The spectators raise their voices in a collective uproar. The media scrum around the base of the stage goes into a frenzy, microphones pointing at the twins, hoping to catch audio.
We emerge from the tulle of the twins’ conjoined skirts. Three of us at first. Firuzeh lets out a loud yelp. Hearing the signal, five more emerge from behind the speakers. From under the stage, another twenty. Us Others. Holding guns. A round of shots is fired, and one of the Boots is flung from the top of a building to his death. We look up and see a Boot who has pushed another Boot to his death. He removes his helmet and lets out a yelp to reveal himself as an ally. We look around and see several like him, stepping to the side and turning on their own as part of the Resistance. They each remove their helmets so that we can identify our allies. Yelps of identification. The delegates and prime minister hit the deck. Screams among the crowd.
We follow our plan. Firuzeh and I each disarm a Boot. Deflect end of rifle with left palm. Punch with right fist to the chin or kick to stomach. Butt of the gun to the face. Take the weapon. Bahadur, given their height, struggles a bit. I hold my breath, wondering if they have it in them to do as we were taught. Bahadur finally delivers a kick to the Boot’s stomach and manages to disarm him. They hold the rifle in the air and scream away the fear, their eyes focused and their body full of adrenalin. As instructed, we holster our Glocks and shoulder our newly acquired rifles. I look through the scope at Liv speaking to Charles onstage, her gun aimed now at the back of his head.
“Stand down!” Charles hesitates. “Tell your men to stand down, Charles. NOW!” Charles debates this in his head, whether to obey Liv. His arms up. His masculinity fragile. He looks around confused and enraged as he sees Boots pointing guns at their fellow officers in resistance. “Every camera is on us right now, and at least half of your men have turned against you, Charles. Do it!”
Charles sees Prime Minister Dunphy, his security ushering him from the stage. Delegates balled up on the ground, screaming. Liv steps back slightly and shoots. The bullet rips through Charles’s ear. “Stand down or I won’t miss next time.”
Cameras shift from the twins to the mess of artillery pointing in various directions. Holding the bloody mess at the side of his head, as if the blood is music he does not want to hear, Charles gives a signal and the remaining Boots reluctantly stand down. Through the scope of my gun, I can see Charles making one last attempt to reach for his own weapon, and again Liv shoots. She does not miss.
“Good boy,” she says to the corpse beneath her. Looking at me, she nods.
We Others proceed to move about the crowd, taking the Boots’ weapons, the guns still warm from their hands. We act as we were trained to, assessing danger at every level, every angle.
Two Others in wheelchairs—one with a frayed denim vest and the other with a series of piercings in their* ears—move swiftly among the fallen. They bulldoze past screaming spectators who move to the side at the last second, seeing the unapologetic determination in their eyes.
Denim Vest approaches a fallen Boot, still twitching and bleeding from a towering fall. They lean over to dislodge the rifle. After a few earnest pulls, Denim Vest punches the air with rifle in hand, yelping at their acquisition. They continue their work of disarming the bloodied and still bodies of Boots.
The Other with piercings launches several multicoloured smoke bombs, wheeling their chair in larger and larger circles to force the crowd to clear the way, bulldozing anyone who dares to block their path. They signal for us to move forward as planned, and we obey their orders.
The rest of the Others gather in a circle around the twins. Some of us wear our runaway clothes. These clothes we wore before we disappeared, now weathered and stained. Some still have their heads shaved. Some have mouths that end in frowning scars. We rush towards our circle. All of us have the look of terror in our eyes. One disarmed Boot attempts to infiltrate our circle and another Boot shoots him in the neck. He collapses. The shooter removes his helmet and yelps to identify himself as an ally. More screams.
“Fucking n_ _ _ _ _s!” One spectator throws a can of cola at my feet. My face gets hot at the sensation of the brown liquid pooling at my shoes. I feel my arms go still.
“Get to work, towel head!”
“Go to hell!”
“Die, you tranny whores!”
Debris begins to fly from every direction. The sounds of bullets whizzing through the air. My arms. My arms. They can’t move. I look at Bahadur, their grip loose on their rifle. Their arms are droopy, succumbing to the humiliation.
“REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN!”
Onstage, Beck appears on top of one of the speakers and hollers out a high-pitched call to the audience. I witness a slight pause. A split second. A fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a moment where he doubts himself. Wonders if he is doing the right thing. It is the slightest shade of shame for betraying those like him. And then it lapses. He breathes in, he shakes his hands free, then, with the power of the flames he once set on that protest site years ago, he lights within himself the rage needed to let his voice be heard.
“WHEN I DO NOT ACT, I AM COMPLICIT!” Beck says while simultaneously raising his rifle above his head horizontally with an end in each hand. He takes a deep breath here, steps forward with a lunge and moves in a downward motion with his rifle. Another fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a moment where he wonders who will join him. Suddenly, I see dozens of other white folks taking a step forward, executing the same gestures, with or without weapons. Some are in the crowd. Some are in the audience of delegates. Some are Boots.
They continue in unison. Their words filling my heart. Liv joins in, Charles’s blood pooling at her feet.
When I do not act, I am complicit!
When I know wrong is happening, I act!
When the oppressed tell me I am wrong, I open my heart and change!
When change is led by the oppressed, I move aside and uplift!
Raise arms, step forward, lunge back, kneel. Finally, just as Hanna suggested, Beck leads the allies in covering their mouths, touching their hearts and pointing towards us like a spotlight, this gathering of Others. When their phrase of movement is over, the white allies move through the incredulous crowds and encircle us Others. They join hands to create a barricade. Firuzeh looks at me and nods. We move forward as planned, slowly, as a unified body. Allies on the outskirts. Others within, protecting each other. We slowly proceed toward Yonge Street in silence. Spectators angrily glare at us as we move past a sea of straw hats.
I abide by Beck’s instructions and prepare myself to begin saying our names. Prepare to say mine loud and clear so that the media will know we are real people who have survived a real genocide. My heart races, forming the words in my heart and allowing them to travel up my esophagus, piece by piece.
“Queen Kay.” I see the memory of you, my beautiful Evan, standing before me. Your image is pixelated by every word I have written in every Whisper Letter I have sent. Standing at your side is your mother, who clasps hands with you and smiles at me in wonder.
“Look at me,” says Mrs. King, the blue of her cataracts flashing at me like a beacon. “Be as big as you want to be.”
I feel the words exit my lips, as planned. I hear my voice loud and proud, echoing off the storefronts, knowing that in every workhouse in the city, there are Others saying the same thing while evacuating the premises. Through the smoke, under falling brick, over barbed wire fences; from the Don Valley to Ward’s Island, from Scarborough to the Junction, people are saying their names. A declaration. We are kites, prayers flying in the sky, knowing freedom.