The Banner

The square in front of the Parliament building was choked with silence. Thousands stood, hands clasped together, eyes locked on the towering structure that loomed above like a monument to their oppression. They came in peace, their voices unsaid, not out of fear, but to defy a government that had lost its way. And yet, the Robocops—hulking figures of steel and flesh—were there, ready to pounce. Their orders were clear: Break them without killing them. Crush their hope, but let them live.

From the crowd emerged a solitary figure.

He moved through them slowly, his face hidden under the shadow of a hood, his movements deliberate. The Silent One, they called him—an activist no one truly knew but whose presence had become a symbol. His silence spoke louder than any chant or slogan ever could.

In his hands, he held a white banner. It was empty, devoid of any markings. A blank slate, like an untouched canvas waiting for history to inscribe itself. He walked to the base of the Parliament steps and raised the banner above his head, his back to the crowd, his face turned toward the seat of power.

The Robocops were watching. They saw the crowd part for him, saw the calmness in his step. They tightened their grips on their batons, but they held their position. There was no law against holding a blank banner, after all. But there was something unsettling about his calm, something that whispered to them of things they did not understand.

He stood there, alone, the banner still high.

A command was given. The Robocops advanced.

They surrounded him in a wall of black armor, their faces hidden behind dark visors. One snatched the banner from his hands, tearing it down with violent efficiency. They expected resistance, some sort of fight. But he offered none. He stood, unyielding, as they moved in. First came the shove, then the blow of a baton against his ribs. When he staggered, another blow followed. One after another. He did not fall, though the strikes came harder and faster.

“Get him down,” someone barked.

As if on cue, they dragged him to his knees. The people in the crowd watched, unmoving. Some flinched, but no one stepped forward. They knew the risks, knew the costs. If they interfered, they would only make it worse.

The Silent One was thrown into the back of a police car, bruised and bleeding but still conscious. The vehicle rocked as more Robocops took turns entering, delivering blows, ensuring that his spirit—whatever flame burned within him—would be snuffed out.

Inside that car, he endured their beatings in silence, his breaths shallow, eyes dim but still open. Each strike felt like another layer of flesh torn from him, another step toward his inevitable end. But through it all, he never uttered a word, never lifted a hand in defense.

And then, in the stillness between one shift change and the next, he made a choice.

As the final blow landed, his chest heaved one last time—and then it stilled. He closed his eyes and let the air leave his lungs. His battered body, riddled with bruises and broken bones, was limp now, as if surrendering not just to the pain, but to something larger.

In that moment, there was a release. It wasn’t just his body giving way—it was something more profound. The Robocops didn’t notice at first. They were too busy rotating out, their mechanical cruelty operating on schedule. But then one officer checked for a pulse and found nothing.

“He’s not breathing,” a voice crackled over the comms. Panic seeped into the air. “Get him to the hospital. Now.”

But they already knew. They had been too late.

By the time they reached the hospital, the body was cold. The Silent One had chosen this. Chosen to die in their hands—not with defiance, but with surrender, as if he had let go of something beyond their understanding. A sacrifice they could not explain.

The story spread faster than they could suppress it. Footage of him being beaten, thrown into the car, lifelessly pulled out at the hospital—all of it hit the streets in a flood of fury. The people began to speak, louder and louder. What had once been a silent protest now gave way to something far more dangerous—anger.

In hushed whispers and murmurs, the crowds spoke of him. They didn’t speak of him as a victim. They spoke of him as something more—a figure who had given himself up for them, who had allowed the brutality of the state to fall upon him without protest, not because he was weak, but because he was strong enough to take it.

And in that, he became something else. Not just a symbol of resistance, but a martyr.

The government, the Robocops, those in power—they were gripped with a new kind of fear. They had warned the people not to provoke them, had promised control without death. But now, in their hands, a man had died without even raising a fist. And the people would not forgive.

They couldn’t silence the story now. The Silent One had done what no weapon, no slogan, no riot could have achieved. His death was not just a tragedy—it was the spark that would ignite a revolution.

And somewhere, in the quiet corners of power, they understood the gravity of their mistake. They had tried to break him, but instead, he had chosen to break them.