Act IV: The False Paradise

THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO: A Revolutionary Fairy Tale

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The workers rise, the Mills fall, and the revolution seizes its moment. At last, the oppressed hold power—but power, once claimed, is never easily shared. What begins as liberation soon tightens into control, and the dream of equality hardens into something unrecognizable.

Loyalty becomes currency, doubt a crime. The line between justice and vengeance blurs as the revolution turns inward, hunting enemies within. Surveillance creeps into every shadow, and those who once fought for freedom now live in fear of their own comrades.

Eliza sees the world she fought for slipping away, but Lily has already been claimed by it. The revolution does not simply change the rulers—it changes the ruled. And as the People’s Republic tightens its grip, Eliza faces an impossible question: when the cause you bled for becomes the thing you fear, how do you escape a revolution that never ends?

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Act IV: The False Paradise

Dawn broke over Laboria with an unsettling crimson hue. Tendrils of mist clung to the cobblestones as thousands of workers emerged from their homes and gathered in the central square of the Gray Quarter. Many carried hastily made red banners, while others brandished tools of their trades as makeshift weapons. At their head stood the Orator, now wearing a red cloak adorned with golden thread.

"Requisitioned," he explained, from a Palace Heights warehouse.

The morning air was electric with possibility. Eliza felt it too, a trembling in her hands that wasn't entirely fear. For once, it was hope, dangerous and unfamiliar after years of careful hopelessness. She searched the crowd for Lily, now almost thirteen years old, finally spotting her among the Youth Sentinels. When their eyes met, Lily smiled a genuine smile that reminded Eliza of the child she'd been before revolution had touched their lives. In that moment, Eliza allowed herself to believe that perhaps the sacrifices would prove worthwhile.

"Today," the Orator declared, his voice carrying across the assembled masses, "we reclaim what has always been ours! The Mills run by our hands shall be governed by our minds!"

The march to the Mills began with revolutionary songs and defiant chants. Workers who had spent lifetimes with downcast eyes now looked straight ahead, their faces alight with purpose. For many, this day represented not just material hope but the restoration of dignity long denied.

The Palace Guards stationed at the Mills' entrance were fewer than expected. Most had deserted during the night, warned by relatives in the Gray Quarter that resistance would be futile. Those who remained surrendered quickly, more concerned with preserving their lives than the Merchant King's property.

As the enormous iron gates of the Central Mill swung open, the crowd erupted in jubilation. Workers rushed inside, embracing colleagues who had maintained the occupation strike through the night. Someone raised a red flag above the Mill's highest tower, visible even from Palace Heights.

Eliza found herself swept along by the tide of revolution, simultaneously exhilarated and terrified. This moment—the oppressed reclaiming the source of their oppression—was what they had fought for. Yet as she watched Revolutionary Enforcers (formerly miners, now armed with cudgels) immediately round up Mill supervisors, binding their hands with red cord, she felt a hollow sensation in her chest.

"These class criminals will face Workers' Justice," announced a lieutenant, as the supervisors were marched out to jeers and thrown debris. One supervisor, a middle-aged woman who had actually improved conditions in her section, protested, "I always treated workers fairly!"

A voice from the crowd shouted back: "There is no 'fair' exploitation!" The woman was struck silent by a cudgel blow.

Eliza flinched, then glanced around quickly to see if anyone had noticed her reaction. Such involuntary empathy might be misinterpreted as counter-revolutionary sentiment. The thought itself, that she needed to hide her natural reactions, sent a whisper of unease through her celebration.

She searched for Lily amid the chaos but couldn't locate her daughter's brigade. The children had been given special revolutionary duties, she was told by a beaming comrade, "building the future begins with the youngest minds!"

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