ArchivedLogs:In Which a Verdict Is Not Reached and Some Energy Is Burned Off, Perhaps Not Entirely As Planned

In Which a Verdict Is Not Reached and Some Energy Is Burned Off, Perhaps Not Entirely As Planned
Dramatis Personae Marinov, Spencer, Taylor	2017-08-09 << I'll freak wherever I damn well please. >>
Location <NYC> SoHo
The first of the many camelcased neighborhoods, SoHo - South of Houston Street - is a neighborhood of exposed cast-iron buildings and sett-paved streets home to many artists' lofts and art galleries. Trendy is the watch-word of the neighborhood, and even as gentrification has begun pushing out some of the very people who make it so, many starving artists still hold onto the valuable real estate for its hip reputation, beautiful architecture, and many, many stores. It's just after quitting time, and the streets are full of people. Far fuller than usual. Many of them are carrying makeshift picket signs and banners with slogans 'Justice for Jackson Holland' to 'Power to the People', and 'Equal Protection Now'. The march had started as a small rally in front of the courthouse, though it grew slowly throughout the afternoon as news emerged that the jury was deliberating. When the court adjourned for the day with no verdict, however, the protesters went on the move, gathering energy and numbers along the way. By now it is several hundred strong and still without much in the way of leadership, moving as an angry organic mass toward the Lower East Side. As the march moves through SoHo, the tension rises palpably. Up ahead, the street has been blocked by a line of motorcycles and an SUV, along with a group of maybe fifty humans, some wearing motorcycle helmets and riding gear, many obviously armed with their own picket signs and more obvious improvised weapons so ubiquitous in post-outbreak New York. The police escort that had been desultorily managing traffic ahead and around the column is hanging back now, ignoring the blockade. Near the front of the crowd, Taylor makes a pretty noticeable figure. Several of his arms are currently occupied -- one with a water bottle, one with a half-eaten banana, two with signs of his own. One bears the names of a distressingly long list of mutants murdered so far this year; the other says 'They tried to bury us; they didn't know we were seeds.' Swallowing a chunk of his banana, he frowns ahead at the line of humans. "Don't suppose they're joining in?" Wry. After they finished with their classwork, Marinov headed pretty well immediately towards the Courthouse to join the protests, having brought their own hastily assembled picketing sign which reads, 'Justice 4 Jax' and on the other side, 'People are not Crimes' The teen is wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a light grey tank top with a plunging neckline and a olive green jacket. << Aw fuck, >> comes to mind when they spot the blockade up ahead, and they reply to Taylor, some anxiety creeping into their thoughts, "I'd be happy if they were even just here to /watch/." Beside Taylor and Marinov, Spence is a lot less noticeable. Just a messy-haired child in a blue t-shirt (it reads 'On My Worse Behavior'), black canvas shorts, and gray hiking boots. His internal monologue is dizzyingly fast, excited and disjointed and only a touch nervous. << So many people coming out! Not so many from /here/ though there's so many people staring at us from the fire escapes, oh good the cops are backing off...no wait it's because of those people. Where are the medics? >> He peers through the rows of people in front of them for a moment, then just vanishes -- -- to appear briefly a couple of storeys up above the march, /in mid-air/, free-falling for a split second, and is gone again -- -- back with the two teens he had just left. "They're blocking off the whole street /and/ they're armed. I didn't see any guns but there's lots of sticks, bottles, even a few knives," he's speaking low and quick, his eyes wide, but doesn't seem /very/ frightened for all that. The front end of the march begins to slow, but the news of their blocked path does not travel very rapidly, and the rear of the column crowds up to fill most of the block in confusion. Gradually, the information spreads, though it becomes more exaggerated as it goes. The entire march grinds to an uncertain halt, the first row of protesters hardly twenty feet from the counter-protest's blockade. One of the bikers has gotten on a loudspeaker and calls out, "This is /our/ neighborhood, and we want you out of here, now!" His fellows make affirming noises in the wake of this inspiring speak, calling out 'muties go home' and 'freaks off