Logs:Freaks for Freaktown

Freaks for Freaktown
Dramatis Personae Quentin, Sriyani, Roscoe, Dallen	2024-04-23 "We should take care of each other. Who else is going to?"
Location <NYC> Riverdale
It's not really Freaktown -- that's just the other side of the street, still bright and garish, string lights festooning the hand-painted sign that marks this particular "border" of the autonomous zone. It still looks pretty freaky, though -- this large contingent of protesters that have gathered skews towards the Loudly Mutant. Not far away -- not far enough away -- there's a much bigger crowd, their signs ("Save Our Homes!" "Where are OUR rights?" "Make Riverdale family-friendly again!", a large :no: drawn over a silhouette of a horned, tail'd person) considerably less supportive. Quentin does not -- currently -- have a sign. Until a minute ago he'd been holding one that said "If you're so scared of mutants why keep pissing us off?", but the sign has disappear (its message has replaced the MUTIE SCUM that used to be on his shirt) so that he can climb partway up a large tree shading the sidewalk. He's peering over -- past the line of cops who are looming near the protest and to the mass of cops who are milling around the edges of Freaktown Proper. "They can't just -- arrest everyone in there. Can they?" "Are they arresting people? Are they arresting people now?" Sriyani is short and, despite rocking up onto their tiptoes, can not see past the crowd or, even, past the large and boldly colored wings of the person in front of them (flared wide so that the FREE -KTOWN that has been painted across their insides can be properly read.) They're in comfortable loose jeans and a HOLLAND WAS RIGHT tee, their own sign ('none of us are free until all of us are free') kind of lazily slung over one shoulder. "Anyway they could totally arrest everyone in there, cops don't care. It'd be one biiig kettle, though." Roscoe is pretty short, too, though he's not bothering to stand on tiptoes -- he is just squinting through this crowd, scanning around much faster and less methodically than he usually would, shifting his weight between his feet. He has no sign, no protest tee; his face is almost entirely eclipsed by a light yellow baseball cap and a black surgical face mask, the ear loops twisted to fit his small face; his hands are just wrapped around himself, holding his elbows. He's wearing very plain clothes -- plain white t-shirt, black basketball shorts -- but still very anxious that they will recognize him (he has not defined who "they" is; probably it does not matter.) "They're not going in yet," he says, but -- "Seems like there's enough of 'em. I'unno why they're waiting for. How -- many people live here?" Dallen has been hovering near Quentin since they arrived, looking slightly and feeling extremely ill at ease, but hasn't climbed up after him, at least. They are wearing a neat green short-sleeve button down, black corduroys, hiking boots, ear defenders, and a sturdy black backpack embroidered with his initials. The hearing protection clearly isn't meant to block out everything, as he has been answering his schoolmates, if only monosyllabically for the most part, and he's been keeping his distress neatly confined to the silicone fidget bracelet (it reads "Choose the Right" on one side and "Cease to be Idle" on the other) he's twisting between his hands. Well, externally, anyway. His mind is a ceaseless churn of vague misgivings he cannot name overshadowed by too many people and too much noise. But now he looks up, blinking at Quentin. Then he stands on tip-toe to see whether they are, indeed, arresting people. Then blinks at Sriyani. "A big kettle of what?" Quentin is hopping back down -- it's probably a little too high where he's climbed up to to safely just jump down, but he lands very lightly. "Lotta cops. They're all just standing around." The derision in his tone makes Just Standing Around manage to sound like an inherently hateful police action in itself. He's got one eye slightly squinted up, head tilted as if listening, before: "-- S'thousands of people in there, I don't know how many of them live there. Bet they're just waiting for the crowd to die down. Cops love to start violence when there's fewer people watching." As though this has reminded him why they're here, a sign reappears in his hands: 'FREAK FOR FREAKTOWN'. "What do they think's gonna happen if they just kick that many people out of their homes?" "Kettle is like -- when the cops totally surround a big group of people 'cuz they're gonna make huge numbers of arrests," offers Sriyani, whose idle mental pagination through Many Kettles they have been in is pretty blase. "But if you work together you can still break through. Sometimes." They drop back down to their heels and are watching Quentin with a touch of wariness, easing only when he lands safely. "They're pigs they don't care about that. You want homes, should've thought of