Phuket, Thailand, July 2035
My final stop in Thailand is to meet Wyatt Tennant, a seasoned ten-year veteran of a DEA unit based in New York. He’s here on vacation, but his past work is anything but restful. The city had gone through months of protests and riots following the monarchical crisis in the country. Wyatt let out he chose to come here with his wife on vacation thanks to the cheap plane and hotel tickets.
“Riot control wasn’t exactly our specialty,” he begins, leaning back with a wry smile. “But during the Black Lives Matter protests, the riots that flared up during and after the Trump presidency, and even when the crabs came into play... we ended up in the thick of it. Nearly a million men were deployed across Europe, and here I was, firing tear gas at a crowd of tree huggers, draft protesters, crab lovers, and conspiracy theorists.” He shakes his head, chuckling at the absurdity.
“Wait, what were they protesting?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Well, the tree huggers, they had issues with the liberal use of nuclear and CBRN weapons. The crab lovers, though... they were like some of the Hindus I’ve encountered—just wanted everything handed to them without question. And the denialists? They didn’t believe in the war at all. Thought it was all part of some conspiracy to usher in a one-world government,” he says, tapping on his phone before flipping it into tablet mode.
He pauses for a moment, reflecting. “The tree huggers and the people protesting the draft I understood—they had a valid point. But the crab lovers and the denialists? That was a whole different beast,” he adds, now pulling up a video from his helmet cam.
The footage starts to play, the chaotic scene unfolding as it did in those tense moments.
Her left shoe had slipped off as Wyatt and a NYPD officer dragged her around the corner of Park and Carlton avenue. With her arms handcuffed, gripping her under the shoulders made it easier, and her weight—barely half of Wyatt’s own—made the task even simpler. For a moment, an unsettling thought rattled him—she looked so much like Susan, but before he could dwell on it, a firework shot past and exploded near his colleagues. The blast jerked him out of his thoughts. They threw her into the throng of handcuffed protesters as she and others shouted curses at them.
He gazed down the road, where Fort green park and its green scenery were now obscured by three lines of NYPD officers and countless protesters behind them. In the third reserve line, Wyatt spotted Lucas shouting orders into his radio, coordinating with the DEA and other federal agencies presents. The contrast between their multicam combat gear and high-cut helmets and the black uniforms of the NYPD and state police officers was stark.
The occupation of Fort Green park by a miss match of movements had dragged on far too long. The push to clear them had started at five pm yesterday. By the time 3 AM came, they’d all been there for over 24 hours. No one had expected it to last this long.
The front and second lines held firm against the relentless barrage of projectiles, insults, and spit. A hundred men crowded Carlton avenue and the nearby project alone, and the most volatile protesters were concentrated on the streets leading to Fort Green park. Kettling them had failed—they couldn’t just wait them out.
Even through the gas masks, Wyatt locked eyes with Lucas, who raised his arm and signaled for him to move closer.
“EAGLE 4 has confirmed that Echo 4 has finally cordoned off Myrtle avenue. Fort Green’s properly cordoned off this time. Get ready for the push. Join Oliver and handle anyone giving the Locals too much trouble,” Lucas shouted through his gas mask.
Wyatt barely heard him over the roar of Eagle 4 overhead and the chaos around them, but he nodded and sprinted across the street to Oliver.
“Clear Carlton, then regroup at the corner with Myrtle alongside Echo 4. Every unit will charge at exactly 0400—get your men ready!” Lucas yelled at the NYPD commander as Wyatt picked up his pace. A glass beer bottle shattered on the pavement in front of him.
“Peace and earth first!” The chant echoed as Wyatt briefed Oliver on the plan. He glanced at his digital watch: 03:59.
A few officers fired tear gas canisters, and Lucas’s whistle cut through the noise. Despite the exhaustion gnawing at him, a surge of energy coursed through Wyatt as the three lines of officers charged forward. The protesters were caught off guard, their resolve faltering as they saw the sea of black-clad officers with shields and batons surging toward them. Those not already disoriented from the tear gas stumbled backward. Some tried to resist, but it didn’t last long.
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Wyatt’s eyes caught the sight of an officer striking a protester in the face with a shield. The man crumpled, trampled by the advancing first and second line of officers. The third line worked quickly, restraining anyone caught in the fray.
As Wyatt sprinted behind an officer, his eyes locked on a handful of figures trying to make a last stand at the entrance of a house. One man kicked an officer in the shield with such force that the officer staggered. Wyatt dashed toward him. He struck him across the arm with his telescopic baton. The man recoiled but attempted to kick again, and Wyatt struck him in the face—a move that was, by all accounts, “highly irregular.” Still, it worked. The man clutched his face, and Wyatt unleashed pepper spray at the group wedged between the front door and the officers.
