"Dog moms are moms! Dog moms are moms."
A pulsing swell of enraged protestors rocked the streets of Taronto, the northern capital of Turtle Island. Deafening screams and shattering glass fused into a symphony of righteous outrage. It was July - the rebellion window. One of the few months when the air didn't bite and the pavement stayed clear enough for a crowd to gather.
The oppressed dog moms and their allies gathered in great numbers to fight for justice. Hundreds of exuberant flags flew over Karl Marx Street, each representing present or historically marginalized groups. Everyone had a flag in Turtle Island.
"It's a hot day in the city, with temperatures soaring past 20° Celsius," said the Citizen Network (CN) News reporter, standing at the base of the massive Karl Marx statue. "We're witnessing historic protests, with workplaces closing early to mark the social justice month." The camera operator panned across the colorful crowd. Gray skies loomed overhead. Dilapidated buildings and shuttered storefronts lined the streets - but to the faithful viewers of CN News, they barely registered. Every protest was historic. Every cause was righteous. Change was progress, and progress was good, in Turtle Island.
The howls and cries of the dog moms poured into the rare winds of summer. The city's constant stench no longer registered with its citizens. The scene was loud. It was painful. Stones, bottles, and other debris were hurled through the air, smashing what was left of the windowpanes in the surrounding buildings. Justifiably so. These older properties were the hollow remains of the old world; cis-gendered, male-normative, capitalist patriarchy. Every falling brick was an act of bravery.
Large screens affixed to several buildings across the street were broadcasting live news coverage. Their unbreakable glass, immovable size, and unreachable heights ensured they remained in place, unscathed and un-stolen. Media was the most prized possession of the Party. The fair-skinned, blond-haired woman reporting for CN News appeared onscreen as a pink cat-like humanoid anime character. Filters were necessary to avoid perpetuating literal violence by platforming a white, cis-human, traditionally beautiful woman.
Everyone in the media had virtual avatars. This practice avoided causing offence to people whose race, gender, sexuality, ability, thoughts, views, sleep schedule, and habits, among other things, were not represented by the people in the frame. Artificial intelligence, the pinnacle of human ingenuity, had finally been perfected. Many citizens chose to have customized media avatars that aligned closely with their real, innate species.
The reporter stepped closer to the crowd, beckoning a belligerent protestor. "What would you like to tell our viewers about your protests?" she asked a plump, yellow-haired balding man who appeared onscreen as a toad-like cartoon.
He spoke: "Dog moms are a marginalized community. We've existed for thousands of years, but never got the respect we deserved. Our children still don't enjoy the same treatment at schools as cis-human kids. And dog moms aren't respected in society the same way as birthers of cis-children." The reporter nodded, her expression solemn.
"While they enjoy birthery leave, we are left on our own to struggle with the challenges of parenthood. We get no paid time off, the childcare benefit for transhuman children is lower, and dog moms don't get the post-natal support we deserve. Many of us are suffering from delivery complications like post-partum depression, but nobody cares." More protestors clustered around the man, their cheers rising in approval.
"We make up 40 percent of the population, yet our representation in the top brass is only 23 percent. The leadership doesn't represent the demographics of their constituents. This needs to change, now. Dog moms are moms, dog moms are moms, dog moms are moms," he chanted maniacally as he wandered back into the crowd.
Anyone could be anything-even transspecie. Yet there was not a man left in Turtle Island.
As the broadcast continued to blare from the screens, an elderly black lady in a purple dress navigated through the chaos. Head lowered, eyes fixed ahead, she walked the sidewalk. No slogans escaped her lips, no flag was pinned to her dress. She appeared out of place.
To the intoxicated crowd, her silence meant only one thing: Dogphobe.
Fueled by anger, a teenage demonstrator-emaciated, with blue hair and dilated eyes-stepped forward and shoved her to the ground. "Go home, dogphobe!" Another young man, his hoodie up and his face covered by a black bandana, delivered a harsh kick to her gut. Many in the crowd cheered their brave acts of resistance. It was not racial.
Racialized equity was decisively achieved during the civil rights movement of the 2030s. Since then, activists had moved on to new battles, fighting oppression as it was discovered.
As the old woman curled and twitched, crying out in pain, a forbidden amulet on a golden chain slipped out from inside the neck of her dress. Her expression shifted from suffering to terror once she realized what had been exposed. It was a symbol of intolerance, of hate, of the madness of the deplorable science-deniers. It was the opium of the people too far gone: a golden cross, a man hanging on.
"You bigot!" roared Blue Hair as he dragged the old woman into the middle of the street.
Though never officially banned, the image of Jesus, a sign of oppression and colonialism, the embodiment of prejudice and patriarchy, incited a reaction from the protestors that ran far deeper than the issues they were addressing at that very moment.
Some merely frowned at the sight of the cross, their disapproval evident; others were far less merciful. "Repent, bitch!" someone shouted. And just like that, the line was crossed. They descended upon her, delivering relentless punches and kicks as she curled further into herself, her feeble attempts to shield her head were in vain.
Once labeled a phobe of any kind-or worse, a religious bigot-you became the oppressor. This woman was both. Under the rule of the great Party, eradicating oppressors was not only justified but encouraged. The woman appeared to be in her seventies, her gray hair and feminine purple dress fitting the typical description of those considered leftovers from the old world. She must have witnessed the revolution of the 2030s. She saw the world change. And yet, in the eyes of the protesters, she had failed to progress.
The camera happened to catch a glimpse of the attack; the system was sophisticated enough to assign avatars in real time but couldn't always correct the actions of the people. The reporter hastily gestured to the camera operator to change the angle, diverting focus from the assault.
The woman on the ground had ceased to react. No longer did she express her anguish or plead for mercy, nor did she attempt to protect her head as she lay there, now covered in blood. It wasn't enough for the oppressed protestors; they persisted in meting out justice, one swift kick at a time. The camera turned away, and the reporter spoke into the lens: "We apologize for the misleading graphic you just witnessed. An elderly person slipped and fell on the street. They are being assisted by the peaceful protestors."
The old woman lay motionless. Her time had come.