Chapter 37 #2
There was a surge in the crowd. Voices rose in a collective swell.
Someone took the stage.
Silver sighed dramatically. “Guess that’s our cue to go make some noise.”
They turned back, slipping seamlessly into step with Christine and Oakland, but something shifted between her and Spencer.
It wasn’t big.
It wasn’t loud.
But it was there.
* * *
Christine tangled their fingers together, giving Oakland a quick, grounding squeeze—a silent reminder that she wasn’t alone, that they were in this together.
“It’s starting.”
The energy in the crowd shifted, voices rising in anticipation.
The stage lights flickered on, illuminating the massive setup in front of the Capitol building.
Thousands of people lifted their phones—an ocean of screens, each one a signal.
Eden didn’t need access to the official stream.
She had her own—raw, unfiltered, and everywhere—unlimited entry points. Unlimited reach.
An enormous screen flanked the podium, banners stretching across the platform with their sanitized, focus-tested slogans:
Protecting Families. Defending Faith. Restoring Order.
A polished voice boomed through the speakers.
“Welcome, patriots.”
Spencer groaned. “Ugh. Here we go.”
Silver nudged her. “You sure you don’t want to stay at Birkenbrew with Eden? We could get an up-close look at all this bullshit from the safety of a laptop screen.”
Spencer rolled her eyes. “And miss all the fun? Never.”
Oakland was barely paying attention to the others. She couldn’t.
Her stomach twisted tighter with every moment she stood here.
The crowd wasn’t just big—it was divided.
A clash of voices.
The chants of her people—the ones fighting back, demanding to be heard—clashed violently against the cheers and applause from the other side—the ones who came to celebrate.
To watch their lives be erased and call it victory.
Oakland squeezed Christine’s hand tighter.
The speakers rotated quickly—each of them saying some variation of the same thing:
“This is a win for morality.”
“This is about faith, not hate.”
“The foundation of the family has been restored.”
Bullshit. All of it.
But Oakland couldn’t deny how well-rehearsed it was. How clean. How easy they made it all sound.
And people bought it.
The crowd of red clapped and nodded, waving their carefully printed signs, beaming like something good happened here.
Oakland swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe through it.
Christine, beside her, was buzzing with restrained fury. She was holding back, but Oakland could feel it in the way her shoulders were tight, coiled like a spring.
Silver and Spencer weren’t any better—both of them shifting, antsy like they were waiting for an excuse to start screaming.
Then—
A familiar voice echoed through the speakers.
And Oakland’s entire body went rigid.
Bishop Pratt took the stage.
The crowd's noise faded—not actually, but in her head, everything just narrowed.
She hadn’t seen him since the day she drove him home. Since the day he walked away from her and never looked back.
And now, here he was.
Standing so tall, so confident, so fucking proud of what he was about to say.
“Faith,” Pratt’s voice rang out, smooth and practiced, “has always been the cornerstone of this nation. And in recent years, we have strayed. We have allowed the erosion of morality to seep into our homes, schools, and churches. But today, we turn back toward the light.”
The crowd of red erupted in applause.
Oakland couldn’t move.
Christine turned to her, searching her face. “You okay?”
Oakland didn’t answer.
Because she already knew how this speech would go.
Her dad would praise Tate. He’d praise the council, the repeal, the strength of the administration. He’d say it was all being done out of love—for the country, for the people, for God.
And then, they’d eat it up.
They’d cheer for him.
For the man who spent her whole life loving her with conditions.
Telling her she was wrong.
That she could be fixed.
That she was a mistake.
And then?—
A voice cut through everything.
Loud. Sharp. Angry.
“YOUR DAUGHTER IS GAY!”
Everything stopped.
The rally. The speech. The applause.
All of it.
Bishop Pratt froze, his face draining of color, his mouth hanging open, useless.
Oakland whipped around, her heart pounding, searching for the source.
And then she saw him.
Derek.
Decked out in glitter, rainbows, every possible piece of defiance he could wear.
Oakland’s stomach dropped.
Christine sucked in a sharp breath. “Holy shit.”
Silver, wide-eyed, whispered, “Did he just?—”
“Oh yeah,” Spencer muttered. “He definitely just did.”
But Derek wasn’t done.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again, louder this time, his voice shaking with rage.
“YOUR DAUGHTER IS GAY, PRATT! HOW DARE YOU PREACH FAMILY VALUES WHILE YOU TURN YOUR BACK ON HER!”
The crowd gasped, a ripple of confusion and tension spreading outward. People turned, whispering, looking to Pratt for an answer.
But there wasn’t one.
Because there was no spinning that.
No neat little moral lesson to salvage it.
Pratt’s hands tightened on the podium. His mouth opened—just for a second—like he might recover. Like he’d spin it, twist it, pretend none of this was real.
But he didn’t get the chance.
Before he could speak again, Derek stepped forward and held something up—small, metallic, pulsing with faint blue light. A sleek little disk. Unfamiliar. Unlabeled. And completely unauthorized.
There was a split-second of silence.
A few people screamed—thinking it was a weapon.
And then?—
Sound.
A blast of bass-heavy, unapologetically queer music ripped through the square—glittery, aggressive, and impossible to ignore. It was the kind of music made for runways and rebellion, all stomping rhythm and high drama. Vocals dipped and soared like they were daring the Capitol itself to flinch.
It completely overpowered the rally’s sound system—by a lot.
Gasps broke out across the crowd. Laughter. Whistles. Chaos.
Whatever tech this was—it was new.
And it was louder than anything they were prepared for.
The crowd of red turned. Murmuring. Whispering.
And Oakland’s world tilted.
Because Derek—her best friend, Derek— just blew up her father’s entire reputation in one sentence.
And he was standing there, unbothered, chin high, like he had waited his whole life to do this.
She should be furious. She should be dragging him out of here before the cameras locked onto him.
But she couldn’t stop staring.
Because if Derek just said that…
If he just did that…
That meant that he wasn’t hiding anymore, either.
Her thoughts snapped back into place as the noise returned, louder and more volatile now.
The crowd wasn’t just watching now.
It was shifting.
The murmurs were turning into shouts—confusion tipping into something more volatile.
One of the men near the stage snapped, jabbing a finger at Derek. “Shut the fucking music off!”
Another lunged forward and slapped the strange little disk from Derek’s hand, sending it clattering to the ground. He stomped on it—hard—once, twice.
But it refused to break.
The music kept blasting, louder than ever, vibrating through the pavement, ricocheting off stone and glass.
And Oakland knew what was coming next.
Christine grabbed her arm.
“This just turned into something else,” she said. Urgent. Ready.
“Yeah,” Oakland glared back at her, their eyes locking. “It did.”
And then, everything broke.
?