Citizen POV – Number 31,872 (Azeem)
The streets haven't been this loud since the law of Numbers was passed. Since we were stripped of names and given codes like livestock. But this… this was different. This wasn't a celebration. This wasn't even panic.
This was domination in its rawest form.
I was still in the communal center when we heard it—the first screech of military hovercrafts storming down the lower air lanes. Blackwood armored tanks rolled through the dusty main roads, their tires crushing everything in their way. Shops closed instantly. Children pulled inside. Streets cleared with the kind of speed that only comes from fear.
Over the broadcast towers came the voice of B.A.M. command—chilling, robotic, no trace of humanity.
> "By Imperial Order of the Empress Amara Blackwood, the Blackwood National Gathering is MANDATORY. All citizens must begin preparation for travel toward the Capital. No exemptions. No excuses."
Then it repeated, again and again, in over a dozen languages. Every district. Every wall. Even our rations had the message printed on them by evening.
And then they came.
The B.A.M. Units.
Blackwood Advanced Military—the elite. The ones we only heard about in stories and feared like ghosts. Clad in matte-black power armor, each one bore the crest of the Empire glowing red across their chest plates. Their rifles weren't just for show. They aimed them at heads when giving orders. I saw a man—a fellow Surviving Citizen, Number 43,201—try to ask a question.
They didn't speak.
They beat him down until he coughed blood. Then one of them calmly lifted a megaphone and said:
> "Anyone who delays preparation will be detained as a threat to the Empire."
The detainment trucks were already lined up. One wrong move and you were in chains.
It was no longer about the announcement.
It was about the show of power.
Blackwood was reminding us: they ruled not by hope, not by policy, but by fear sharpened to a blade.
Above us, drones circled like vultures. Broadcasting everything. Watching everything. Our faces were being scanned—non-compliance would be tracked in real time.
Amara wasn't just summoning the Empire.
She was testing loyalty.
Not even the First-Class Citizens were spared. Word spread fast that Number 62—some wealthy official from District Redhall—had been dragged from his ivory tower for refusing to leave on time.
His family? Stripped of number. Status. Wealth. All gone. Overnight.
People here used to joke about rebellion in whispers.
There are no more jokes.
There's only the sound of marching boots. The red light of Empire scanners. And the countdown to the day when everything will change.
And I—I'm just trying to survive it.