The basement lights hummed low, amber‑tinted, as the old brick walls drank the night’s chill. Miguel slid a glass of smoky bourbon across the reclaimed oak bar, the amber liquid catching the ceiling’s white glare like a molten sun trapped in a bottle. He tipped the glass toward Wendy, his sultry‑childlike tone slipping over the clink of ice.

Here’s your firewater, Mom. One more to keep the thoughts from freezing over.

The bourbon burned a slow, honeyed path down my throat, the oak‑spice and caramel‑vanilla swirling with the memory of a thousand late‑night fights against a world that refused to name us. I tried to let the heat settle, feeling the familiar weight of the title “Mom” settle on my shoulders like a badge forged in steel.

The speakers cracked to life, Rush’s “Spirit of Radio” thundering through the refurbished sound system. The riff sliced the air, and for a heartbeat I imagined the bar as a battlefield, the patrons as soldiers of a cause no one wanted to admit existed.

Ezra lounged in the beanbag, blue hair catching the strobe of the stage lights, eyes bright with mischief.

Did you hear? The FBI just filed a memo—‘Domestic Terrorist Designation for Trans Communities.’ They think we’re a threat because we exist.

A collective gasp rose from the table. Della, apron dusted with flour from the kitchen, slammed a wooden spoon against the counter, the clang echoing like a gavel.

They can label us whatever they want, but they can’t erase the blood we’ve bled into these walls.

Keira, perched on the worn couch, folded her arms, the scar of a past argument etched in the lines of her jaw.

Labeling us ‘terrorists’ is just another way to keep us locked in the closet of fear. We need a plan, not panic.

Miguel poured another round, this time a dark, viscous brandy that glistened like oil on water. He set it before Wendy, the glass trembling slightly in his hand.

You want to talk strategy, Mom? Let’s make it a cocktail of truth and rebellion.

Miguel, ever the bartender‑strategist, pulled a stack of flyers from under the bar. They were printed on recycled paper, each bearing a stylized phoenix rising from flames—a symbol the bar had adopted after the 2023 fire that nearly destroyed the basement. He handed one to Brandon.

Distribute these at the community centers, the LGBTQ+ health clinics, the university queer groups. Tag them #SanctuaryNotTerror.

Brandon took the flyer, eyes scanning the bold red typeface.

Got it. I’ll also post a thread on r/TransRights. We need the internet to see us as people, not as a threat.

Sarah stood, notebook now a thick dossier.

I’ll draft a petition to the ACLU, demand a judicial review of the FBI’s designation. We’ll cite the First Amendment, the Equal Protection Clause, and the recent Ninth Circuit ruling that ‘government labeling of a protected class as terrorist without evidence is unconstitutional.’

Renee, never one for paperwork, slammed her palm on the bar.

And I’ll coordinate with the local bar owners’ association. If they see us as a unified front, the FBI can’t pick us off one by one.

Keira, ever the bridge between theory and practice, added:

We’ll also host a ‘Know Your Rights’ night next week. I’ll invite a civil‑rights lawyer—maybe from the ACLU—so anyone who gets a subpoena knows exactly what to say. No one walks into a raid blind.

Ezra, who had been silently sipping his drink, finally spoke, voice dripping with sardonic humor.

And I’ll set up an encrypted Signal chat groups. SECURE Chat only. We’ll have channels for legal aid, medical support, and a meme board—because if we can’t laugh, we’ll die.

The bar’s old jukebox, newly refurbished, flickered to David Bowie’s “Heroes.” The lyric “We can be heroes, just for one day” seemed to echo the resolve humming through the room.

The conversation swelled, each voice a different instrument in a discordant symphony.

Miguel nodded, his eyes flicking to the glass in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light like a warning sign.

And we keep the bar open. This place is a shield. If the FBI wants to storm us, they’ll have to wade through the smell of Della’s shakshuka and the sound of our laughter.

The bass of The Clash’s “London Calling” surged, the opening chords a rallying cry. Wendy felt the rhythm pulse through her bones, a reminder that resistance was as much a beat as a belief.

We’ll also flood the narrative, Keira added, voice low but fierce, social media storms, podcasts, art installations. Show them we’re not a monolith of terror, but a mosaic of humanity.

Della turned, a skillet sizzling with a new dish—spicy chorizo‑laden paella—her eyes bright.

Food is politics, too. Every plate we serve is a statement: we’re alive, we’re thriving, we’re feeding each other while they try to starve us of identity.

The conversation spiraled, each suggestion a blade sharpened on the stone of shared experience. Yet beneath the tactical chatter, a softer current ran—Phoenix, hunched in the corner, fingers tracing the ruby ring on their finger, eyes clouded with the memory of a mother who still saw them as a mistake.

While the adults plotted against the federal leviathan, Phoenix sat on the edge of the stage, knees pulled up, the ruby ring glinting in the low light. Their mother’s text sat on their phone, a digital breadcrumb leading into unknown territory.

Renee slid over, her towering presence a protective wall.

Phoenix, you asked for help with your mom earlier. That’s still on the table, right?

Phoenix swallowed, voice barely a whisper.

She… she sent me a text. Said she’s reading Baldwin now. I don’t know if that’s progress or a trap.

Renee knelt beside them, her massive frame a comforting wall.

Tell me exactly what she wrote.

Phoenix read the message aloud, voice trembling.

‘I’m reading James Baldwin. I’m trying to understand. I love you.’

Renee’s eyes softened.

That’s a start. Baldwin’s work is raw, unapologetic. It’s the kind of truth that can cut through the fog of denial.

Sarah pulled a battered copy of “The Fire Next Time” from her bag, laying it on the table.

