hi! put the song on as you read this chapter! it will ~enrich the experience~ :)

Day 168:

Your first steps in Europe are overwhelming as you push with the crowd off the plane. Cars wheel down cobblestones and a moped whizzes by with a roar. The wind dances in your hair and you push back the strands that have come loose from your bun, stumbling back onto the sidewalk.

The skies above you are gray, but there is no rain, and the thick, humid air carries a buzz of sudden excitement, of sudden electricity.

You had bought the one-way ticket with the last of your funds, a last-minute ticket to carry you to Europe before USOAT could get suspicious. You barely slept the plane ride over.

You couldn't stop USOAT. But you could do something. And that was what you were going to do.

You walk through the London streets, tides of people in black raincoats pouring past you in a tide, as the arms of the sea of people carry you, rush you through the city, to the place you know you need to go.

The building is gray and squat, the door navy wood with a gold-embossed glass. A little bell rings as you push into the room, fluorescent lights illuminating a mailroom-style building, like a post office with its stack of PO boxes on the wall.

The receptionist looks up as your feet tap along the concrete floor.

"My name's Y/N," you say, breathless, hurrying over to her desk behind the glass. "I used to work with USOAT."

Her eyes widen at that, reaching for the phone on her desk.

"I'm here for a job," you blurt out, leaning forward to stop her. "Teach me about rehabilitation. I want to learn. I want to help."

Her hand stills. Then: "Okay."

Day 293:

Your hands move steadily as you seal the packet and place it on the cart as Ms. Doughtry rolls it past you, your feet hitting the floor as you dodge and weave through the thick crowd at EUOAT's Paris outpost. You rush past two vampires playing chess behind the glass, and a pair of sirens chatting as they walk past, coats swirling as they walk.

You grab your purse from the locker room, pulling out the dress as well.

You stare at it. It's white, but a sleek and refined silk, painted in sunset clouds near the neckline in a neat but delicate design. You did it yourself, from your apartment in the city.

The sound of clicking heels on tile makes you look up, putting the dress back in your locker.

"Oh, I didn't mean to startle you," your administrator says, smiling and holding up her hands. "I just wanted to say that you'll do well."

You laugh, looking down at the ground. "I hope so."

She smiles at you, a kindly smile that makes you think of the hard work and payoff of the last few months, the outcasts discovering life again, discovering a life outside of what they have known. "You never forget your first gala."

You shrug, but she continues. "We chose you to speak because you're ready," she says, putting a hand on your shoulder. "They will listen."

You nod, patting her hand, and she smiles, stepping back.

"I'll let you go," she says, and you thank her, pulling out the dress and the bag with your makeup and shoes in it. You head to the bathroom, get dressed, and before you know it, you're clattering down the street in a taxi, frantically reviewing your speech notes and mouthing the words in the back of the leather-seated cab.

I first learned about rehabilitation from my father, David L/N. He would sit me down after spinning me around in my room full of fairy lights, and he would tell me, "According to the 2011 Outsider Act..."

The cab screeches to a halt in front of the building, the red carpet spread out as the camera bulbs flash. You thank the driver, clutching your notecards and hurrying out into the Gala.

But I didn't really understand it until I was assigned a shift on a Bubble, one of USOAT's solitary confinement units, with the kind of monster I believed had killed him.

You smile for the cameras, waving and looking up at the skies, gray but clear, and walk into the large theater hall. Your heart hammers in your chest, but you lift your chin and shake hands with those who invited you, thanking them and preparing to speak on the events of your life in this past year. It all seems like a whirlwind of wood and red and the sunset color embroidered on your gown.

But what killed my father was not a Hyde. What killed my father was fear. Fear deals with punishment. Fear deals with staying in power. Fear is something completely incompatible with the concept of rehabilitation.

You find your seat off to the side of the stage and settle into the fabric theater-style chair with a deep breath.

Because this is the best way to undermine a society of fear: by helping the people it says can't be helped. Because then people ask questions, see. They ask, "If these people can be helped, why haven't we been helping them all along?" They ask, "if these people can be helped, what can I do to help them?" And then, in the sight of an uprising of those who believe they can do better, people do.

"Y/N L/N," the announcer calls, the applause filling your ears as you move in trance up the wooden stairs, onto the stage, squinting into the blinding bright lights as your feet walk up onto the wooden planks.

And so we get this: that the best way to fight oppression is to help those who society says are beyond help.

And then you catch sight of a familiar thatch of curly, brown hair, familiar hands pausing half-clap as your eyes meet and a sunset blooms in your chest, giddy and colorful and so unbelievably bright. It's like your heart stops, like the world has burst into flames of purple and orange. His mouth drops open and he waves, frantically, pushing his way through the well-dressed crowd as he shouts your name.

Or, in other words:

To make friends with time.