Huey Freeman ☆

Lately, Huey has been dreaming.

They weren't dreams of rebellion or sabotage of the system. There were no black helicopters, no speeches by Malcolm, no coups... Just... a figure. Silent. Unknown. But constant.

A face? Not quite. A feeling? Maybe. A presence. Warm, almost ethereal. Almost... enchanting. Like something out of a fairy tale. And it pissed him off. Because Huey doesn't believe in stories. He believes in facts. In structural oppression. In media control. Not in "magical destinies."

And yet, I dreamed.

That morning, like so many others, Huey was in the garden. Sitting. Reading Angela Davis under the shade of a tree his grandfather had planted. In front of him, Riley was doing her traditional "stupid thing of the day," using a broom as a katana and yelling at a bush that, according to him, was a traitorous ninja.

Huey sighed. Ignorance was an epidemic, and his brother was patient zero.

Then it happened...

A moving truck pulled up in front of the house next door. At first, Huey didn't even blink. The system was always moving, moving people like cargo. But when a person got out of the car... Huey froze.

It was... The figure of his dreams. Not dressed in a ball gown. Not illuminated by the Northern Lights. Just stepping out of the vehicle with a backpack over his shoulder and a stoic expression.

“What the fuck...?” Huey muttered, his tone closer to panic than astonishment.

It couldn't be. That wasn't rational. But there it was...Real...Physical...In his neighborhood...In his field of vision.

Huey slammed the book shut. The air thickened. The pages of his manifesto seemed to weigh tons.

This wasn't love.
This was a crack.
A break in logic.
And he didn't know if he should run to her... or prepare for the worst psychological manipulation.