. Maps of the United Kingdom blinked in red and amber across the screens—Cornwall, the Isle of Man, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales—each one alive with rallies, roadblocks, chants, flags snapping in the wind. The unrest wasn't contained; it was spreading. Accelerating. Escalating.
I straightened in my chair, cleared my throat, and pressed the intercom. "All units, attention. This is an official directive from the Prime Minister's office." My voice was steady, measured, but inside, my pulse throbbed like a drumbeat.
"We are facing coordinated movements for independence and autonomy across multiple regions: Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, the Isle of Man, and Northern Ireland. Public safety, national stability, and the integrity of the United Kingdom are at risk. Effective immediately, I am declaring a nationwide state of emergency."
A pause, the weight of the words hanging in the air, the staff around me stiffening, eyes flicking to one another.
"This declaration enables all civil authorities and enforcement agencies to respond with full authority, prioritize security, and ensure the protection of citizens and infrastructure. Curfews, restricted gatherings, and heightened monitoring are authorized. Coordination with regional leaders will continue, but make no mistake—we will act decisively to maintain order."
I leaned forward, fingers steepled on the table, gaze sweeping the room. "We are not reacting. We are not panicking. We are asserting control. And we will do so intelligently, firmly, and without hesitation."
One of my advisors murmured, "Prime Minister, the Celtic nations and Northern Ireland…"
"I am aware," I interrupted, voice firm. "Their calls for independence are part of the landscape we now face. We will respect lawful dissent, but we will not tolerate chaos or threats to the union. This is not political rhetoric—this is national security."
I stood, letting the authority in my posture underscore the words I'd spoken. The screens glowed, the flags waving on broadcasts, the crowds of chanting citizens across the UK—but I would not falter. Every piece of the puzzle had been moving, and now the board was fully in play.
"We act immediately," I said. "Every measure necessary to protect our nation is authorized. Every leader, every officer, every citizen—understand the gravity of the moment. This is the state of emergency. This is the United Kingdom responding."
I switched off the intercom, silence dropping like a stone in the room. The monitors continued to flicker, showing thousands in the streets, but I allowed myself a single, controlled breath. The board was set, the players moving, and I—Alwenna—was ready to navigate every storm, every challenge, every surge of rebellion that came my way.
BBC One – Special Report
"Good evening. Prime Minister Elen Ross has declared a nationwide state of emergency following a day of mass demonstrations across the United Kingdom."
Live images show helicopters circling above Cardiff Bay, police lines holding ground in Belfast, and tens of thousands rallying in Edinburgh. In Cornwall, black-and-white St. Piran's flags dominate the horizon, while in Douglas, the Manx triskelion spins against storm clouds as musicians lead the crowds. Each protest carries its own voice—Cornish autonomy, Manx self-rule, Scottish and Welsh independence, and Irish reunification—but the timing and coordination have raised questions tonight about whether this is coincidence… or something more deliberate.
International reaction is swift. Brussels has called for restraint. Washington has described the situation as "deeply concerning." In Berlin and Paris, headlines already speak of a United Kingdom in crisis. Here at home, Westminster insists order will be maintained. But on the streets of Glasgow, Llandudno, Truro, Douglas, and Belfast, thousands continue to march, chant, and sing. The nation, for now, holds its breath."
"The United Kingdom tonight", the anchor concluded, "is a nation divided, uncertain of tomorrow—and watched closely by the world."