3 years ago

Declan sat alone in his dimly lit livingroom, nursing a half-empty bottle of bourbon. The television was on, the volume turned down low, casting a flickering light on his face. On the screen, images of celebrating crowds and self-congratulatory politicians filled the frame. They were celebrating the passing of Senate Bill 7893XX, "The Inclusive Citizens Act," a landmark piece of legislation that finally granted legal recognition to preternatural citizens.

The news anchor, a man with a perpetually jovial demeanor, seemed almost giddy as he announced the historic moment. "Can you believe it, folks?" he exclaimed. "All this time, these... these preternatural citizens have been living among us, hidden in plain sight!"

Declan took a long swig of bourbon, the harsh liquor doing little to quell the unease that gnawed at him. He couldn't share the news anchor's enthusiasm. He had seen firsthand the fear and prejudice that simmered beneath the surface of their seemingly accepting society. He had seen the subtle ways in which preternatural citizens were marginalized, discriminated against, their lives made difficult by those who saw them as different, as a threat.

The anchor continued, his voice laced with a hint of disbelief. "It’s a new era, folks!" he declared. "A time of acceptance, of inclusion! And who knows, maybe this will even be good for the economy!" He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, as if the whole thing were a grand joke, a harmless piece of entertainment.

Declan slammed his glass down on the coffee table, the sound echoing in the silence of his livingroom. The news anchor's words, so flippant, so oblivious to the complexities and dangers of the situation, grated on him.

He knew the truth. The fight for true acceptance, for genuine inclusion, was far from over. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that the battle had just begun.

Declan stared at the television, the anchorman's oblivious cheerfulness a stark contrast to the growing unease that churned in his gut. The celebratory mood felt premature, a fragile facade masking the deep-seated prejudice that lingered in the shadows. He knew better. He'd seen it firsthand, the subtle discrimination, the fearful whispers, the outright hostility directed toward those who were different.

"And already, folks, we're seeing some pushback against this groundbreaking legislation!" The anchorman's voice rose in excitement, as if relishing the controversy. "Certain groups are speaking out, voicing their concerns about the integration of preternatural citizens into our society!"

The screen cut to footage of a protest. A group of people, mostly older, held signs bearing slogans like "Supernatural Beings are an Abomination" and "Keep Our Town Pure!" A woman with a stern face and a tightly wound bun spoke into a microphone, her voice amplified by a loudspeaker, her words laced with a chilling conviction.

"These...creatures," she spat the word like a curse, "are not human. They are demons in disguise, sent to corrupt our way of life!"

The anchorman chuckled, his tone condescending. "Well, folks, there you have it! Not everyone is on board with this new era of inclusion! But hey, that's what makes America great, right? The freedom to disagree!"

Declan felt a surge of anger. The anchorman's glib dismissal, his failure to acknowledge the very real danger posed by these extremist groups, was infuriating. He knew better. He'd seen the evidence, the photos, the reports that detailed the Kings Horn's brutal efficiency in silencing those who dared to speak out against them.

He thought of the Covenant Church, their hateful rhetoric thinly veiled as religious piety. These groups, emboldened by the media's flippant coverage, were a threat to the fragile peace that had been so recently established. The celebratory mood on the screen felt increasingly hollow, a flimsy facade that could shatter at any moment.

Declan reached for the bottle of bourbon, the amber liquid offering a temporary escape from the growing unease that gnawed at him. The battle for acceptance, for the right of preternatural citizens to live their lives free from fear and persecution, was far from over.

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He switched the channel, unable to stomach the news anchor's naivete any longer. Images of a nature documentary flashed across the screen, a welcome distraction from the storm brewing in his mind. He knew the anchorman's optimism was misplaced. The passing of the "Inclusive Citizens Act" was a landmark moment, yes, but it was just the beginning, not the end of the fight. He'd seen firsthand the undercurrent of fear and prejudice that ran deep in Hellen and other rural areas, especially those in the Bible Belt. The protests, the hateful rhetoric, the veiled threats – they were all symptoms of a disease that had been festering for far too long. The "freedom to disagree" the anchorman so blithely championed could easily turn into the freedom to discriminate, the freedom to persecute, the freedom to hate.

