ArchivedLogs:Peaceful Assembly

Peaceful Assembly
Or some approximation thereof.
Dramatis Personae Eric, Gina, Jim, Melinda, Rasheed, Shane, Tatters, Lily
In Absentia	2012-12-20 Eviction Day at the Open Door Shelter turns less than pleasant.
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. Not generally the busiest of blocks, the late afternoon this Thursday finds one segment of the Lower East Side a good deal more trafficked than is its usual. On one streetcorner stands a building, not particularly distinctive or noteworthy by itself; tall brick, somewhat grubby in the style of much of this street, though someone has attempted to make it cheerful by dint of applying bright blue paint to its front door and shutters. The cheer is only middling-successful, today; though generally the Open Door is a quiet refuge for people who would otherwise be out on the streets, today it is anything but quiet. A crowd has gathered, some with signs ("Mutants Off Our Streets!" reads one in incongruously cheerful glittery-purple; "Everyone Needs Homes" counters another, scrawled in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard), some chanting, some just gawking. A desultory sprinkling of cameras is scattered through the crowd, perhaps a few from credentialed press and a glut from the cameraphones of bloggers. Through this noise, at the moment, a pair of uniformed police officers are escorting a young man out of the shelter's door. Freckle-faced, sandy-brown haired, clothes old and worn but clean, he does not look like the most intimidating of persons, although his face right now is creased deep into lines of anger. "-- didn't do /any/ /fucking/ /thing/," he is yelling, not at the police but back towards the shelter doors. Not that this stops the eviction. Two of the members of Team Gawker are standing near the edge of the crowd: one largish figure all bundled up against the winter and a smaller girl standing on her tiptoes to see with a look of curiosity and concern on her face. The girl is blonde and youngish, but the other is anyone's guess, face hidden behind a hood and a scarf (it looks like she's wearing a sweatshirt under her winter coat) and hands firmly in her pockets. The girl leans in to murmer something into the larger figure's ear, prompting a noncommital shrug. Amongst the paparazzi feeder fish is one man considerably older than the eager beaver photog legion, and considerably less energetic to get the most dramatic angle. Jim stands in tweed today, an off-yellow-green that's seen better days, if you glimpse the loose thread at his shoulder, or the off-center patches sewn on the elbows that are possibly necessary more than stylish (though if they intend for the latter, they're failing.) His face has a militant grimace that is almost a smile. Really not. It's just knowing and aged, standing flatfooted with feet apart as an island as he watches the young man being pulled from the shelter with one eye winked shut. The other is behind his camera, snapping mechanically in a machinegun sweep, left to right. The protestors. The signs. The people as of yet unseen beyond the doors. Snap. Snap. Snap. Shane doesn't have a sign, but he is noticeable all the same, bright blue face unhidden by hood or cap and his lips pulled back in something that might be a smile if not for its gritted nature and preponderance of razor-sharp teeth. He is near the front of the crowd, arms crossed over his chest as he rocks up onto his toes to peer towards the door. "Fucking pigs," is his eloquent descriptor of the situation, directed to nobody in particular. And, louder, towards the shelter, "-- You even finding these folks a place to /go/ or just throwing them out like trash?" Rasheed is not dressed much like a protestor. Neat suit, neat tie, neat peacoat over top, he watches the proceedings with an almost abstracted air. Lips compressed. Forefinger tapping idly against the crook of his arm where it sits. His contribution to the proceedings is to step forward, as one unfortunate soul is extracted from their erstwhile home, and offer out a business card between forefinger and thumb to the once-again-homeless youth. "It isn't a shelter," he is saying, almost apologetically, "but our social workers can help you find a place. If you need one." Stepping carefully around the outskirts of the crowd, Eric's eyes are continuously scanning the group of people. His navy blue uniform and cap stands out among the crowd, as does the policeman's badge on his chest and