Jaxon RadioHead

WOMAN

THE GREAT DIVIDE

The air crackled with a tension thicker than summer humidity. A dozen figures, faces obscured by white balaclavas, marched down the deserted avenue. Their boots pounded a monotonous rhythm against the cracked pavement, echoing off the boarded-up storefronts. Behind them followed a large war machine. The man in the mini War machine was none other than loyal supporter of Jack Razor, Paul Kydhar theatrically waved in a welcom motion "Brooklyn we have arrived for the great rewind".

A crimson banner, emblazoned with a stylized bolt of lightning splitting a globe, snapped in the stagnant air. Beneath it, clenched fists punctuated the chants.

"Whose streets? Our streets! The great wind"

Their voices, a chorus of hate, scraped against Gemini's ears. It was a chilling monotone, devoid of individuality, a single, monstrous entity fueled by shared animosity.

Across the street, pressed against a brick wall, a young couple huddled together. A chinese boy, barely a teenager, held a dented metal baseball bat, his knuckles white. A Chinese girl stood silent and afraid behind him.

The marchers didn't falter. They didn't seem to see the couple, or anyone else. Their eyes, the only part of their faces visible, burned with a cold, reptilian intensity.

Suddenly, a single figure broke ranks. A hulking man, his shaved head gleaming under a flickering street lamp, peeled away from the group. He lumbered towards the couple holding an ax, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.

The girl whimpered, the boy tightened on the bat.

The scene froze, a tableau of simmering fear and barely contained violence. Then, from an unseen alleyway, a deafening cacophony erupted. Shouts, screams, the clatter of dropped objects. Distracted, the lone marcher turned, his smirk replaced by a snarl.

A split second later, a whistle pierced the din. The leader barked an order, and the marchers, with surprising cohesion, wheeled around and retreated into the shadows from which they came. The echoing stomp of boots halted all the men.

Igor, a weaselly man with thinning hair slicked back like a dying rodent, sidled closer to Paul, his voice a low rasp. "Sir," he began, his eyes flickering towards a group of women huddled in the corner. These were the "race traitors," white women who had pledged allegiance to freedom and justice. Their faces, painted with  unease.

"Once we have Brooklyn secured," Igor continued, his voice dripping with venomous piety, "it is paramount that we address the issue of... female... empowerment."

A collective intake of breath rippled through the room. The women in the corner stiffened, their unease morphing into something more akin to fear.

Paul's thin lips curled into a smirk. "You speak wisely, Igor," he boomed, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Emotional Rewind. We cannot allow these... these... creatures to manipulate our emotions again. We need... order." Beatle, a woman supporter of Jack Razor, gives Paul a concerned gaze. Her superior demeanor had evaporated under the harsh realities of the new world, dared to speak.

Paul's gaze swept over the women "traitors", sending shivers down their spines. 

Beatle pleaded "But... but what about... us" her voice trailed off, her bravado replaced by a whimper.

"Silence Beatle!" Paul roared, his fist slamming down on the table. "There will be no buts! Women will be... protected. Provided for. But their... influence... will be... eradicated."

Igor nodded fervently, his reptilian smile widening. A wave of nausea washed over Beatle and her companions. They had sided with the white supremacists, believing they would find a place of power in the new world order. Now, they realized they had traded one cage for another, the bars this time far more insidious. Paul "It appears the folks on this side of brooklyn have gone into hiding". Paul grabs his crotch, he shouts, a slew of spit shooting from his mouth "So where are all the strong independent women, where are all you weak bitches".