the streets' in tepid disorganized attempts at chanting. "Christ." Taylor's mutter is low under his breath, his head shaking in -- disgust? Dismay? "-- That shit's what happens when you let white people lead the chanting." He polishes off his banana, takes a step forward from the crowd, one sign hefted higher. No loudspeaker for him -- though with a veeery faint mental /encouragement/ to the people around him, he oddly doesn't need one, voice not exactly /carrying/ so much as easily understood. The same barely-perceptible psionic cue maaaybe helps a little with making sure the call-and-response comes a lot more on /time/ than the counter-protesters: "Whose streets?" "OUR STREETS!" The call-and-response builds as it spreads down through the column. After three repetitions, some audiokinetic in the crowd has started amplifying Taylor's leading of the chant so that it sounds to everyone present as though he were standing right beside them. People slowly begin shuffling forward again. The protesters at the front of the column link their arms and press toward the counter-protesters. "Spasibo, Spence. No guns is good," decides Marinov, shifting their sign from one shoulder to the other and calming a bit at that bit of reassurance, though the hairs on the back of their neck are still standing up as they manage to make out the various things the counter-protestors are shouting, << I'll freak wherever I damn well please. >> Their ears perk as Taylor starts the call-and-response, and they raise their arms up to roar with the crowd: "OUR STREETS!" Spence worms his way through the press of the crowd as it begins moving forward, also yelling "OUR STREETS" at the top of his lungs, his voice small and sharp against the deeper unison of the march. He emerges from the column beside Taylor, repeating his trick of teleporting up above the fray to survey the scene. From Spence's vantage point high above, he can see more counter-protesters coming to reinforce the badly outnumbered blockaders, and the police blocking off the intersection /behind/ the march. The line of counter-protesters move forward, too, gripping their various weapons tighter. Those with signs or flags (there are more yellow rattlesnake 'Don't Tread on Me' flags than Stars and Stripes) raise them higher or waving them menacingly. The man with the loudspeaker continues speaking loudly, but his words are drowned out by the pro-mutant protester's chanting. A tall, broad man in a spiked leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet painted like a chrome skull leaps the barricade and strides up toward Taylor, brandishing a tire iron before raising it to strike the teen. Taylor twines two free arms out to link with his neighbors as the crowd starts slowly moving again. His eyes have darted toward the man even a moment /before/ he leaps the barricade; even so, he just stands up a little bit straighter. One enormous thick tentacle lifts, intercepting the tire iron with a meaty thwack and then batting it down toward the ground. His other longest arm is uncoiling, curling just a little protectively toward Spencer. "/Whose streets/ --" is said through gritted teeth, now. Thank goodness for audiokinetic amplification. The tire iron slips from its wielder's hand to clatter on the pavement. The man roars in anger but seems to think better of trying to attack the tentacled teen with his bare hands. He retreats to the safety of his fellows, thinking and shouting obscenities as he goes. As the march reaches the makeshift barricade, the first row of people waver somewhat, uncertain whether to scale the motorcycles or attempt to knock them down or squeeze between them. "OUR STREETS!" shouts Marinov in time with the rest of the protestors. They start to weave through the crowd to join the others towards the front, just a pace or two behind their linked arms. "OUR STREETS!" Spencer doesn't miss a beat as he pops back down beside Taylor, under the shielding curve of his long black arm. << Cops have blocked off the intersection behind the march, >> he thinks this clearly and deliberately /at/ Taylor. << The alleys are still clear, but they're narrow. >> A tall, scaly person in the vacillating crowd pushes forward, shoving one of the counter-protesters' motorcycles until it topples onto its side. The people to either side of them scramble up onto and over the fallen vehicle. Like a bottle suddenly uncorked, the protesters spill through the dubious gap. The counter-protesters descend on them with sticks and stones and fists and yelling, but more keep coming from behind them. The scaly mutant who had knocked down the motorcycle cries out as