the NYPD logo on his cap. He does not, at least, have riot gear on - none of the officers currently do. He steps into the crowd, a pleasant smile on his face, as he walks between the two groups of protesters, eyes flicking from one side to the other. "I /had/ one," the freckle-faced young man is saying angrily, jerking a shoulder away from the restraining hold of one police officer to, nevertheless, /snatch/ at Rasheed's card. And snarl towards the shuttering cameras in the crowd. "THE FUCK ARE YOU ALL LOOKING --" The '--at' is cut short as he is urged forward, another recalcitrant (ex-)resident escorted out of the shelter behind him. The next person to leave is more noticeably mutanty, from the dark scales that flow up her forearms to her yellow eyes. She doesn't seem angry. Head hung, brows creased. From somewhere in the crowd, a water bottle is flung, smacking her in the shoulder of her ratty grey jacket. "... is ridiculous. You're throwing out people you know and have worked with before," Melinda Chylds' voice can be heard by people close to the inside before the woman herself appears in the doorway, gesturing at the person being taking away. "It flies in the face of why we try to help people to start with! Can't you see how damaging this is? Worse that whatever was'serface did." Lips pursed, hands on her hips, she stares out at the gathering crowds, surprised. She takes a few deep breathes and smoothes her button down shirt over her waist and slacks. She glances back inside, long and hard at the person she is lecturing. "Are you going to make a statement to the press?" "HOY." Tatters steps forwards from her position along the sidelines, cupping her hands to her face and calling out in the direction from which the water bottle had come. "SOMEONE OUGHTA WRITE YOU UP FOR LITTERING." She grumps and crosses her arms over her chest, looking disgusted. "I understand there's a fine." Beside her, the blonde girl facepalms. A zoomed in shot of cards exchanging hands - snap. A blue toothy face calling out - snap. The crowd of hungrily snapping film and clicking cell phones and possibly one adventurous old-school shoulder-film-cam raises what almost sounds like a breathy approval when the bottle flies, a few catching a fine money shot of it arcing, striking, hitting the ground. Jim has lowered his camera for a moment to turn his head, his significant jaw all the more prominent for the way it's pressed forward in his otherwise stern-fixed face. Tatter's shout earns a grudging 'heh' from him, a shake of his head. "Yeah," he murmurs, possibly not far behind her, "I'm sure they'll get right on that." He spots Melinda - sniper-shot takes a picture, quick raise - click! - quick lower again, holding it just below his chin. "This is gonna get ugly." He's telling no one specifically this. Maybe himself. Grit. "We have to consider what's best for the safety of our residents," answers the woman inside with Melinda, tense and terse as she looks out at the crowd. "We got lucky with the last --" Her lips press together thin. "-- Accident. The safety of this entire community has to come before the comfort of a few dangerous elements." Outside, the young man has been released to -- anywhere. Nowhere. With nowhere much to /go/, he only turns his attention back towards the shelter he just left. The water bottle that flew picks itself up off the ground and flies right /back/ the way it came. A good deal harder than it had at first. "Don't nobody so much care about the assholes throwing /punches/," he is biting back angrily. "But when it's /us/ --" He spits, towards the doorway. Towards the police. Towards everything. "Asshole," Shane is grumbling, not nearly as quippy as Tatters, black eyes turning in the direction of the bottle to glare. "S'ugly already, old man." He is frowning, from the people being escorted out to the people with the cameras, though thoughtful more than angry as his gaze levels on Jim. "Kssh." This is as the bottle flies back, though now his bared teeth is more grin than grimace. "Been ugly a long-ass time." "Hey!" Eric calls out as the bottle is thrown, and then thrown again. He strides towards where the bottle first came from, advancing through the crowd as he glances to the officers doing the eviction. "You do that again, you're spending the night in jail for assault." he calls out, stopping to glare in the direction from where the bottle first flew. He is not, to be fair, addressing anyone in particular - who knows who first threw it. