Gaslighting

The One No One Believed

“How do you feel?” Pierre asks Roote while turning on the electric kettle.

Slowly taking their coat from the rack, Roote looks down. “Pretty good,” they respond. “I think this could really be a turning point. The event to get the people motivated to do something, anything.” They start to put on their jacket.

“Well before you get out of here share some tea with me,” Pierre requests as he gets out a couple of mugs from the white, cracked kitchen cabinet. “The protest can wait a few minutes for tea.”

Sighing, Roote puts down a boot already halfway covering their foot. “You know, you’re right. How rash of me. I guess I’m a little thrown off. It’s not every day I’m leading a large group of people.”

With a chuckle Pierre responded, “Oh yes, you’re out of control! What maniac goes out of the door before drinking their morning tea?” Roote glares. “Sorry. You’re just so easy to make fun of.”

“Don’t remind me. Every headline up until now said I was crazy. Rich people will never make their own territory they say! Just because wealth inequality has reached all time highs for five years in a row doesn’t mean it won’t trickle down!” They scoffed. “Half a decade into this pandemic and we haven’t learned.”

“Well you know, back in 2020 we weren’t even close to trillionaires! That really is the reasonable breaking point,” Pierre played along.

What seemed like an hour was only a few minutes as the two of them bantered and sipped their tea. Roote appreciated the gesture, no matter how small.

“Say hi to the other six,” Roote requested. Pierre gave a thumbs up looking towards the second floor full of sleeping roommates. Putting their boots on, they headed out into a brisk, wintery Boston day. The air stung when you breathed in, and not just because of the asphalt. Trash was strewn about waiting to be picked up, construction vehicles were parked all over taking a break from fixing the road, and far too many cars sat waiting to get by the one worker holding up a stop sign.

Setting themselves at a brisk pace, Roote power walked all the way to Fan Pier Park. It was rumored that the shiny, new, rich metropolis could be seen from the coast in all its pristine glory. Apparently, buying an island of Hawaii wasn’t enough. This island could move, and it was completely controlled by one person. No cops, no government, just your lord and savior the trillionaire. Only the best of the best, and janitors, were allowed on the behemoth sea vehicle.

When Roote finally reached the coast, it was filled to the brim with huddled folks bracing against the wind from the harbor cutting through coats like shards of glass. It was an absolutely miserable place to be. Wasting no time, rally staff directed Roote to the podium sitting next to the water, raised on a few rather precariously placed tables.

An airhorn off to the right silenced the crowd as Roote took their place. “Friends! It has been three years since I started the Unbalanced Scale movement. Three years that we saw this day coming. Now it’s time to take a stand and tell the rich they cannot take what they want! Just because their massive ship needs more fuel doesn’t mean they can take all the gasoline in Boston to preserve their paradise!” The crowd erupted in a beaten down cheer. These folks were on the brink of collapsing, but isn’t that true of any protest that is worth having?

The One No One Noticed

“Do you understand my instructions Turner Coate?” asked the security guard. Turner nodded. It was exciting to be doing something important. Up until now she was literally cleaning the shit of these bastards. “Be swift. We don’t want to be in the harbor for too long.”

With a nod she was out onto a rather large cargo ship filled with giant trucks. Apparently their objective was to gather as much gas from local gas stations as possible. The settlement was running low which was not acceptable. They has already hit up other places across the east coast. Boston was next in line.

As the cargo ship reached the docks they were greeted by a large group of protesters. Most of them were shouting rather hateful things. Out of the other rallies that were happening, this was nothing. No stones being thrown, no picket signs, angry art, naked people running around, etc. It was pretty tame.

Some security guards gave the signal for trucks to start rolling out, so they did. Each immediately started turning towards the nearest gas stations. Turner took off for the large group loudly screaming at all them. Immediately she was approached by what appeared to be their leader.

“Roote Grassi, at your service. What else can we offer from one of the largest cities in the US? Our food? Water?” they jested.

“Please tell your protesters to go home. We’ll be gone before you know it,” Turner informed.

“No you won’t! Look at the other cities you’ve hit! There economies are tanking. No gas means no one can drive to their jobs. No one can get to a grocery store. How are we-“

Turner raised their hand silencing Roote. “Say what you must, I’m just trying to make a living.”

They did not look pleased. “Join us! Why serve the person who makes your life a living hell.”

“What do you suppose I do?”

With a wicked grin, Roote showed a map. “Simple, don’t tell anyone we’re putting bombs on every truck you’ve got.”

“And what’s in it for me?”

“I think we have space in our flat. It’s very spacious. Only eight people living in it currently.” Turner frowned. “And you get to see your boss scared shitless after buying a bunch of exploding gas.”

Turner smirked. “Deal.”

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The Impromptu section of Sea of Book is a challenge where the author has one hour to write a story based off of three random words. They get no time beforehand to prep and must make a (greater than) 500 word story that somehow incorporates the idea of each word.

This particular challenge used these three randomly generated words: frighten, bay, protest.