three bikers throw them down to the pavement, kicking them viciously. "Shit." Taylor's arms tighten, then release from the people beside him as the line, somewhat disrupted now, starts to surge over the barricade. "Cops blocking people from behind too? Fucking pigs /want/ us dead." His teeth are still gritted. He pushes forward over the downed motorcycle, dropping his signs to the ground as he reaches forward. Reaches forward with several arms, the biggest two trying to worm their way in between the bikers and their boots to help assist the scaled mutant back to their feet. His eyes are wider, though, posture tenser with the eruption of violence around them. << You alright? >> This comes as a mental check-in to Marinov and Spencer both. << Do you need to get out of here? >> Marinov lets their sign drop and their ears swivel towards the scaly mutant on the ground. While Taylor works on keeping the counter-protestors from keeping the mutant down, Marinov weaves through the crowd to try and help pull him up from the other side. << I'm alright, >> they think back, though their fur is fully on end and their thoughts unintentionally turn to images of biting, which prompts them to add, << I'll let you know if I gotta get out. >> Spencer has left the ground once again, this time coming to rest on top of a bus shelter overlooking the chaotic street. He swipes out a hurried text (with attached short photo) describing the scene and sends it to the Commons security text loop. And then he returns to the fray, dropping in behind one counter-protester to grab hold of the long flagpole he is using as a weapon. The boy is much too small and weak to wrest the stick from a full-grown man's grasp, but he focuses and /sends/ the flagpole away. << I can get out myself if I need to. >> One of the bikers recoils from Taylor's inky black limbs, while another grabs hold of one and /yanks/ hard in a bid to knock the tentacled teen down. Meanwhile, the scaly mutant is crawling away, getting stepped on by friend and foe alike until Marinov pulls them back up. Their nose is bleeding profusely, but they do not otherwise look very hurt. The flagpole vanishes wherever Spence has sent it, and the man who was about to swing it at a small Korean woman with insectoid wings loses his balance and almost falls over himself. As the protesters keep pushing forward he stumbles back, knocking Spencer to the pavement as way too many feet come trundling unsteadily his way. Taylor stumbles forward, one arm pressing to the ground to balance himself while the one being yanked /shoves/ back away fiercely, shaking hard at the man grabbing it. "/Shit/ --" His eyes widen when he sees Spencer go down, this mental image swiftly relayed to Marinov as well. He's trying to make his way over to the boy, but between the man grabbed onto him and the rapidly shifting crowd between them his progress is mostly impeded. Face screwing up unhappily, he focuses harder -- reaching out to the minds of the crowd pressing in around Spencer. His telepathy is not particularly strong, no real ability to /force/ anyone into anything, but there is a concerted mental nudge, a sudden and strong impulse in those minds to pay good attention to where they're going, to try to avoid the child on the ground. Upon receiving the image of Spence, Marinov replies mentally, << On it. >> Marinov raises their chin to sniff at the air only to be met with frustration; while Spence's scent is familiar to them, between the bodies, sweat and anger of the crowd and Spence's non-contiguous path, finding it is not so easy. Instead, they climb onto one of the fallen motorbikes to survey and figure out where exactly Spence fell. It takes only a moment to get their bearings, and they start squeezing between bodies to get there and try to help the boy back onto his feet. At Taylor's psionic prompting, the crowd does indeed part around Spencer. Or, at least, it /tries/ to; it's not an easy proposition with the sheer mass of the crowd pressing forward. It's still extremely difficult for Spencer to get up off the ground amidst the jostle of much larger bodies. Sporadic cries of alarm ring out: "Watch out, there's a /kid/ down here!" "Get outta here, son!" "Who brought their fucking kid to this?" Spence tries several times to stand up, only to be knocked back down, though at least he does not get outright trampled. When Marinov reaches him, his eyes are wide with fright, though he does not appear to be panicking. "Marinov!" he cries, his relief evident, though he looks briefly even more terrified -- then determined -- as he reaches for their hand. As the two clashing protests descend into