I hope you are enjoying this thus far! Things start to kick off a little bit in this one :)

Before Tom saw the huge, greyish-yellow bus with the Leadership logo stamped hugely on its side amble down his street, he hadn't really expected it. He had the letter, of course, but sometimes something doesn't sink in until you truly come face to face with it (in my experience, an angry lion doesn't really seem that bad until it is eating your little finger). Sitting on the gate in front of his home, Tom observed the bus slowly making its way down the street before calling his family, as instructed, to say a final goodbye. They didn't know at the time that for some time, it would be the final goodbye, and that the next meeting would be in considerably more dangerous circumstances, but I do not wish to ruin the story...

"Goodbye, son. I love you, you remember that." Bob squeezed his son tight to him, planting a sloppy kiss on his head, before turning and slowly walking into the house, determined not to let them see the tears that were falling fast.

A pincer like grip made Tom look down: Carrie was hugging him with her entire body, clinging on hard.

"Carrie, I'll be back soon – don't worry. I bet you'll be glad that your smelly brother is gone!" Tom tried to laugh to convince Carrie of his mirth, but it came out sounding rather like a sob. Carrie choked on her own tears before dashing back into the house, leaving just Debbie to see her son off. Grabbing him, she hugged him close, whispering into his ear, "Don't forget that the ears have walls, Tom. I love you..."

Seeing James on the little bus was probably the greatest relief of Tom's life (the greatest in mine was finding that the lion who ate my little finger had irritable bowel syndrome and had to go to the lavatory before he could eat the rest of me, giving me precious seconds to escape).

"James!"

"Tom!"

Tom threw himself onto James, glad that the grim faced driver had already taken his suitcase. The two hugged each other for a moment before settling into seats beside each other, ignoring the ten or so other boys on the bus, some of whom they also knew.

"I'm so glad you're here!" James confessed. James, at twenty, was probably the oldest boy on the bus at that point. He looked, however, very young as he squished against the window to let Tom sit down.

"Oh mate, I thought I was going to be totally alone – I forgot that mum said you had been asked to go to a meeting or something." Tom replied.

"Yeah – they had to pick between me and another dude to go and they picked me."

Tom sighed. "Why are they even doing this?"

James raised his eyebrows before moving his mouth closer to Tom's ear, speaking in a tone low enough that no one else could hear it. Unfortunately, the microphones on the bus picked it up, which lead to rather a lot of trouble later on.

"They need cheap labour, and English people – or people from bloody Sector Two as they like to say – are the only ones they can exploit easily. Danny Jones thinks that we'll do what he says."

Tom stared at him, before leaning in in a similar fashion. "I hate the Leadership. They've got everyone under their spell, but I think they're a bit like the Nazi's...Danny Jones is Hitler!"

James shook his head slightly. "They're not killing anyone...Jones is more like Margaret Thatcher than Hitler, mate."

The bus journey seemed to have lasted for hours, with no food or water. However, when the bus finally ambled to a halt in front of a vast, grey-stony building with no buildings around it for miles, the clock at the front of the bus only read midday.

"Get off the bus!" the grim faced bus driver called. There were more boys than when Tom got on – twenty of them now. As the departed from the vehicle, Tom realised that he knew almost all of them in one way or another. Some from school, others from work, and others still from the occasions he had collected Carrie from the primary school playground a year or so previously.

"Collect your luggage then go to the door – you will be met by Danny Jones."

A ruffle ran through the crowd at that: Danny Jones himself, there to meet them? Some of the boys were strong supporters of the Leadership and were enamoured with the prospect of meeting him, while others disliked what the Leadership stood for and resented having to leave their homes to work for Jones. Tom stayed close to James as the crowd walked closer and closer up to the huge complex. Just before they knocked at the door, however, it opened. There he was. About the same height as Tom, with curly brown hair and clear blue eyes. He was only seventeen, yet considered a genius by most: in just one year he had gone from creating a party with no support to leading and changing a country.

"You must be the compulsory workers from Sector Two! Good to meet ya – come on in!"

Danny's voice startled all of them. On the Leadership broadcasts, he always sounded fairly eloquent, with clear, precise tones. Here, though, his voice was warm and sounded strongly like any other Bolton accent. Grinning, he helped them all through into the building. Inside, it was chilly, with a sharp edge of coldness to the air that was unpleasant for all parties.

"You are here to assist your government and the people of this wonderful nation in our masterplan to achieve great power and responsibility again! The work is simple, and will be paid, and there will be chance to write to or even call your families. Unfortunately, due to the distance, none of you can visit your families, but they will have three or four chances to pay a little to be brought here to see you. Your time here may be the best of your life!"

As Danny spoke, he ran his eyes over the raggle-taggle group of boys. Just as he did so, however, Tom managed to trip over thin air and sprawl right to Danny's feet, his head actually smacking against Danny's knee as he went down.

"Stand up!" Danny ordered, voice suddenly sharp and crisp again. Tom slowly stood up, making his unwillingness to do anything that Danny ordered him to do quite plain.

"What's ya name?"

"Tom Fletcher."

"That's Tom Fletcher sir, to you." Danny reprimanded. Tom couldn't resist the opportunity.