Declan switched the channel back to the news, catching the tail end of a segment about the new legislation.

"And some employers, folks, are already taking steps to ensure they're not...overrun...by these newly recognized citizens." The anchorman winked, his tone suggesting this was all in good fun. "We're hearing reports that some companies are planning to implement mandatory genetic testing for all employees! Just to make sure everyone's...you know...on the same page!" He chuckled, shaking his head, clearly amused by the idea.

Declan felt a surge of disgust. This was the reality of the "new era," the "time of acceptance" the anchorman kept touting. The Act might have granted legal recognition to preternatural citizens, but it hadn't eradicated the deep-seated prejudice that festered beneath the surface.

Declan watched as the jovial news anchor's demeanor shifted, his tone becoming more serious as he delved into the details of Senate Bill 7893XX. "Now, folks, let's get down to the nitty-gritty of this new law. It's not just about recognizing these preternatural folks, it's about regulating them too." He held up a thin booklet, waving it at the camera. "This little gem, hot off the presses, is the official guide to the 'Inclusive Citizens Act,' and it's packed with rules and regulations."

The anchorman flipped through the booklet, tapping a page with his finger. "First up, we've got mandatory registration. Every preternatural citizen, young and old, has got to sign up with the government, get themselves a shiny new ID card." He winked at the camera. "Gotta keep track of who's who, right?"

Declan's jaw clenched. The registration process, while seemingly innocuous, had the potential to be used for surveillance, for profiling, for control. He remembered the stories his grandfather told, tales of secret government agencies tracking preternatural citizens, monitoring their movements, classifying them based on their abilities, their perceived threat level.

"Next up, folks, we've got mandatory classes for all those preternatural youngsters under the age of 23." The anchorman pointed to a section in the booklet, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. "Gotta teach 'em how to control those supernatural powers, right? Wouldn't want any accidental fireballs flying around!" He chuckled, shaking his head, as if the whole thing were a ridiculous joke.

Declan felt a surge of anger. The mandatory classes, while presented as a safety measure, felt more like a form of indoctrination, a way to force preternatural citizens to conform to societal norms, to suppress their true nature. He thought of the stringent qualifications imposed on preternatural immigrants, the hoops they had to jump through, the demonstrations of language proficiency and work-related skills, the hefty fees, all designed to weed out those deemed undesirable, those who didn't fit the mold.

The anchorman continued, his voice growing more somber. "And now, folks, for the serious stuff. The Act lays down the law on preternatural crime. Three strikes, and you're out. Permanently." He pointed to a section highlighted in red. "Any preternatural citizen convicted of three violent crimes faces the ultimate penalty: death by hanging, followed by immediate cremation."

Declan's stomach churned. The harshness of the punishment, the finality of it, felt disproportionate, a brutal overreaction fueled by fear and prejudice. The anchorman's tone, while serious, lacked any genuine outrage, any sense of the injustice inherent in a system that singled out preternatural citizens for such extreme measures. It was just another rule, another regulation, another way to control those who were different.

"So there you have it, folks! The 'Inclusive Citizens Act' in all its glory! A new era, a new set of rules, a new way of life!" The anchorman smiled broadly, his teeth gleaming under the studio lights. "And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, we can all learn to live together in peace and harmony!"

Declan switched off the television, the anchorman's saccharine optimism echoing in the sudden silence of his livingroom. Peace and harmony? He doubted it. The "Inclusive Citizens Act" was a double-edged sword, offering the promise of recognition and protection while simultaneously laying the groundwork for surveillance, control, and ultimately, punishment. The fight for true acceptance, for genuine equality, was far from over.