few crass images of buildings and, of course, The Ringed, but in the few months the UKBC had been promoting the upcoming show, dEaDINBURGH had become a marketing phenomenon.
The friends sat watching the images flash across Darcie’s new Holo-Screen, a gift from her parents, as the UKBC trailed yet another series of promos and images from inside the city. As media students attending Glasgow University, Darcie and Michelle had followed the rise of the UKBC closely and with a growing sense of dread at the extent to which the massive company had become so intrinsically tied into the UK government.
Following the Scottish referendum in 2014, the widely discredited UK mainstream media were there for the taking. Initiated by the newly-in-power Conservative and UKIP coalition government, and emboldened by their success in keeping the UK together despite a massive political movement demanding that federalism be employed throughout the island, the new government passed law after law and formed the single most powerful broadcasting corporation of any age or nation. Government and public-funded, of course.
The UKBC was touted as a network for the people and a mandatory license fee instated. The people loved the concept, the sense of ownership, of belonging.
An infomercial played out as the friends crunched on their popcorn. The UKBC was showing how it had tapped into the dead city’s former CCTV network and was using a powerful fibre-optic broadband network, along with a city-wide Wi-Fi network, to transmit images from the quarantine zone. The networks had been installed shortly before the city fell. Edinburgh’s power had been cut years before and all communication networks severed. Any devices that could be employed to utilise the newly-reinstated network had long since lost their capacity to do so, but the UKBC had measures in place, just in case.
As well as utilizing the existing resources, the UKBC had developed miniscule cameras and microphones. Connected to suitably-sized insect-like robots, the cameras and mics had been distributed in their thousands throughout the former Edinburgh and had been wirelessly broadcasting their images and sounds successfully for months.
The images, seen only by a handful of technicians and reporters so far, were as compelling as they were horrific. The executives knew that they had a hit on their hands before the first image was even made public and were more than happy to fill fifteen minutes in the run-up to the premier showing the viewers how clever their team had been.
The final trailer told of the good work of the UKBC’s charity foundation. An undisclosed percentage of the proceeds from its new cash-cow would be ploughed into researching the infection in the former Scottish capital and other worthwhile projects, including financial support of the quarantined people’s relatives.
Michelle tutted loudly and left the sofa. Leaning on the window ledge, she surveyed the streets outside their first-floor flat in Glasgow’s West End. They were virtually empty. It seemed that everyone, whether for entertainment or because of outrage, was inside anxiously awaiting the UKBC’s new crown jewel. Most of her classmates had opted to go to one of the local bars or had gathered en masse in the living room of a friend who had the latest HD-Holo-screen, like Darcie’s.
She and Darcie, all too aware of how unpopular their views on the UKBC generally and dEaDINBURGH specifically were amongst their peers, had opted to watch the show alone.
Two commercial-free hours later, she and her best friend sat gaping, open-mouthed at what they’d witnessed. Unable to speak, Michelle slid her finger across the screen of her iPad and watched as Facebook lit up with comments on the show.
Post after post, image upon image filled her newsfeed. Memes with moments from footage just aired mocked this survivor or that Ringed. Little videos of ‘great kills’ or favourite Ringed or survivors
The friends sat watching the images flash across Darcie’s new Holo-Screen, a gift from her parents, as the UKBC trailed yet another series of promos and images from inside the city. As media students attending Glasgow University, Darcie and Michelle had followed the rise of the UKBC closely and with a growing sense of dread at the extent to which the massive company had become so intrinsically tied into the UK government.
Following the Scottish referendum in 2014, the widely discredited UK mainstream media were there for the taking. Initiated by the newly-in-power Conservative and UKIP coalition government, and emboldened by their success in keeping the UK together despite a massive political movement demanding that federalism be employed throughout the island, the new government passed law after law and formed the single most powerful broadcasting corporation of any age or nation. Government and public-funded, of course.
The UKBC was touted as a network for the people and a mandatory license fee instated. The people loved the concept, the sense of ownership, of belonging.
An infomercial played out as the friends crunched on their popcorn. The UKBC was showing how it had tapped into the dead city’s former CCTV network and was using a powerful fibre-optic broadband network, along with a city-wide Wi-Fi network, to transmit images from the quarantine zone. The networks had been installed shortly before the city fell. Edinburgh’s power had been cut years before and all communication networks severed. Any devices that could be employed to utilise the newly-reinstated network had long since lost their capacity to do so, but the UKBC had measures in place, just in case.
As well as utilizing the existing resources, the UKBC had developed miniscule cameras and microphones. Connected to suitably-sized insect-like robots, the cameras and mics had been distributed in their thousands throughout the former Edinburgh and had been wirelessly broadcasting their images and sounds successfully for months.
The images, seen only by a handful of technicians and reporters so far, were as compelling as they were horrific. The executives knew that they had a hit on their hands before the first image was even made public and were more than happy to fill fifteen minutes in the run-up to the premier showing the viewers how clever their team had been.
The final trailer told of the good work of the UKBC’s charity foundation. An undisclosed percentage of the proceeds from its new cash-cow would be ploughed into researching the infection in the former Scottish capital and other worthwhile projects, including financial support of the quarantined people’s relatives.
Michelle tutted loudly and left the sofa. Leaning on the window ledge, she surveyed the streets outside their first-floor flat in Glasgow’s West End. They were virtually empty. It seemed that everyone, whether for entertainment or because of outrage, was inside anxiously awaiting the UKBC’s new crown jewel. Most of her classmates had opted to go to one of the local bars or had gathered en masse in the living room of a friend who had the latest HD-Holo-screen, like Darcie’s.
She and Darcie, all too aware of how unpopular their views on the UKBC generally and dEaDINBURGH specifically were amongst their peers, had opted to watch the show alone.
Two commercial-free hours later, she and her best friend sat gaping, open-mouthed at what they’d witnessed. Unable to speak, Michelle slid her finger across the screen of her iPad and watched as Facebook lit up with comments on the show.
Post after post, image upon image filled her newsfeed. Memes with moments from footage just aired mocked this survivor or that Ringed. Little videos of ‘great kills’ or favourite Ringed or survivors
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