The Time is finally upon us.

On Saturday we will meet to Compete for the platform.
Wear a hoodie (so we know you’re one of us). Be ready to get creative.
You have arrived at this site because like us you can no longer stomach a life of consensus. You too have become disillusioned with the ideas that every other easily led idiot that’s tapped on this rain washed lump of rock we call a country believe in.
The first thing you might notice is that the site is looking a bit sparse.
I’m trying my best to keep up but you’ll have to forgive me if it all looks a bit rubbish. I’ve had to root this website though Micronesia in order to find an unprotected bandwidth and it took me most of the night. Two days ago the Icelandic server farm we had our site on got destroyed in what the Authority is calling an accident but looked a heck of a lot like a precision airstrike.
Our suspicion is that they may have got some suspicions about the platform event. We don’t think they know any details. No one has been arrested. This is a pretty good sign at this point.
That’s the good news. The bad news is our entire network went down and we have had to start again from scratch.
The Platform competition is still ON though. So we may have the chance of a little payback.


POST 16

Rumours of a weak point in the Authority News feed have been circulating among Raize for some time. Contacts within some other like-minded groups have helped us narrow down a time and a place. Stay posted for more information.

Post 17

If you had two minutes to shock the world into action what would you do?
This Saturday we have our chance to make our mark on the world. One chance to Raize the people from their self-inflicted slumber. To Raize an army in the war against the bland concensus of the Authority. To Raize hell, to Raize these prison walls to the ground.


POST 6

Cwncarn was my school when we got evacuated, like everyone else we lived on campus. I was a good kid kept myself to myself and never worried about politics. I figured that if a girl keeps her head down and stays out of trouble she can live a long and happy life. Keep to the consensus and everybody wins. This is the illusion of Democracy 2.0
I remember the raindrop story. The one they tell school children about how it all works. I can’t believe how easily I took it all in. How much I wanted to be the good raindrop. The one that kept itself pure and clean all the way down to the ocean…
That’s not what they taught us. They taught us that we were special. That our profiles shaped the world, and that we had to make sure we didn’t pollute the consensus.
They left out the fact that ocean is salty because it’s mostly piss.

Post 16

Why should you Join Raize?

Everybody who chooses not to inform the consensus. Is already metaphorically dead. A lot of people who have made their mark are literally dead. This was not the dream of Democracy. We were sold on the idea of universal benefit. A Society created by our measured choices. Conscious and unconscious. Things got screwed when they decided to start to influence these thoughts. The traffic was only ever meant to go one way. We were going to tell ourselves what to do.
In time they will come for you. The very fact that you are hear and reading this means that to some extent you are already polluting the consensus. Your lack of clarity of purpose. Your questioning mind. You are already in opposition
And you will be hunted down, disappeared, deleted or destroyed. You might as well make it worth it.

Post 19

I have two more names to add to the list of the dead.
Jordan Killean. (Killer.)
Micah Lemon (Mackie)
Gone but not forgotten. Their Sacrifice has been instrumental in the fight to secure the Platform. It is only the latest page in a dictionary of atrocity.

Post 17

I remember sitting in those white rooms where they send you to clear your mind. I’m not sure whose idea it was that this was a smart way to deal with Children. I mean what could be more exciting than watching paint dry?
I stared at the walls until my eyes ached. I got so board I used to paint them in my mind. Till they ran with colour. Then the fantasy just wasn’t enough.
It turns out that watching paint dry is actually pretty fucking exciting. When it’s your paint smuggled in under a pile of homework. When you’re stepping back from the wall and your brush is dripping red like a bloody knife in your hand. Then it’s fucking awesome!
They put me in isolation for a week after that. But it didn’t matter what it is. It didn’t matter.
I’d made a mark. I wanted to do more.
It doesn’t matter what mark you make. Only that the Mark is yours alone.
A great man told me that. He made his mark on me.

Post 3

Braindeads are the real pollution. They are those that smile and wave to each other on the streets of suburbia. You’re either living your clicks or your one. Are you reading this now with a nice woolly jumper tied around your shoulders? Is everything in your house a piece of flat pack from Sweden? Do you drive a midrange family car? Then you are probably a braindead. You screwed up the consensus. I hope you’re fucking happy braindead.
The idea was that we could vote with our feet. That if everyone was voting all the time then we could build a perfect world. No one in power. Just the consensus. Then all the braindeads got freaked out and started demanding some authority. Once you create something to keep the piece… it’s only a matter of time before it starts to take over. Everything the Authority suggests that we all do the same thing at the same time, that’s them, taking over.

