2 years in the past

  The crisp autumn air bit into Declan's face as he stood outside the bustling preternatural training facility in Oklahoma City. A year had passed since the "Inclusive Citizens Act" had become law, and the world was still adjusting to the reality of preternatural citizens living openly among them. This facility, one of the few in the state, was a testament to that new reality.

  Inside, preternatural teens and young adults were huddled in classrooms, learning to control their abilities, to navigate a world that was both welcoming and wary. Outside, the atmosphere crackled with a different kind of energy. A group of protesters, their faces a mixture of anxiety and anger, held signs decrying the mandatory classes as a form of government control and exploitation.

  Declan, notebook in hand, weaved through the crowd, capturing the raw emotions that simmered beneath the surface. His story, “From Shadows to Spotlight: The Preternatural Youth Navigating a New World,” was more than just a feature; it was a glimpse into the hearts and minds of a generation caught between two worlds. He had already interviewed students from rural towns, some traveling five hours each way to attend these classes. He’d spoken to exhausted parents, juggling work and family obligations to meet the stringent requirements of the Act. Now, he was here, at the heart of the debate, where the personal and the political collided.

  A young woman, her voice trembling with emotion, stepped forward, her sign reading, “Our Abilities Are Not a Threat!”

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  “My son,” she said, her eyes pleading with Declan to understand, “he’s just a kid. He’s a shifter, a wolf. He’s never hurt anyone. But they treat him like a criminal, like he’s a danger to society. These classes… they’re not about safety. They’re about control. They’re about making us afraid of who we are.”

  Declan scribbled furiously, capturing her words, her pain. He had heard similar sentiments from other parents, their frustration palpable. The Act, while intended to protect preternatural citizens, had also created a system that felt, to many, oppressive and dehumanizing.

  Across the street, a government official, his face stoic, his words carefully chosen, addressed a group of reporters.

  “These training programs are essential,” he said, his voice amplified by a loudspeaker, “to ensure the safety of all citizens, both preternatural and null. We must learn to live together, to coexist peacefully. And that requires understanding, cooperation, and responsible use of preternatural abilities.”

  His words, though measured, did little to appease the protesters.

  A young man, his face barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, stepped forward, his voice shaking with barely suppressed anger. “They say it’s about safety,” he said, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "But it's not. It’s about fear. They’re afraid of us. They want to control us. They want to make us fit in. But we’re not like them. We’re different. And we’re not going to apologize for who we are."

  A ripple of agreement passed through the crowd, their signs bobbing in unison.

  Declan, caught in the crosscurrents of anger, fear, and defiance, felt a surge of adrenaline. This wasn’t just a story. It was a turning point, a moment that would define the future of preternatural citizens in Oklahoma and beyond. He had a responsibility to capture the complexity of this moment, to give voice to the voiceless, to shine a light on the challenges and triumphs of a generation on the cusp of a new era.