Logs:Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity, and the rod of anger will fail.

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Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity, and the rod of anger will fail.

cn: racism, antisemitism, police violence, regular violence

Dramatis Personae

Jax, Clint, Hive, Matt, Blink, Leo, Steve, Spencer, Ryan, Kieow, Tian-shin, Polaris, Wendy, Winona, Tag, Daiki, Shane, Scramble, Dusk, Isra

2020-10-16


"It ain't gonna be enough till the whole system's burned to the ground and we got space to build a new world in its ashes."

Location

<NYC> Lower East Side


friday. 16 october. 5:55 pm. e. broadway & clinton.

Jax was a very recognizable figure long before these fresh round of protests began. There have been so very many like them, this vigil a sadly familiar one for some of the crowd here. By the third straight day of unrest, even those who were unfamiliar protest faces on Tuesday -- a lot more neat button-downs, polo shirts, khakis, long skirts and modest sweaters than are usual following yet another death at the hands of the NYPD -- are paying closer attention when he speaks. Up on a makeshift truckbed stage, bright peacock-hued hair and too-shadowed eyes in his too-pale face, the clear exhaustion etched into his expression has not cut the fire from his voice.

"-- sick of people tweeting or going on the radio or writing articles 'bout what a shame this was because -- because he was a doctor, because he volunteered with kids, was a good churchgoin' man -- this is exhausting. This is disgusting. Don't nobody have to earn the right not be gunned down in the streets. If he was poor, if he was Black, if he done dropped outta high school or took drugs, then are y'all gonna watch the cops shoot him on video and buy their lies? Don't even have to ask that cuz we see the answer every week in this country. I loved him. I loved him. But it ain't enough to be out here for just him. It ain't gonna be enough till the whole system's burned to the ground and we got space to build a new world in its ashes."

---

friday. 16 october. 6:25. e. broadway & clinton.

The man on the stage now is impeccably groomed, in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks. He came up with notes on a small stack of index cards, but hasn't glanced at them for most of his speech, and now lowers them altogether as he draws toward his conclusion. "I think a lot of people, outside the Church and in, felt that Dawson's radicalism was somehow contradictory with his religious convictions. I think it's just the opposite." His eyes lift up momentarily to the twilit sky as he draws an unsteady breath. "Dawson Allred was a revolutionary because of his faith, not in spite of it--because he truly believed it was our mission to change the world, and acted accordingly." He swallows hard, hesitating. "A lot of us would do well to heed his testimony and follow his Christlike example. Thank you, Brothers and Sisters, and God bless."

Clint has been here since the start of the rally, just another unremarkable face. As the speaker gives the stage back to the MC, though, he starts weaving his way through the crowd toward him. "Excuse me, Mister--" He hesitates. "--Elder? Jensen?" Now that he has the man's attention, Clint doesn't seem to know what to do. "I didn't know Fli--Dawson very well, but what you said, that...it spoke to me. The same way his actions did." His eyes drop to his calloused hands, ever so briefly. "If you have a moment, I--I'd like to talk."

---

friday. 16 october. 7:30. e. broadway & clinton.

Hive has been sitting on an upturned plastic bucket, shoulders hunched in his tatty corduroy jacket and his cheek smushed up against his palm, elbow propped on a knee. It's hard to say how much attention he's paid to the day's speechmaking, chanting, music, but he is looking up very slowly as a skinny white kid with a host of tattoos and several different antifascist pins on their jacket comes to drop down onto the curb beside him. "Yeah," the kid offers him a sympathetic half-smile, "I'm starting to get a little checked out of all this too, right? I mean, I knew him alright from around Chimaera but --" A small shrug. "Don't get me wrong he was so nice but he wasn't exactly --" Their hands turn up, and drop back to their knees. "Like where's all this energy for our actual comrades, you know? I'm not sure lionizing barely-liberal religious fanatics is exactly the kind of energy that's going to create change right now."

Hive's eyes have settled somewhere more past the other person than on them -- but somewhere in the middle of this his mind has trained very sharply. There's a stirring, a sluggish but intent gathering of psionic energy that starts to fixate itself heavy and sure and coldly furious, centered on the other person's mind.

Slumped in his wheelchair, bundled up ashen and gaunt, Matt also does not look particularly engaged with the events swirling around them. Even so, his hypervigilance--using his own senses as well as Hive's--has been feeding steady updates to the off-site dispatchers. His swift enraged impulse at the casual ideological policing is also to hurt this person, but he pulls back with the ease of long practice and gently defuses Hive's loading attack. "Dawson Allred," he says coolly, "lived the revolution for ten years and more. Whether for God, or Marx, or Mickey godsdamnned Mouse, he walked into the firestorm again and again to snatch our little lives from the jaws of the state." Here his tone goes abruptly, disturbingly sweet, his bright green eyes glittering with menace above his skeletal smile. "But I suppose that doesn't count for much next to your Jacobin subscription, mmm?"