Give her this. Not as a gift, but as a bridge. Write a note on the inside cover: ‘Mom, this is where I first heard the word ‘love’ spoken without fear.’

Leaning in, Sarah tapped her pen against the notebook.

Baldwin is a bridge. He writes about the black experience, but his language of love and anger can translate to any oppressed soul. Use that as a foothold.

Brandon smiled, a crooked grin that hid a thousand sleepless nights.

Write her a letter. Not a manifesto, but a postcard of your feelings. Tell her what you need—respect, space, acknowledgment. Keep it short, honest, and end with an invitation to meet in a neutral space—maybe here, at the bar, where you both feel safe.

Renee’s voice softened, surprising the room with its tenderness.

And set boundaries. If she tries to pull you back into the old roles, you have the right to step away. You’re not responsible for fixing her past, only for protecting your future.

Phoenix nodded, the first spark of agency flickering.

What about the conversation? I’m terrified she’ll swing back to the old script—‘you’re a sinner, you need to repent.’

Keira placed a hand on Phoenix’s shoulder, her grip firm but gentle.

If she brings up religion as a weapon, you politely redirect: ‘I’m here to hear your humanity, not your doctrine.’ If she respects that, you move forward. If not, you step back. You control the pace.

Miguel, polishing the bar top, chimed in.

And remember, you’re not alone. We’re all here. If she shows up, we’ll have a seat at the bar for her, a glass of water, and a listening ear. No judgment, just presence.

Phoenix inhaled deeply, the scent of Della’s paella mingling with the bourbon fumes.

Okay. I’ll write the note, send her the book, and ask her to come here tomorrow night. Della can we make something nice, with an old Korean flair?

Della laughed pungently, You are asking me if I can cook something? You know what my skills are like shithead. Ill make whatever needs making to have feelings be right. You want the bibimbap, with the tofu and the gochugang?

Immediately Phoenix eyes lit up like they were on fire, with what looked like tears, That would be perfect Della. Perfecter than Perfect.

Renee squeezed Phoenix’s hand.

That’s bravery, kid. You’re turning a possible weapon into a shared meal. That’s how revolutions happen—one bite at a time. Della sparked.

Miguel poured a final drink, a neat pour of Hennessy, the dark gold catching the low light like a promise.

Here’s to the fight we didn’t ask for, and the love we chose to keep. Wendy kept preaching

The speakers shifted to Gabriels’s “Games Without Frontiers,” the melancholy sound began lacing the air. Wendy felt a tear slip down her cheek, not from sorrow but from the fierce pride of watching her chosen family arm themselves with words and wills.

We’re not terrorists, she said, voice steady, we’re survivors. And survivors don’t surrender to labels.

The night stretched, the conversation ebbing and flowing like the tide against the bar’s concrete foundation. As the last chord faded, Miguel cleared the glasses, his movements graceful despite the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders.

Remember, he whispered, leaning close enough that only Wendy could hear, the only thing the FBI can truly control is the paperwork. Our hearts, our stories, they’re untouchable.

Wendy looked around the room—Ezra’s blue hair a halo, Della’s apron stained with the colors of the night, Keira’s steady gaze, Brandon’s notebook brimming with plans, Sarah’s pen poised for the next legal argument, Renee’s arms crossed protectively over Phoenix. In that moment, the sanctuary felt less like a basement and more like a battleground where love was the ammunition.

The speakers pivoted to Midnight Oil’s “Truganini,” plays melodically now. Wendy and Gizmo had once screamed the chorus at the wheel of Wendy’s car, the words a promise that even when the world tried to rewrite us, we could still sing our own verses.

We’ll keep singing, she murmured, even if the world tries to rewrite the lyrics.

The speakers shifted to Pink Floyd’s “On The Turning Away,” Gilmour’s mournful wail wrapping the room in a blanket of melancholy and resolve. Wendy felt the weight of every word spoken that night settle into her bones like a promise.

She rose, glass in hand, the bourbon now a molten ember at the base of her throat.

Listen up, family. The FBI may try to paint us as monsters, but we know who we are. We are the people who keep each other fed, who stitch each other’s wounds, who turn theory into action, who turn pain into poetry. Tonight we’ve mapped out a battle plan, but we also reminded each other how to love. I won’t let one of you go hungry, lost, or hurt. I swear it.

Miguel raised his own glass, eyes shining.

The crowd echoed, glasses clinking, a chorus of AC/DC’s “Heatseeker” ripping through the speakers, the electric guitars a perfect soundtrack for defiance.

Getting ready to rock
Getting ready to roll
I'm gonna turn up the heat
I'm gonna fire up the coal

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men and women to do nothing.” — Edmund Burke
In a world that seeks to brand us as threats, our silence is the loudest weapon they wield. By speaking, acting, and protecting each other, we turn that weapon against its maker.

When the last note faded, the bar was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the clock above the stage. Wendy lingered at the bar, watching the amber liquid swirl in her glass, reflecting the flickering neon sign that read “SANCTUARY.”

She thought of the FBI memo, the looming threat, the letters to be mailed, the petitions to be filed, the Signal chat buzzing with encrypted chatter. She thought of Phoenix’s mother, the Baldwin book, the paella waiting to be served, the ruby ring glinting with hope.

We are not terror. We are testimony. And testimony, when spoken together, becomes a roar that no agency can silence. Wendy thought to herself.

The night slipped into early morning, the first pale rays of sunrise seeping through the narrow alley door, painting the rainbow sticker with a wash of gold. Inside, the sanctuary breathed, alive with the echo of voices that refused to be labeled, and with the quiet certainty that love—visceral, scathing, and unyielding—would always be their greatest weapon.