an all-out brawl, more police are arriving on scene, though they are still not doing much other than directing traffic or keeping the press and onlookers back. Finally, a loudspeaker on an NYPD mobile command center kicks in, "By order of the New York City Police Department, disperse and clear the street now!" One of the burly counter-protesters in motorcycle gear grabs Marinov roughly by the shoulder. "HEY! Leave that kid alone, freak!" He winds back an arm to punch the teen, though in the press of the crowd his swing is awkward and slow. The counter-protester's wound-back arm meets a lot of resistance trying to complete the motion. A long sinuous limb coils around the man's wrist, arresting the punch in midair. It takes Taylor a second longer to actually catch /up/ to his excessively long reach, finally managing to navigate the crowd and make it to Spence and Marinov. "Give it a fucking rest." Marinov keeps their hand out to clasp Spencer's, despite having been surprised by the rough hand on their shoulder. They give it a reflexive warning nip, just hard enough to hurt a little without breaking skin. << Don't bite, shithead! >> they admonish themselves once the surprise has worn off and the punch is stopped at the nick of time. "Spasibo," they breathe quietly, and to Spence, "You okay, Spence?" Spencer's eyes are wide-wide-wide, but he nods, jerkily. Other than some scrapes and bruises, he does not look to be hurt. "We -- we need to get people out of here, it's not safe." "What the fuck?!" the biker blurts when his arm stops mid-swing. When he turns to see the inky tentacle holding his wrist he turns pale. And then even paler when Marinov nips his other hand. "Goddamned freaks!" He lets go of Marinov, wrenches his hand free from Taylor, and staggers away from all three youths, disappearing into the crowd. The police's warning repeats over the loudspeaker. More cops in riot gear are gathering at both intersections, slowly boxing the marchers in. "Disperse, fucking -- the fuck we supposed to disperse, /through/ the line of cops? You know how that shit ends." Taylor drops the man's arm when he lets go of Marinov. He's keeping close to the other two, now, arms curling slightly outward in a flexible half-cage that stops the ebb and flow of the pressing chaotic crowd from separating them again. "Feel like them pigs gonna get ugly if nobody listens, though." His teeth press down against his lips. Then, slowly, looks down at Spencer. Over at the line of motorcycles (one still fallen amid the rest of the row) that block the un-cop'd side of the street. << ... Spence. Could you disappear a couple of those bikes? Enough to let everyone through? >> Though directed to the boy, both his friends hear it. Marinov's gaze turns back towards where the cops are and their ears fold back, tail lashing in irritation. They hiss through their teeth, "Fffucking cops..." They look up towards Taylor and experience a strong feeling of thankfulness that he is here with them, calming slightly enough to tell Spence, "If you can, I'll stay right next to you while you do it." They nod firmly. Spence nods again, licking his lips, eyes skidding aside to the line of polished chrome bikes. Looks up at Marinov. Back at the bikes. /Nods./ He has to worm his way between protesters and counter-protesters to reach his target. He lays his hands on the shiny faring of the bike and closes his eyes tight. The motorcycle -- or /most/ of it, at least; half of the rear wheel and its saddle bags remains behind -- vanishes, reappearing on its side half-way down a cross-street. Encouraged by his success, he repeats the trick with the next bike down the row, and the next. The counter-protesters are still shoving at Taylor and Marinov, though they mostly ignore Spence when they're not telling him to go home or be careful. That is, at least until their motorcycles start vanishing. The disappearance of their property causes a furious uproar among the biker contingent, at least, and they yell at the protesters in general, swing their weapons furiously. The protesters who up until now had been hemmed in by the barricade of the bikes surge forward, however, pushing the counter-protesters ahead of them by sheer force of numbers. The rest of the barricading bikes are knocked down one by one. Many of the protesters simply flee, but some attempt to reform the column even as the police deploy pepper spray in a bid to halt their progress. Scream erupt from the front of the column, but there's no way to go but forward here, and forward the protesters go, pushing even the line of armed riot cops back and spilling out into the deepening night.