Post 7

How to tell if you have RAZERS?

Go look in your back yard. Is there someone out there pissing in your flower bed? What are they wearing? Was your SUV covered in red paint? Could it have been seal blood? Have your children been kidnapped and then ransomed back to you for gun money? Are you kept awake at night by the distant sound of explosions? How about Screaming? Can you hear it now... maybe it’s not coming from the outside. Maybe it’s Vibrating around your skull. Is it keeping you up and night? Is it upsetting you because you have to go to work in the Morning? How much does that bother you? How many times have you yourself woken up screaming. Who re you compared to who you thought you were going to be? How do you feel about that? How do you feel about starting a FIRE! Are you stuck in traffic? Do you imagine it all burning? How’d you like to make it happen? Soon we can. Soon we’ll have a platform.

Post 4 of 7

He was an art teacher of the old school; Feck knows how he laid his way into a school. His name was Dylan Morgan. Christ he used to smoke a pipe… Now they’d call him an extremist and hang him from the nearest pole but this was back at the beginning before the Authority started to really tighten its grip, before the Subversive Element existed and all the mass corrections, before everything really. To me he was just funny old Mr Morgan with his crazy ideas about ‘Personal freedom’ He even sounded funny when he was saying it. Imagine it… ’Puuurrsonal Freeedom’ in a thick Swansea accent. ‘The import-ants of Self Expresshunn’. He the man that taught me how to paint. How to rebel.
I don’t like to think it was just me that made them come for him. I heard a rumour later that Dylan was using school printers to print leaflets, protesting against having to teach Combat skills instead of rugby as part of physical education.
He suggested that the Authority’s changes to the curriculum were perverting the natural course of free thought. He was worried we were heading for a new bout of ‘English tyranny’ and was going to flyer some local schools to garner support for a teachers’ strike… the photocopier he was using was also scanning all documents and sending them to the Department of Consensus Correction.
They didn’t like what they saw. But they wanted to be sure he was a threat before making any radical steps. Maybe they were hoping for a poster-boy for the implied corruption of their perfect youth. I remember around that time that we were never allowed to wear anything with a hood because’ the era of hoodies was over.’ That was why they took us out the cities in the first place. Out of sight out of mind.

Post 68

They sent a team in to investigate Him: An armed team. Dylan was an art teacher but he also did P.E. and since we were all doing grenade and target practice as a matter of course by then, they were worried he might be using the school arsenal to train his own private rebel army… No matter that it was them who filled the school with weapons in the first place. I mean which braindead came up with that. All this from a couple of leaflets about the importance of being allowed to do your own thing… One day one of the students Clara Montage was patrolling the grounds, when her dog sniffed out and attacked one of the agents. He was covered in leaves and camouflage and just didn’t look human. Idiots. They knew we had the dogs they gave us the bloody dogs. The agent went mental and shot the dog in the head. Clara didn’t know what to do. She was a year 10 with a rifle and an attack dog; she did what she was trained to do and opened fire. The agent started shouting then two more agents open fire. They shot Clara 4 times in the back and once in the head and she died.
That was it then. There was no going back. They needed to turn this thing around and make a statement out of it; we became not just a ‘situation’, but a ‘publicity exercise.

Post

What do we want? Let it burn. When do we want it? Let it Burn.

Post...................

Had a meeting with Two Moderates. They think they have an In. They think that they can access the platform. They need some help. If this is true it could be the answer we have been looking for.
I just wish I could trust them. Their so god damn pussy that it makes me nervous. Even if they aren’t agents there’s something about them that’s WORSE. They Smell like braindeads. Dress like braindeads. Should be easy to beat if it comes down to it. I will send Mackie, Killer and Charge. They are dedicated and enthusiastic. I also think that Mackie has no sense of smell so he should be able to put up with the stench.

Post IV

They came in force after that. The News-sites started calling us, “The Killerteens” they ran headlines like “Meet the Bad girl army of rabid Welsh supremacist.” And my personal favourite, “Thank hell for little girls.” They said that Mr Morgan was a head of a paedophile ring. That he had ritually abused and infected us all. They shot some pretty provocative images of schoolgirls with hunting rifles and plastered them all over the cover. Never mind that he never touched us, that she was wearing full combat fatigues, or that she thought the invasion had started and she was killing a Chinese undercover combatant. They didn’t even mention the dog. I loved that dog.