"I'm being made a sir? Wicked!"

Tom couldn't have anticipated the next motion, nor could the others. I feel aghast that I must share it, but to give a complete account of the downfall of the Leadership I must. Danny's hand flew out and slapped Tom hard across the face, sending him reeling backwards into James, who fell over and caused a domino effect amongst the young men. When they were all standing again, Danny was frowning.

"I won't take cheek from any of you. As for you, Fletcher? I know ya name."

Tom desperately wanted to laugh at that, or make some snide comment (I am sure you can think of the type of comment), but he repressed it deep inside of him.

"Now, I will take you all up to where you will be staying while you work here. Food will appear in the rooms at regular intervals through a slot, and there is a toilet and shower cubicle in each dormitory. Other than for work and organised recreation, no one is to leave their room." Danny's clean, elocution-lesson gained tones were once more in full power.

Two people were to share each room, and the choice was down to them, a fact which delighted both Tom and James. They immediately sidled closer to each other, and entered their accommodation. The room was fairly small, and painted beige, with rough wooden slats on the floor. In the corner of the room was a bunk bed, with each bed set up with a rough looking grey blanket and single pillow. A door lead to a tiny room with a toilet, small shower and sink. Back in the room itself was a large table (with a pile of paper and envelopes in the corner of it), two chairs, a chest of drawers and a shelf already stuffed with books. Tom eagerly inspected them (his love for books was passionate) but then drew away, disappointed: all were either guides on the rules and regulations of 'New United Kingdom', descriptions of the Leadership or biographies about Danny Jones.

"It's okay, I guess." James slowly said, equally as disappointed as Tom.

"Maybe if we unpack it'll seem a bit more homely." Tom suggested. However, before either of the boys could unpack, a slot above the table which neither had noticed before opened and a tray came out, seemingly reluctant, followed by another, which pushed the first dangerously close to the edge of the table. On each was a plate of vegetables covered in some strange sauce, a small pot of yogurt and a carton of apple juice.

"Lunch." Tom dully said. "Yippee."

James laughed. "Cheer up, mate. We've got nothing to do after lunch, we can make this place as awesome as we like."

After unpacking, the room did transform from a dull little pit to a young-man-haven. I should know – after the demise, I visited it and took photographs so that when my drink was eventually drugged to delete my memories of the Leadership, I could still remember the peaceful little room where Thomas Michael Fletcher experienced some lifechanging events.

James, who had more forethought than Tom, had packed a few posters and magazines to spruce up the walls, which almost immediately made a massive impact. Tom had had a slightly different opinion of what he had needed to pack, and produced an impressive number of toys, including movie memorabilia and plain and simple teddy bears. A few went straight on Tom's bed (the top bunk), but most were secreted around the room. A couple of the more durable, plastic toys found a watery home in the shower, while others were tucked between bed posts and onto doorknobs. The small additions of toys and posters made Tom instantly feel more relaxed.

"I wish we could have brought our guitars with us." Tom regretfully said, absent-mindedly strumming the air.

"I wish I could have brought my band with me! We were just about to get signed to a record deal and everything!" James replied.

"Ah yeah, Busted. How's the songwriting going?"

"Well – want to hear a song? It's called 'Loser Kid'."

The sound of James' voice filled the room, occasionally accompanied by a random, on-the-spot harmony from Tom. I have in my possession one of the few cd's that Busted were able to burn before the demise, and the music on it is quite different to any music produced before and any music produced since. I wish that I could share that with you, but the room is slowly filling with water and I must type this tale before I myself die.

The next morning, the two boys awoke to a claxen-like siren blasting out in the small room, seemingly shaking them down to their bones. Neither could see where it was coming from, and the bedside clock that Tom had brought with him read 5:30. Five thirty. In Tom's mind, only one five thirty existed and that was in the afternoon (or perhaps the evening, if you are fond of an early night). Stumbling out of bed, the two quickly dressed (both had showered the previous evening, using the gritty bar of soap provided instead of the sanitary items they had brought with them) and ate the breakfast that plopped through the slot – gluey porridge with dried fruit, a mug of strong black coffee (Tom, though he didn't believe in any deity, thanked god in that moment) and some sort of mashed fresh fruit which tasted vaguely of raspberries. Just moments after the slot accepted their trays back after eating, the door suddenly swung open without provocation.

"It's too early." Tom said. It was a statement, said in a way that made it plain it wasn't up for negotiation. James nodded before stretching out into a bone-cracking yawn. The two ambled out of the room into the dimly lit corridor to find, yet again, Danny standing there. As soon as the twentieth boy was there, Danny clapped his hands.

"Good mornin'! Time for work. Spli' into two groups of ten."

Blearily, they all obeyed, standing in two huddles either side of the corridor. Tom had a firm hold on James' sleeve so as not to lose him.

"Right! You're goin' to be doin' some manual labour today." Danny said with a smile as he indicated Tom's group, "And you'll be doin' secretary stuff."

Danny had spent an hour the previous day listening to the microphone tapes from the bus that had brought the men there, and had heard James and Tom's whispered conversation comparing himself to Hitler and Margaret Thatcher. This had pissed him off enough to inspire him to put poor Tom in the manual group for at least a week, unfortunately.

