Civil War #7 Chapter Seven – Broadcast

Ash stood behind the gate to the arena, heart pounding, as the lights dimmed and the screen flared to life again. The crowd stirred with anticipation, their voices buzzing with speculation and mockery.

“Coming up next in the Arena of Merit—a story of justice, order, and defiance. This is no ordinary match. This is a reckoning.”

The screen filled with warm, golden light. Uplifting orchestral music began to play. A narrator’s voice—calm, reverent—cut through the noise:

“He came from nothing. Raised in the low blocks. No parents. No privileges. Just discipline.”

Clips showed Officer Delron as a child, alone and hardened, helping workers rebuild infrastructure. Quick flashes of him as a teen in training—saluting, standing watch, enduring harsh drills.

“Delron didn’t complain. He rose. Not through privilege… but purpose.”

A cut to him in uniform, standing proud in a polished riot line. Another showed him escorting upwardly mobile families through a hostile crowd of pleebs, stone-faced.

“He made a vow: to protect those who matter. To preserve the pillars that keep our world upright.”

Footage of Delron receiving commendations. Shaking hands with upwardly mobile officials. Returning home to a modest but clean unit—greeted by his smiling wife and two tidy children who run into his arms.

The screen then cut to recent footage—Delron breaking up a riot, shielding elites from a bottle thrown by a pleeb. He’s calm, efficient. Unshakeable.

“Justice. Loyalty. Strength. Delron.”

“He doesn’t fight for fame. He fights for the future.”

The screen held a slow-motion shot of Delron lowering his visor, backlit by the Seven’s insignia. The crowd inside the arena roared, mostly upwardly mobile. His name began to chant in rhythmic waves:

“DEL-RON! DEL-RON! DEL-RON!”

Then, without a pause, the screen flickered. The tone shifted.

Low droning music replaced the orchestra. The colors turned grayscale.

Ash’s face appeared.

“Born into privilege. Threw it away. A pleeb by choice.”

Footage showed Ash in the fields, walking alone. Voice clips played over the images—out of context, angry.

“Studying forbidden texts. Preaching false ideas. Destabilizing harmony.”

A clip of him yelling during the field incident. Another of him hoarding books. A shadowy overlay of revolutionary symbols.

“They say he fights for the people. But what people? Himself?”

His montage included clips of him alone, reading in darkness. His face scowling. Slow zooms on his clenched fists.

Then—the incident with the cop. Footage from multiple angles, cut to make Ash look like the aggressor.

“A spark of chaos… waiting to become a blaze.”

Ash stared at the screen, jaw tight.

Some of it was fake.

Most of it wasn’t.

None of it surprised him.

They were monitored every moment of every day. Cameras in the ceilings, walls, drones drifting through their homes and communal spaces. He knew they were always watching. What struck him wasn’t the surveillance. It was the precision. The way it was all cut together, stylized, and delivered like gospel.

And the framing—how close it came to truths he hadn’t even said aloud.

He glanced around the prep chamber, feeling the eyes of security drones, of producers, of Corwin—somewhere.

Had his brother been feeding them more than just data?

The screen faded.

The crowd was split. Some booed. Some cheered. The pleebs in the lower decks shouted his name. The elites in the glass towers jeered.

Ash stepped forward toward the gate.

It began to rise.

The arena lights blinded him at first. The roar of the crowd swelled. Officer Delron stood in the center, fully armored, expression unreadable. Ash could see the bulk in Delron’s arm—an enhanced cast hidden beneath the plating. Steel beneath skin.

The bell rang.

Ash barely had time to dodge the first punch. The second landed.

Then the third.

Delron was fast, relentless, and surgically precise. His punches felt like iron rods. Blood splattered from Ash’s mouth. The crowd roared in approval from the glass towers.

Ash stumbled back. Another hit to the ribs. Then one to the jaw.

He dropped to one knee.

The pleebs in the lower decks watched in silence—some horrified, some disappointed.

Delron didn’t gloat. He didn’t have to. He was doing exactly what the Director had wanted.

Ash understood now.

This wasn’t a test.

It was a punishment.

A humiliation designed for the feeds. For control. For revenge.

He spat blood into the sand, teeth gritted. His eye was swelling shut. His ribs screamed with every breath.

But somewhere beneath the pain, a seed hardened.

Not for glory.

Not for the people.

For himself.

For his parents.

He would survive.

And when he did, he would make the Director pay.