Post XXX

What do we need?
We need Food We need Water, We need no more that we can carry. That which is given. Either you take what you need or you die. Most people die of Laziness What ever happened to hunter gathering? What happened to being a human being? Homo Fucking Sapiens. What happened to admitting that you’re are an animal we are animals but we think we are better. The Authority paints us all as gods. But no one’s better than a dog.

Bill Posters will be Prostituted.

After the shooting the organisation surrounded the whole school and started to shout at us with bullhorns and loud speakers. Demanding that we give up Mr Dylan, that our compound was surrounded. I can remember watching a small tank doing laps of the sports field, tearing up the cinder track... It was crazy.
Quite early on our Citizenship and French teacher Madam Raymond decided she would go out and talk to them. She made a white flag and everything, but when she opened the door just a crack a sniper blew her brains all over reception. It was like watching a melon explode. Nobody knew what to do then. We were trapped for two days, too scared to even go near the windows. Mr Morgan wanted us to give him up, but we didn’t want him to die like Madam Raymond. He didn’t really want to get shot either. He started mumbling to himself… ‘All this for a stupid bloody game’
Eventually we came up with a plan; we had to make it completely clear that he wasn’t a threat to anyone. We used the school PA system to tell the Agents that he was coming out and that he would be naked and unarmed.
It sounds crazy now, but we figured no one could shoot a naked man and then spin it as if he had been a threat. Before he went outside I wished him good luck. And he smiled at me. ‘You’re the ones that need luck now girls. Don’t forget me know…’

POSTman vs stickman.

The Authority will have you convinced that you are already creative. That whatever ungodly spectacle they come up with next is in fact your creation. That the jokes in the latest sit com are a result of your tastes and wants and desires that the girl singing the song on your TV screen is the living embodiment of you frustrated and overly constrained libido. Or the boy. Creativity isn’t a co-operative process. It’s a Selfish thing. It’s yours and yours alone. That’s why I wrote my name. Blood red across the white of the meditation room. My own name was the most offensive thing I could think of.

Return to your Post and await further instructions

Then he stepped out into the open air. Naked as the day he was born. He span around a couple of times to show that he wasn’t armed. I was glad to see several TV Cameras around as it seemed like good protection. Then two of the agents came out from cover with buckets. I couldn’t really see what was going on but there was some shouting and a struggle as they poured both buckets over his body. Then he seemed to give up. He sat down on the ground and put his hands in the air, looked at the agents and kind of shrugged. It was like he was asking them to take a look at what they were doing. Making them question it. That was the shot they took for new-sites. A naked Welshman covered in petrol with a puzzled look on his face… and then suddenly burning.

Post Robot Economy.

I hate it here. Hate having to come into the city but there isn’t any other choice.
People here are robots. Everybody’s Fucking Robots. Have you been around the shopping mall recently?
I scream at them… One ZERO one one one Zero…
Then the Agents come over and tell them I am trying to test the lapel mic on my coat. And the idiots walk away and leave me to it.

Post nude pictures of everthing.

The whole school were taken to corrections after that. The TV called it intensive therapy. We were told that Dylan Morgan had set himself on fire as the ultimate protest against the New English way of life. After six weeks of hearing it we almost believed it. We were systematically hypnotised and probed for ‘repressed memories’, we were beaten and caressed and photographed and sprayed with hot and cold water… They told us we only believed what we wanted to believe. That we needed to admit the truth before we could be allowed to leave. Three of the weaker girls confessed to conspiracy to subvert the state and had confirmed under oath that Dylan had abused them. They put their confessions on a 24 hour loop. Gave us injections that made us feel drowsy. Dylan’s name was mud and eventually we all went along with it. It’s like a dream now. Corrections made it seem like it was almost the truth but the memory technology was in its infancy then. It was like being on a strong pain killer rather than being completely knocked out. We all knew that Dylan had been murdered, pretty much in cold blood, yet when we tried to talk about it; it came out as hatred for his ideology and horrified wonder as his selfish and flamboyant suicide. But deep down we couldn’t forget. The image of him burning, arms out and passive as they set him on fire was burned into my eyes and it coloured all I saw, just as if I had stared too deeply at the sun.
They released us in the summer. Then two of our teachers disappeared, then several of the girls disappeared. I made the decision to disappear myself before they could take me away. They’d already trained us in survival so I just stole a rifle, a tent and some supplies and went out into the wilderness.



Figured that if this was society I’d quite happily live my life outside it.



I’d be even happier to watch it burn.