that before becoming peasants." Roscoe pulls his arms in closer to himself, breaking out of the restless scan through the crowds and the closest houses to look at Sriyani, eyebrows furrowed. "What do they think's gonna happen if they arrest them," sounds very vague and hypothetical, like a thought experiment, but Roscoe is thinking about the powder keg that Lassiter was, about the measures that had been necessary to keep hundreds of mutants in line. With sudden vehemence -- "Bet they wish they could throw 'em all back in the labs and forget about us again." Dallen frowns, but is quiet while the others speak. He isn't just being patient or polite -- though he does try very hard at both, in general -- he's mentally reviewing the things he's heard and read about Freaktown. Almost none of it seems to be verifiably true, and the picture they're forming isn't very coherent, but that's fine, probably. The parts that don't match tell him what he needs to ask, or look up, but the whole process is slow and taxing and frustrating right now. "Did the people in Freaktown really kick other people out of their homes?" he asks softly, unable to gauge the volume of his own muffled voice. "Before it was Freaktown. That's what the news said. But I don't think that makes sense." Quentin's eyes narrow, but he's nodding along with Roscoe. "I'm sure they'd like to. But that's not going to happen. We can --" His brows furrow, and maybe it's because he hasn't quite hit on the answer yet that he's pivoting to answer Dallen: "'course the news would say that. These rich flatscans weren't using these houses anyway. Off at their sixth country home but they're crying like someone shoved them out at gunpoint so some mutant kids could have a place to sleep. If anybody actually cared this wouldn't even have had to happen." He can no longer see over the crowd, not exactly, but he's still tipping his chin up as if his glare could reach the milling Freaktown Cop Army. "Kinda garbage when you think about it. We're living with a billionaire's resources and a private army to keep us safe, how do they not deserve a roof to sleep under." "They wish, but it can't happen," Sriyani says firmly, not entirely sure if they are reassuring Roscoe or themselves. But their face is scrunching uncertainly after this. "But what... would they do?" They're rolling their weight to the side, biting down on their lower lip. "It's not like we're short on resources at the school, we could be doing more." Roscoe bites down on his lip too; so so tentatively he is thinking back and prodding up some old bitterness, deep down, that he had done his best to bury and move past -- contempt and mean-spirited amusement and shock and hurt and vicious cloying envy, all at the thought that these kids could count on being rescued, these kids had adults in their corner to bail them out. It all resurfaces with uncomfortable ease -- he steals another weird glance sideways at Sriyani, then looks back across the crowd at the first row of houses. "What could we do," he says. "He could probably buy all these houses and it wouldn't -- they don't want freaks and criminals anywhere. They're scared of us." Dallen frowns at the back of the person standing in front of him, his mind is spinning and spinning on the notion that the people living beyond the police line are going to be ripped from their homes by those who do not even need the homes themselves. He's holding this up against painted scenes from LDS history of early Mormons -- how they built and thrived by the law of consecration, and how they were driven from town after town, state after state -- but they don't really seem to fit together even though he's sure there's something in there... He sucks a sharp breath and looks up at his roommate, whose conclusion has clicked satisfyingly into place, connecting his scattered pieces. "It's not just us being mutants..." He's trying to distill words out of the paintings and the stories behind them and the "they're scared of us" that resonates like a disturbing minor chord through history and through the noise bombarding him now. "It's us being...communities. That scares them. Buying the houses won't change that." Now he's remembering why the law of consecration is no longer practiced, with a deep sense of loss that he does not fully understand. "But we should take care of each other, anyway." For a moment, still glaring defiantly cop-ward, hand balling hard at his fist, it seems very like Quentin's "We could --" is going to resolve in some proposition of imminent action. But then he eases -- looks to Roscoe. To Sriyani. To Dallen. His jaw tightens, and eases. "It's pretty messed up that other people don't have anyone to count on. If the X-Men are so committed to the community, they could be taking a stand. Actually being on the side of people who need it." He bops a fist lightly against Dallen's shoulder. "We should take care of each other. Who else is going to?"