Chapter 16
It starts with a beat.
Low, steady, rising up from the ground.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
A heartbeat. A war drum. A revolution.
I lift my drumstick high and bring it down hard, shaking the pavement. The rhythm spreads - through my hands, through my chest, through the thousands of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in the streets.
We are a tide. And today, the tide is rising.
I look around. This ain't just a protest anymore.
This is history repeating itself.
The women in pink - hundreds of them - march in perfect rows, their shirts like a wall of defiance.
To my right, a group of Latino activists hold a massive banner stretched across the street:
"?NO PASARáN!"
The famous words of the Spanish Civil War, when the people stood against the fascists.
The words of Dolores Ibárruri, La Pasionaria, who told the people of Madrid they would never let the enemy through.
And now, in 21st - century America, we are saying it again.
To my left, the Black Movement marches strong.
Some carry chains, locked together at the wrists, symbolizing slavery and corporate oppression. Others drag old desktop computers behind them, tied to their ankles - a statement that machines replaced them, turned them into modern slaves.
But it’s the mural on the wall that stops me.
A massive painting, stretching across an abandoned building.
It shows a computer, standing tall like a pharaoh, holding a whip.
And below it - people, hunched, broken, forced to work for the machine.
The message is clear.
We used to control technology.
Now, technology controls us.
The noise - oh, the noise!
Drums.
Firecrackers.
Megaphones blasting slogans.
Plastic horns wailing like an army marching into battle.
I lift my megaphone. "THE PEOPLE! UNITED! WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED!"
Thousands of voices roar back.
I slam my drum again. The rhythm builds. Faster. Louder.
And then - a song rises.
A woman - a Black woman, standing on an overturned trash can, arms stretched wide - starts to sing.
Not a chant. Not a protest slogan.
The national anthem.
Her voice is pure. Steady. Unshaken.
And one by one, people join her.
First in small clusters.
Then in waves.
Until the entire street is singing.
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The riot police hesitates.
The horses slow.
For a few seconds, the world is just voices.
Just America singing.
The Clash of Colors
The black armored truck rolls in.
The SKUNK.
A monstrous water cannon, its massive hose already swiveling into position.
A moment later, a blast of vile, neon - green liquid explodes into the air.
And it’s aimed at the women in pink.
A violent, sickly clash of color - green against pink.
The women stagger, choking. Some fall, drenched in chemical stench, their skin burning, their eyes watering.
But they don’t run.
They lock arms.
They stand their ground.
Their leader, a woman with short silver hair, lifts her fist and shouts through the pain.
"IS THIS THE AMERICAN DREAM WE FOUGHT FOR?"
A roar of agreement erupts from the crowd.
"IS THIS THE GREAT AMERICA WE CREATED?"
The answer comes from thousands of throats at once.
"NO!"
And then…
A flash of red, blue, and gold.
From the edge of the crowd, a woman in a Wonder Woman costume sprints toward the Skunk.
Gasps ripple through the protesters. The police hesitate, caught off guard.
She reaches the back of the armored vehicle and climbs - fast, determined. Her boots clang against the metal rungs of the ladder. Up, up—until she’s standing on the roof of the beast itself.
The cannon begins to swing again, repositioning…
She moves.
With one swift motion, she rips off her red cape and throws it over the nozzle.
Ties it tight.
The operator inside doesn’t notice.
The Skunk fires again.
But this time, the thick, putrid liquid doesn’t stream forward.
It bursts in all directions, spraying wildly, drenching the armored truck, soaking the riot officers below.
The crowd erupts - laughter, cheers, fists pumping in the air.
Then…
She rips off her shirt.
For a moment, the entire square seems to inhale at once.
She doesn’t just stand there — she flashes. Hands under her breasts, lifting them high like twin trophies, turning in a slow circle so the whole crowd — and the cops — get the full Wonder Woman special.
She stands there - bare - chested, fists high, her whole body defiant, unbreakable.
Even from where I’m standing, I can see two older veterans in the front row clutch their chests — whether from shock or admiration, I couldn’t say.
The crowd roars again, louder than before.
Inside the Skunk, the operator finally realizes something is wrong.
The cannon swings sharply, trying to shake her off—
But she doesn’t run.
She jumps.
Up, over the cannon, boots skimming just above the nozzle, like a kid playing jump rope — except the rope is a chemical weapon and the stakes are life and death.
The crowd screams with every jump.
First one — perfect.
Second — flawless.
The third — the cannon jerks, almost catches her ankle, but she clears it.
The fourth—
She slips.
For one suspended heartbeat, she hangs there, weightless—
Then…
She falls.
Fast and hard, down to the pavement.
Like Icarus, dropping from the sky.
The police rush in, grabbing her before she can scramble away.
Hands seize her arms, drag her toward the bus of detainees.
But before they shove her inside…
She twists, lifts one hand high…
And flashes a V sign with her fingers.
Victory!
The crowd roars and chants “Wonder Woman! Wonder Woman!”
A moment of defiance, etched into the uprising.
The Police, now furious, charge.
A new sound cuts through the chanting.
The ground rumbles.
"HORSEMEN!"
Someone screams it.
And suddenly, the chaos isn’t ours anymore.
The police are here.
Not in cars. Not with shields.
On horseback.
Ten of them. Maybe more.
Charging through the crowd, batons raised, hooves pounding like war drums.
People scatter. Screaming. Running. Falling.
A man in a red hoodie is struck across the face. He goes down, blood spraying across the pavement.
A woman in pink is trampled.
Then—the truck fires again.
A new blast of green filth erupts over the street, soaking everything—flags, banners, bodies.
And that’s when I see her.
The Stranger
She’s standing frozen in the middle of it all.
And I know immediately—she doesn’t belong here.
She’s older. Maybe seven, ten years on me. I’m in my thirties. She’s got to be in her forties.
She’s not like the others.
Her clothes are too neat, too expensive - looking. She’s not one of us.
I resent her for a second.
Where was she when we started this?
Where was she when they replaced us, fired us, left us for dead?
She’s sophisticated - you can see it in the way she moves, the way she holds herself.
I want to hate her.
But I don’t.
Because I know—we need people like her.
We need insiders.
People who understand the system.
People who can hack it from the inside.
And that’s when I see the horse.
A police horse is charging straight at her.
I run.
I grab her arm, yank her back.
The horse’s hooves slam the pavement inches from where she stood.
She stumbles into me.
We crash.
The world tilts, spins, my breath punches out of my chest as we hit the ground together.
I taste blood.
She’s on top of me.
Her hair is in my face. Her hands clutch my jacket.
"You okay?" I ask.
She nods, eyes wide, breath shaking.
The ground rumbles. More police are coming.
I grab her hand. "Come on."
And we run.
We make it three blocks before we stop.
She’s still shaking.
I hand her my water bottle. She takes it, but doesn’t drink. Just stares.
"Not what you expected, huh?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No."
Silence.
"You gonna come back?" I ask.
She looks at me. "Yes."
I believe her.
I pull out my phone. "Here."
She hesitates. Then types.
I take it back. Glance at the screen.
Nora Levine.
She looks at me expectantly. "And you?"
I smirk. "Just call me Danny LeRouge."
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue.
And for the first time all day, I see it in her eyes.
Not hesitation. Not doubt.
Fire.
