The night had been silent and uneventful.
Jack crept down the street that was scattered with bits of plastic and other trash that had been there for months. It was after 8:00 pm, and if he was caught he would have no excuse. He was almost there, and he seemed to walk slower than normally. The sound of metal on the ground startled him, but was merely a trashcan that had been knocked to the uneven ground. He continued to walk quickly. The last of the autumn sun was casting a low, orange light onto the roofs of the tall buildings that encased him. The day was the 17th of autumn 2013.
Jack Anderson was a 37-year-old man who had been oppressed for too long. It had been 20 years since the tyrant, the Dictator whose name was unknown, had enslaved the United Kingdom. This man had been known as the saviour, but no one knows how he came to be called this. No one had ever heard him speak, no one had ever seen his face. This mysterious man had slowly taken control of the British Isles and had been in power for years. And Jack was fed up. It was 2 months since Jack had begun sending messages to the rumoured freed peoples in France, but it had been even longer that he had been pondering the idea of escape.
He was almost there, he could see the wall and it was gloriously horrible. It towered a good 150 meters over the tops of the buildings. As he turned the last corner he nearly fell onto his back as bright lights suddenly shone onto his face…