---

friday. 16 october. 8:00. e. broadway & jefferson.

Off at the edge of the crowd, small knots of counter-protestors have been gathering. A few of them have picket signs or even flags, but for the most part they have shown up armed with words. "Concepcion is a terrorist!" shouts a stylishly dressed woman with a sign that reads HUMANITY FIRST. "Allred got what was coming to him for aiding and abetting a foreign national in attacking the great United States of America!"

Blink is just exiting a little eatery around the corner, one of the few in the area still open and willing to let protesters use their restrooms, and stops short as she comes face to face with with the shouting woman. She flushes angrily and shouts back, "Leo is a hero, and so is -- was Dawson. Did you even bother paying attention to what happened? Or to the statistics on Guardian attacks?"

The riot police who showed up a while ago only to be bored by speeches and music have been paying the human hecklers no heed at all. At least, they haven't until Blink spoke up. Presently they insert themselves between the Humanity First woman and Blink, shoving the mutant away with their riot shields. "Move along," one of them says gruffly, "or we're taking you in right now."

---

friday. 16 october. 8:25. e. broadway & clinton.

Leo has been trying his best not to draw much attention to himself today, but for all his best intentions these efforts prove quite futile. He's very quiet when he answers the barrage of What Really Happened interrogations, answers growing rote as the evening wears on; quiet, too, with the very intermittent thanks or condolences that are offered his way. It is not his typical softspoken demurral that's stayed his words right now, though. His posture has gone very still, his dark eyes very fixed, arms folded across his chest and his thumb squeezing slowly down at the crease of his jacket. His gaze fixes on the stubbled red-eyed face of the taller and broader white man opposite him; it's hard to say how much of the other man's clipped-hard words are sinking in.

"-- wouldn't even be out here if it weren't for you. You think we haven't noticed? How much time, how much energy have decent men, good citizens, spent helping you flout the law?" The man's forefinger is jabbing at Leo's chest, harder with each staccato punctuation of his words, though Leo doesn't look down at this, nor move. There's just a little bit less color in his cheeks, a little harder press to his fingers. "He would still be here if you'd just have gone back where. you. belong."

Steve has been patient beside Leo, though not exactly unobtrusive himself, dressed in black and wearing the shield on his arm tonight rather than his back. When the jabbing finger actually starts makes forceful contact with Leo, though, he casually inserts himself between the two other men, his powerful physical presence itself a warning even if he has lifted no hand to strike. "That's enough, sir," he says levelly. "I suggest you go home and take a long, hard look at whose side you're on, because it sounds an awful lot like you're blaming fascist violence on a man who risks everything to save lives. It's no less than Dawson would do, and what he died doing." His voice breaks on 'died', and his next words are grated out low between clenched teeth. "Walk. Away."

---

friday. 16 october. 8:25. e. broadway & clinton.

Spencer hasn't touched the foil-wrapped burrito (marked with the letters 'V' and 'K' as well as a heart) handed to him by a solicitous passing Care Bear. Pale and exhausted, he's currently occupied with squinting up in growing befuddlement at the crusty punk who's decided to accost them. As he rambles, it's becoming increasingly obvious that decision was motivated by the boy's 'B'tzelem Elohim' t-shirt and his DNA heart kippah.

"-- this all happened because your elders put their investment over Dawson's life," the punk continues in ever-greater agitation. "I mean don't get me wrong, I don't think it's Leo's fault he got turned into a pawn in the game of cultural hegemony. Oscorp wants a piece of that pie, too. But we all know you people shun vaccines, right?" This while pointing a finger directly at the Hebrew text on Spencer's chest. "And now you're trying to get control over vaccine production with no transparency? That's mad sketchy!"

Ryan has been a quiet presence beside Spencer, through long practice ignoring the stares and surreptitious snapshots turned his way. His brows are hiking up and up and up as this rant continues, though. "Of all the fucking times --" Somewhere around the time the agitated punk's finger lifts, he's stepping in between, cutting off his view of the boy; there's a sharp anger in his eyes. One tight-clenched fist is lifting, a solid hard snap to the other man's jaw. Gritted hard through clenched teeth: "That's enough."

---

friday. 16 october. 9:35. montgomery & broadway.


