Rumors had been circulating for weeks that the Circle was not as monolithic as it appeared. Whispers in dimly lit bars, half-heard conversations in ration lines, encrypted threads online—talk of a fracturing within the upper echelons of power. Most people dismissed them as wishful thinking, the last desperate fantasies of a dying resistance. But then came the stunt at the HUD central office in Washington.
According to videos and photos that made it to social media before moderators could scrub them, the televisions at HUD headquarters were suddenly hijacked. At first, employees thought it was another mandatory broadcast—perhaps the Chairman’s daily address, another pep talk about unity and obedience. But it wasn’t. Instead, they found themselves staring at an AI-generated video of the Chairman engaged in a lewd, humiliating act: making sloppy, reverent oral love to Magnus Vail’s bare feet. Above them, in large, mocking letters, were the words “LONG LIVE THE REAL KING.”
Shocked voices and half-laughs rippled through the office. Phones emerged from pockets, snapping photos and recording videos that would spread through the feeds like wildfire. One employee, audible in a shaky clip later posted online, could be heard muttering, “Oh God, someone’s gonna get fired.” In another video, a young staffer stood in front of a row of monitors, frantically yanking out power cords, but the screens flickered on elsewhere like a game of whack-a-mole.
The recordings pieced together a chaotic five minutes of confusion and awkward hilarity. Staff could be seen darting between cubicles, trying to locate every last monitor. They cut cables, flipped circuit breakers, did anything they could to kill the feed. But for those excruciating few minutes, the Chairman’s groveling on loop blared across the office, an unvarnished humiliation made all the more striking by its cartoonish absurdity.
Later that night, the official statement rolled out on state media. A HUD spokesperson called it “another waste of taxpayer dollars and resources,” vowing “appropriate action” against all involved. But the tone of the announcement felt forced, strained, as though the authorities themselves didn’t quite know how to handle such a blatant mockery.
Cora caught the footage from a third-hand repost on an obscure crypto forum, nearly choking on her ration meal when she saw it. Part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the Chairman lapping at Vail’s feet like a pet—but she knew how these things usually ended. Someone would vanish in the night. A scapegoat. Maybe the entire IT team would be dragged off for “questioning,” or some random staffer would find themselves flagged for sabotage. Punishment would be swift and brutal. Still, the fact that this happened at all—right in the heart of a major government office—was enough to send a spark through her hollowed-out sense of hope.
She replayed the clips in her mind, the frantic scenes of people ripping out cords and muttering curses under their breath. It wasn’t a huge victory, not some grand coup that toppled the regime. But it was something. A dent in the armor. A moment of pure, inescapable ridicule that the Chairman’s propaganda machine couldn’t spin into strength.
For a moment, Cora allowed herself a smile. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe the Circle really was fracturing, or at least losing its grip on the perfect narrative. If this was the work of the Underground, it was bolder than anything they’d tried before. And if it wasn’t them, then someone else out there had the courage—and the skill—to hijack a government feed and turn it into a monstrous joke. Either way, it meant that the Chairman’s regime wasn’t untouchable.
In the end, the broadcast was just five minutes of crass humiliation, followed by hours of frantic damage control. But five minutes was all it took to spark a wave of whispers, to show people that the Circle could be defied. And for a nation drowning in hopelessness, a single spark was sometimes all it took to light the way.
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