After two hours of painting, Tom felt like he was going mad. The initial chatter had settled into a few muttered words now and then as everyone felt the creepy little parasite that is boredom overcome them. They had travelled for an hour or so on bus into a city which Danny described to them (he was staying with their group, and the other was supervised by his friend Charlie Simpson, another main MP for the Leadership) as 'the new capital'. It was Bolton, or at least part of it.

"James, can you pass the turpentine?" Tom mumbled, vaguely aware that he had blobbed some of the dull brown paint he was currently using onto the dusky pink paint he had finished with ten minutes previously.

"Sure."

The building was being painted in sections, to look like a patchwork. It was not Danny's idea, but in fact his publicist team's, but it was being advertised as all down to Danny. A patchwork to show the patchwork of new and old in his government. Of course, Danny's government was more like a thick coil of old rope – slightly threatening and a little bit useless – but no one dared say so. Danny's slap the previous day had inspired obedience amongst his workers.

"Lunch break!" Danny called. Relieved, paintbrushes were dropped and cans of paint left. The ten walked to Danny, backs hunched and eyes hollow. The work was deathly boring, and tiring – all of them had a twitchy arm, or a sore back, from the light but repetitive labour.

Somehow, Tom ended up at the back of the queue for food. It didn't look that appealing to start with – some kind of meat 'stewed' (I reluctantly use the term stewed – it was more like boiled to death and then simmered for several days, much like I almost was when I first took up the challenge of researching the Leadership and writing its history) in water with a large variety of mushy vegetables, a glass of water and a banana. He was, however, eager to get it as his appetite was pretty much endless and he was used to Debbie and Bob's excellent cooking at home (as well as questionable attempts at food by Carrie). Thinking of his family suddenly made Tom well up – he would write to them as soon as he got back. He did miss them rather tremendously, and it all suddenly washed over him as emotion does tend to.

"Ask me for your lunch, Fletcher." Danny suddenly said, breaking Tom out of his thoughts.

"Can I have my lunch?" Tom tersely replied.

"Can I have my lunch sir?" Danny reminded him.

"Honestly, I am still not over the fact I have been made a sir. I am honoured." Tom sarcastically said, grinning from ear to ear. The slight bruise on his cheek caused by Danny's slap wasn't enough to stop the words from pouring out.

"No lunch, Fletcher. And when we get back, you can come to my office to do some special jobs..." Danny lightly said. An overwhelming sense of rage at the situation filled Tom, and in a moment of daring he reached out and grabbed a banana before sloping over to James, who was tentatively watching from behind his hand.

"Give me the banana." Danny had followed him, and was now standing about him as Tom had decided to flop down onto the floor.

"Give me the banana sir." Tom grinned, not letting his spirit be crushed. That is, sadly, when Danny lost it again. He reached out and grabbed Tom by his collar, yanking him upwards.

"Are ya mocking me?" he asked, his voice dangerous but also tainted with his accent once more.

"Never, sir. I'm hurt at the mere suggestion!" Tom replied.

Smack!

Danny's hand clashed against Tom's cheek once more, sending ripples of pain through Tom's face. For a man who appeared relatively skinny, and not muscular at all, Danny could pack a surprising painful slap.

"I said, are ya mocking me?" Danny whispered, Tom's face an inch or two from his own. Closeness can often be on one of two poles – extremely comfortable and pleasant, or extremely uncomfortable and unwanted. This was definitely the latter for Tom, though Danny almost certainly felt some form of sick pleasure as he held Tom close to him.

"And I said, never, sir. I'm-"

Whack! Smack!

Two more slaps silenced Tom, though his eyes flickered with pain.

"Are you mocking me, you posh little William Shakespeare."

Where I say the name of a classic author, you can imagine a swear word, because that is what truly came then. I must, however, keep the content of this manuscript relatable for all of the generations that will read it and weep at how pitiful society once was. Swear words eventually run out of stream, but classic authors rarely do.

Silence.

Whack!

"One last chance, you Charles Dickens Louisa May Alcott."

Tom suddenly decided to look Danny in the eyes (not that it was difficult, seeing as Danny was now only an inch or so away from him). He was startled at the shade of blue they were. Bright aquamarine, such a pretty colour. The colour seemed fresh and clean, two words which you wouldn't normally associate with someone like Danny Jones. Sinister and terrifying would be better suited. Maybe cruel and unusual.

"Yes, I was mocking you...sir."

Truth be told, Tom feared Danny. He feared those harsh slaps, which burned his face so painfully. He feared his strange, twisted voice. Most of all, he feared those beautiful eyes. He feared that he would fall into them and swim, swimming right through Danny's mind. If he did that, he could never escape them again.

"Fletcher, come and get some lunch."

Tom drew back, utterly surprised. That wasn't what he was expecting. Another slap, maybe, or some harsh statement declaring him a maggot, a worm, a useless little Susan Coolidge (remember the use of classic authors instead of swear words).

"Sorry?" Perhaps he had heard incorrectly.

"Come and get some bloody lunch."