The chants were loud enough to drown out the noise of Manhattan. 'Enough is enough!' 'Enough is enough!' they chanted. Isla felt her chest vibrate as she yelled through the megaphone. Behind her were hundreds of people with their voices raised in support of the movement.
The police barricade cut the street in half, metal rails gleaming under the weak daylight. Beyond it, Polonia Energy's glass tower rose like it didn't belong to the same world.
She tightened her grip on the megaphone like her life depended on it.
The pavement was still slick from last night's rain. Coffee and damp concrete hung in the air.
Beside Isla, Maya Patel hoisted her placard as high as Isla's. It read: YOU CAN'T BURY THE RIVER. Around them, other signs screamed: POLONIA SHOULD BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE. Isla could hear the chaos erupting as some protesters were beginning to get violent, throwing things at the building of Polonia Energy where they stood.
The police stood shoulder to shoulder behind the rails to ensure that no one would be harmed. There was a scream: "Lucas Polonia is a murderer!" A bottle flew from somewhere behind her and shattered near the barricade. Isla's fingers flew to the locket at her throat before she even thought to check her face, as if the small metal could hold her together.
Isla was still frozen in shock as Maya quickly pulled her back. Isla quickly recovered and held the megaphone, which almost fell from her hand. Maya looked at her, concerned and quietly scanned for signs of injury before asking if she was fine. Police surged forward to handle the situation.
The press were also there, their cameras swung as each news station tried to set up their equipment. A makeup crew were gathered around a newscaster patting her sweaty face.
The newscaster stood beside a camera man who had zoomed into the glass shards to try to make the scene wilder than it already was.
In the midst of all this chaos, Isla's energy remained unwavering. She lifted the megaphone again. "Three weeks ago," she barked, "a pipeline upstream from Westbridge ruptured!"
Some of the crowd hooted. Others waved fists in the air.
"Crude oil spilled into the river for twelve hours. Twelve hours before anyone could shut it off!" Her voice shook with the memory. She pictured the black water, the fish floating belly-up, fishermen staring at empty nets, children carrying buckets of bottled water. Her chest ached.
She heard her father's voice in her head, steady, stubborn, If you speak, speak for the ones who can't, and she lifted her chin.
This was what happened when people pretended money was more important than life. A camera flash caught her off guard, her heart rate rose, not from being afraid but the thrill of being noticed and heard. The thrill came with a flicker of dread, like applause that could turn into a spotlight she couldn't escape.
A reporter then tried to get Isla's attention. Isla turned to her.
"Miss Isla, Polonia Energy claimed that the spillage was an accident. How do you respond?"
Isla's jaw tightened. She adjusted her grip on the megaphone before speaking. "An accident doesn't stay quiet for three days," she said, her words sharp. "Three days, while families went without water. While farmers watched their crops die. While their lives were disrupted," she answered very carefully as she knew half the nation was watching.
"And now Lucas Polonia held an investor summit that day," she continued, voice rising. "Meanwhile, the river was still black. The people were still suffering. And he walked around like nothing happened."
The reporter, with satisfaction, nodded and wrapped up the interview.
Isla stood for a moment and hoped that nothing she said was taken out of context. It wasn't the first time she had seen it happen. one clip can make or break your case. She quickly shook off the memory.
She returned to resume the protest as she put the megaphone to her mouth with her slightly cracked voice, and she shouted as the other protesters' chants of anger carried her energy.
The protest ran late into the night.
***
As the crowd dispersed, Isla and Maya walked through the busy streets. Even at this time of the night, the city was still awake. They could hear a violist playing for money, and they passed a fast-food cart with people lined up, waiting to be served. Maya attempted to join some social media street dancers but failed miserably. Isla laughed, and the moment lightened the mood. They went into a restaurant, which was about five minutes away from where the protest occurred.
They scanned through the restaurant and their eyes fell on him, Jordan, who was sitting in the corner licking an ice cream, with a laptop in front of him, earplugs in his ears and seemed to be enjoying his solitude. He was always this way. Jordan was the one person Isla trusted to stay calm when everyone else spiraled.
Isla and Maya got to him, and Maya had to tap him.
He jolted in shock, which turned into a smile as he saw them. Isla sat down while Maya went to get herself a drink.
"So I take it the protest went well," he asked with a teasing smile on his face.
"Oh, please, don't even start," Isla said, drained.
"You know protests don't scare companies like this," Jordan said, closing his laptop.
Isla rolled her eyes. She was too tired to argue. "Yeah, yeah, whatever," she said. Maya, who had gotten back, was quietly scrolling through her phone while sipping her drink, then suddenly looked up and smiled.
"Guys, I don't think today was a total waste."
"What do you mean?" Isla asked.
Maya gave her the phone and told her to take a look.
The first video was of a young man hounded by the press to give a comment on the oil spillage and the protest that took place. He looked into the camera, his eyes darkened, but said nothing as he got into his car escorted by his security team and drove off.
Isla later learned from the headlines that he was Lucas Polonia; in that moment, all she saw from the video was power. The type that doesn't require noise, the type that needed no explanation.
"Look at the comments," Maya said with excitement. In the comments, people kept bashing Lucas for his rude behavior.
Maya showed her another post, it was her interview which had passed a million views.
Isla's phone buzzed nonstop.
She checked them only to realize people had tagged her to different posts, her follower count kept increasing, and multiple comments were coming in all at once. She shuddered as she saw that one comment pinned at the top that made her thoughts spiral: "Careful. People like this don't lose quietly."
Isla's thumb hovered over the screen. For a second, she wanted to laugh it off, then the restaurant noise seemed to fade away. Which left only the warning.
For the first time that night, she wished she hadn't been so loud. She quickly turned off her notifications and realized she couldn't undo that night.