“We’ll take care of them!” one of the officers shouted, and Wyatt broke into a sprint again, determined to catch up with the first line. His regular seven-mile runs were paying off, as he closed the distance.
Suddenly, a protester lunged at an officer, knocking her down. Wyatt charged at the protester, hooking his baton in front of the man’s feet and pulling hard. The protester fell, and Wyatt struck him repeatedly with his baton. Another officer rushed over and secured the man’s hands.
Turning to the downed officer, Wyatt grabbed her by her vest and forced her to her feet.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Back to your colleagues!” he urged, and they both sprinted back down the street.
“PUT THE BAT DOWN!” Lucas shouted as Wyatt rejoined him. Lucas had his shotgun aimed at a shirtless man with a bat. The man stood between the officers and the rioters in Fort green park, taunting them.
Lucas fired, and the rubber bullet struck the man squarely in the chest. He fell to the ground, and Wyatt grabbed him by the foot, dragging him behind the officers. He worked quickly, clearing the obstruction.
Even through the noise, the insults were clear. Two officers stepped in to handle the subdued man as Wyatt fell back into line.
Then, chaos erupted as Molotov cocktails arced through the air. One exploded near Wyatt’s boots, sending him stumbling backward from the shockwave and searing heat. The roar of flames was punctuated by shouts from officers retreating to avoid being engulfed by the fire.
The line faltered briefly, but Wyatt adjusted his grip on his baton, trying to maintain control. The protesters surged forward again, slamming into the officers’ shields, creating a chaotic struggle of bodies pressing and shoving. Wyatt lifted his canister, firing pepper spray over the top of the shields to drive them back.
For every protester who faltered, two more stepped forward. The pressure was immense, but Wyatt held his ground. Then, just as another protester pushed forward, he swung his baton, striking him in the arm. Another burst of pepper spray sent a protester reeling backward.
A heavy shove from the side nearly knocked him off balance. He twisted just in time to see an officer being dragged down. Without hesitation, he stepped in, swinging his baton down hard on the protester’s back. The man fell forward, and two plainclothes officers dragged him back, striking him relentlessly. The two plain clothes cops unleashing furry on the man.
Wyatt’s heart pounded. The air was thick with the acrid scent of pepper spray and burning chemicals. Above, the searchlight from Eagle 4 cut through the dark as protesters tried to hit it with fire work, illuminating the chaos below.
“Jesus Christ,” Lucas gasped. Reinforcements were charging toward them, and their arrival reignited all of them. The pressure from the protesters started to shift as the officers pushed forward, driving them back into Fort Green Park.
Wyatt scanned the crowd. This was their last stand.
As the lines converged, Wyatt and other support officers swept through the encampment, clearing tents and checking for anyone left behind. They were down to only a hundred protesters, clustered in the center. It was over.
But then Lucas’s radio crackled.
“Say again, Eagle 4!”
“There’s an individual with a bag, on your side of the protesters. He’s doing something with it.”
Wyatt’s heart skipped a beat. He scanned the crowd and zeroed in on the man in the blue jacket.
“Hey, show me your hands!” Wyatt shouted, as he unholstered his Glock and aimed it at him. A girl sitting next to the man seemed to notice what was happening. She looked at him before looking into the bag. She started screaming before standing up and trying to flee, running over confused people.
The crowd shifted, and in an instant, panic spread like wildfire. Protesters scrambled to flee, pushing and shoving. Wyatt lost sight of the man, but then he saw him—moving toward him with grim intensity in his eyes.
The realization hit him just as the man closed the distance. His trembling hands gripped the backpack tightly.
In a split second, time slowed. Then, a blinding flash tore through the air, followed by an ear-splitting crack that shattered everything.
The explosion ripped through the crowd, throwing Wyatt backward and slamming him into the grass as his camera got disabled.
Wyatt seemed to take some amusement in the expression on my face as I watched the footage, the chaos unfolding in front of me.
"Do you know who it was?" I asked, trying to make sense of what I had just seen.
"Some crab lover," he replied with a shrug. "Guy thought they were the superior beings. Twelve dead—eight protesters, four officers. But hey, what can you do?" He grinned, clearly unfazed by the numbers. "You’ve got the same look on your face as the kids do when I show them this trick."
Before I could respond, he extended his mechanical arm and spun it in a perfect 360-degree circle, the joints clicking and whirring smoothly.