As the protest rages on, Kieow finds herself further and further away from the secluded spot she first watched from. It's hard for her tired mind to keep up with, conversations mixed with chants and counter protests. Her hands wring as she squints over the crowds, trying to make out the words on a sign that is partially turned away and waving a little too frantically. She drifts gently with the flow of the crowd, keeping her feet carefully on the sidewalk.

What she doesn't see is a wave of counter protesters trickling in from a side street. The group looks fresh, or at least their signs do, as do their suspiciously well groomed hair styles. They glance here and there as they start to infiltrate, joining in with mumbling noises instead of crisp words that the others use.

One makes his way down the sidewalk and sees Kieow standing there, distracted. He deliberately grabs her by her upper arms and directs her toward the nearest shop window. "If you're mad and you're protesting, you gotta break shit! That's the only way to get your point across. Get angry! Burn it all down! That's how Allred would have wanted it!" He yanks hard on her arm again, aiming her elbow into the glass.

Tian-shin is walking rapidly, though not running, through the protest, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a lime green NLG Legal Observer cap on her head. She does a double take at the sight of her student being manhandled. "Hey!" she barks at the man, then rushes him. "Leave her alone!" The counterprotester breaks and flees, and Tian-shin rushes to Kieow's side, her eyes wide. "Oh, honey--come with me, let's get you somewhere safe."

---

friday. 16 october. 10:10. e. broadway & grand.

The crowd has been restive once night has fallen; as energy grows, a few of the marshals have shepherded some of the more active members into a splinter march, breaking off down Grand. The mostly youth crowd hasn't gotten far from the group, though, before -- thud. thud. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. There's a half-dozen Guardians clanking down to block off their path, looming and glowing-eyed. Their expressionless faces probably do not hold any malice, but they're far from calming. The defiant chants of the marchers grow louder where they've stopped in place in the street.

It takes approximately thirty seconds from landing to the first flashbang -- shot directly at the face of a young Black girl with long clawed fingers just at the front of the crowd. The grenade doesn't hit her, nor does the next one another bot has fired from the side. They thunk, bright, loud, but harmless, off the sudden solid prismatic dome that has surrounded the young crowd; just at its edge, Jax's teeth are gritting, hands balled into fists.

Polaris, evidently unaccompanied now despite earlier assurances, surges to the front of the crowd. Her clothing is already rumpled from some tussel, her hair flying wild, her eyes blazing. The sound that wells up out of her is no louder than the shouting and chanting, but it has an unearthly quality, somewhere between a furious roar and a wail of grief. Not all at once though in very rapid succession, the Guardians crumple like aluminum cans crushed in a great, invisible fist, their limbs and even heads scattering loose as they collapse inert to the pavement. By the time her breath runs out in a shuddering sob, the robots are little more than heaps of debris in their path.

---

friday. 16 october. 10:10 pm. pitt & grand.

The distant thump of landing Guardians is drowned out, here, by the sharply barked warnings through the LRAD mounted on top of the tanklike police truck. Despite letting everyone know that this is an Illegal Assembly, the police have not, in fact, given the crowd room to disperse; no sooner has the first announcement been issued than the tight wall of riot police are pressing in at the crowd, hemming them tighter in together.

Wendy is not in the street. She has been standing up on tip-toes on a tree planter, eyes squinted through the haze of smoke and stinging gas and her phone clutched tight in her hand. "I still don't see --" she's fretting, just before a hard plastic shield slams into her back, knocking her off the sidewalk planter and into the gutter just ahead of the second warning to clear the roads.

Winona is holding up her camera to film the line of cops, riot gear making them look equally inhuman to the sentinels, and just as compassionate. A bandana is tied around her mouth, but her eyes water from the stinging air. When Wendy goes down, she whirls towards her friend, her camera still pointed forward. "Shit, come on--"

But just as her companion, she is shortly cut off by the swing of a baton that causes her to drop unceremoniously to the concrete. As most of the other officers press on, with little worry about trampling the women, a couple stay behind to perform the arrests, combatting any perceived resistance, existent or not, to the full extent of the law.

---

friday. 16 october. 11:15 pm. e broadway & montgomery

"Medic!" The frantic cry goes up near the front line shortly after another barrage of rubber bullets, nearly drowned out by the din of the panicking crowd, the police shouting to the protesters and one another, and the helicopters circling overhead.

