Logs:Evolving Threats
| Evolving Threats | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2020-10-13 "No!" |
| Location
<NYC> Varick Immigration Court - Greenwich Village | |
It's a beautiful fall day in the village, and a crowd of hundreds has gathered on Varick Street in what's become a regular sight in front of the infamous Manhattan immigration court building. The block has been closed to traffic and the media is here in force -- far more than might normally be expected -- along with plenty of rubberneckers hovering at the edges of the event. Neither the NYPD officers nor ICE agents on scene look particularly bothered by the demonstration, the end-point rally of an earlier march put on by a coalition of local immigrant defense organizations. A small mobile stage and excellent professional amplification have been set up for the string of keynote speakers, and the live interpreters have their own little clusters of Spanish- and Mandarin- speakers around them. The current speaker has drawn the vast majority of the attention from curious onlookers and media alike. Steve dressed down today for the march, but his presence is no less commanding in a beaten brown leather jacket over a red t-shirt with stark black text on the chest reading 'NEVER AGAIN', perfectly fitted blue jeans, and polished black combat boots. His iconic shield, a white star in a blue field ringed with red and white concentric stripes, gleams bright in the sunlight. "...this is a fight for every American, and there is a role for every single one of us," he's asserting, to nods and a few whoops from the gathered crowd. "I encourage everyone who has not already done so to sign up for direct action alerts. We must protect our neighbors, in the courts or in the streets or in our own homes." He pauses for the enthusiastic uproar of assent before concluding with, "Thank you again for showing up today, and please give a warm welcome to our next speaker, a remarkable young woman and fellow Brooklynite whose tireless coalition building brought this action together: Ms. Alicia Garcia!" He adjust the microphone stand down as he yields his place to a diminutive Latina with a smile and hops off the stage. A harried-looking person who has been bustling about backstage with a clipboard approaches him and whispers something in his ear, and Steve nods, clapping them on the shoulder, before making his way with confident strides toward the mass of reporters who have been waiting eagerly for him but held well back from the stage by the event's marshals. Compelling though speaking with Commie Captain America may be, even the most eager reporters are briefly distracted by the shadow that circles overhead, cameras turning momentarily up to capture the dragonfly swooping lower. Gleaming and metallic blue with brilliant iridescent wings, Sugar is enough of a spectacle on her own it is for a moment easy to overlook the fact she's wearing a carefully worked saddle, bearing an equally colorful rider. The dragonfly seems unperturbed by the crowd -- which clears, somewhat, to give her space to land nearby where the reporters have been waiting for Steve. Jax is a lot more clearly anxious, even paler than his usual, a redness to his eye that isn't just accounted for by the depression of the large rainbowy goggles that he's flipping up off his face as he hops down off his perch. He's still dressed from work, dark slacks with bold contrast stitching and a wind-rumpled button down in bright asymmetrically cross-hatched purple and teal to match his peacock-hued hair. He runs his fingers through his hair, drops his hands to wring them together as he looks toward Steve over the throng. Takes a deep breath and starts pushing his way through the press towards the other man. The movement in the air sets Steve instantly alert, dropping into a fighting stance and pulling the shield from his back. But he freezes when he sees the rider, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion back to surprise again. "Jax?" he blurts, bewildered. He remains rooted in place as the dragonfly lands, and its it's only when their eyes meet that he moves again, his surprise quickly changing to concern. "Make way, please!" he calls out, his voice carrying easily without amplification as he hastens to the other man, shield still clutched in his left hand. "What happened?" he asks, low, nevermind that there are hundreds of eyes fixed on them, dozens of recording devices -- to count only the professional ones. Jax just shakes his head. He reaches a hand for Steve's elbow -- starts to drop it -- reaches out again to start to guide Steve back towards the enormous dragonfly. "I'm really sorry to interrupt, can we -- we should go. Somewhere --" His eyes dart to the throng of reporters, his voice strained. "Somewhere else. Please." There's a young man near the front of the crowd -- crisp black coat, wire-rimmed glasses, Fox News press pass -- who has been glancing briefly down at his phone as Jax arrives, but looks up now at Steve with wide eyes while the Captain makes his way to Jax. "Captain, before you go, please. This latest news that's coming out -- this incident with Leonid Concepcion and this other -- ah. You're out here today to make a statement about immigration, but what do you have to say about the law enforcement still working to keep New York safe in the face of these constantly, ah, evolving threats. We don't know how many more people might have died if the Guardians weren't there to take out this Dawson Allred individual -- it is clear that the threat posed by mutants like him is immense." Steve nods and starts to follow Jax, then hesitates when the reporter addresses him, brows furrowing. He lifts his neatly bandaged right hand to forestall the question, and looks about to interrupt, but at the sound of Leo's name he shuts his mouth again. His pale blue eyes go wide. Skip aside to Jax, his posture, the evidence of recent weeping. His breath catches, the shield slipping from his hand as he sways on his feet. "No," is quiet, easily drowned out now that other reporters are clamoring, too. "No..." Louder, desperate, his breath coming quick. But when his gaze snaps back to the reporter it is sharp and furious. "No!" This time loud enough to shout down the din. His left arm winds back and he throws a punch -- glacial and flimsy by his standards but still much too fast for most to dodge and hard enough to dislocate a jaw -- directly at the reporter's face. Jax's shoulders tense further when the man starts talking. He's almost starting to tug Steve away anyway, but freezes, a faint sickly glimmer fluttering around him and then dying at the question. "You all got no kind of shame." His voice is lower than Steve's. A faint shimmering wall blossoms carefully to life between them and the reporters, a sort of solid tunnel fencing them off from any further questioning; it severs at least a couple microphones in the process of coalescing and forces a few of the throng to take hasty steps back. He curls an arm around Steve's waist, ushering him quickly toward Sugar and offering a hand up into the saddle. Steve doesn't move, at first. His eyes are still fixed in the direction of the man he just knocked down, but are not focused on him at all. It takes a moment for him to shake the trance, and he brings one foot down on the edge of his shield where it lies face-down in the street, flipping it back up into his hand. He allows Jax to whisk him away, unresisting and seemingly insensible to the shocked stares and shouted questions that follow them, the experimental tapping from the other side of the shield. Though his strides are as smooth and confident as ever he's trembling hard beneath Jax's arm through this whole trip. He shows no sign of being put off, now, by the prospect of riding on a gigantic predatory insect. Only returns his shield to its harness and lets his friend pull him up, tears streaming from his eyes. Finally, so soft that only Jax and Sugar can hear, "Please, God, no..." | |