Standing beside Tag where he's down on one knee to assess a bloody head injury is a young white person in a black tactical vest adorned with a brand new NYCAM patch. In fact, everything about this medic looks brand new, from their copious gear to the terrified expression on their face. "Shit, the cops are coming, and there's another patient!" They cast around, dark eyes searching the crowd. There's an edge of hysteria in their voice now. "There's not enough of us, we have to split up--"

"Avi!" Tag cuts them off, no less urgently for the steadiness of his tone. He does not look up from their patient. "Avi, you gotta stay with me. Tell dispatch we need two more teams and transport, ASAP." His jaw sets tight for a moment as he spares a glance around at the chaos. To their patient he says, "Alright, friend, we have to get out of here, so this is what we're gonna do..."

---

friday. 16 october. 11:20 pm. Daiki's Apartment

Daiki sits seiza at his chabudai, his own laptop as well as a cheap sticker-covered burner machine both open in front of him -- the former playing half a dozen live streams and the police scanner, the latter with several overlapping virtual spreadsheets open. Currently, the one reading "Active Medic Teams" is on top, and he's just shifted one of the rows from the "Clinic" section to "En route".

"I'm afraid we can't get any medics to you just yet, but a pair of Carebears are one their way. Please stay put and wait for them as long as the scene is safe, and update us if you must move," he's imploring the person on the other end of his headset even while his fingers are texting furiously:

  • (Dispatch --> Tag, Avi): Dispatch 1120, 1 team on the way, ~10 min out, transport will meet you at Broadway & Grand in ~5 min, deep blue GMC van, driver will text.

He's only just ended the call when the dispatch phone rings in his hand again. He closes his eyes and taps a button on the headset. "This is LES action comms..."

---

saturday. 17 october. 12:05 am. clinton & broome.

The sting of tear gas in the air is sort of omnipresent, but it isn't as thick down here as on other blocks. Shane's inner eyelids have still closed, his gills pressed flat against his neck, but just at the moment his focus isn't the scratchy hacky white particulate. His eyes are fixed up on a much taller man -- several others at his back -- they don't have a lot by way of markings or insignia to brand them, but the hard-edged smile he wears and tire iron he's thumping against one palm as he stares down the small blue mutant in his Mongrels cut make his intentions clear all the same. "You all," the leader is hissing, taking a step forward, "have been a fucking plague on this neighborhood long enough. You think you can just come in and invade our homes? Bring this trouble into our goddamn backyards? It is long past time for you to go the fuck back --"

It's about as far as this speech gets. Shane has been quiet, has been still; when the man brandishes the tire iron higher he snaps into motion, far quicker than any ordinary human could manage. The length of metal swishes only through air, clunks to the ground a moment before the man himself does, arm gashed wide.

"Ain't no home for us to go back to," Scramble sounds oddly conversational about this, for someone about to wade into a brawl. She's also in her MMMC cut, dressed stylishly if practically for a long night outside. When Shane leaps aside she breaks into the other direction, slower than he but moving with a kind of fluid confidence in the strength of her lanky limbs. She throws a punch at the next nearest of their opponents, and though he doesn't go down he shrieks and immediately flees. "It's on account'a shitstains like you we gotta make our own homes everywhere we go."

---

saturday. 17 october. 1:15 am. nypd 7th precinct.

Jail cell doors were not designed for this. The cameras and security system in here have long since been shorted out and though the walls here are sturdy, they're not near sturdy enough: it takes only a grit of teeth, boots solidly planted, for Dusk to pry one door after another out of the grooves, leaving the holding cells open. "Come on." His voice is low but urgent; beyond it the continued pop-pop-pop, yelling, chants, sirens, can be heard still out in the night beyond. "We need to get out of here, right now."

Like a misplaced gargoyle, Isra has been waiting patient and still on the rooftop with a large bag that decidedly does not contain soup for her family. As soon as she receives the all-clear signal, she swoops down, a deeper shadow in the night, methodically firebombing the exits to the police station. On her last pass, she arms one of the remaining incendiary devices and hurls the entire bag through a second-story office window, then soars up and away on the sudden updraft from the spectacular explosion that follows.

---

saturday. 17 october. 1:25 am. nypd 7th precinct.

The grey clouds lurking overhead all day have finally begun making good on their threat -- just a drizzle, not nearly enough to cool the heat coming from the fierce blaze across the street. The flames crackle high, casting a ruddy glow that is given a tiny mirror in the butt end of Hive's cigarette, held between knobbly calloused fingers where he sits on the curb. He draws in another breath, eyes drifting half-closed on the smoke, the ember, the larger roar across the street, the heat washing dry and dangerous over his skin.

Somewhere past there's another wash, and it is, maybe, this one that the telepath is soaking in still further. Beyond the smashed-in exits, a chaos of fear and pain and panic from the handful of officers still trapped inside. Hive exhales a heavy stream of smoke, expression placid as he tips his face up towards the rain.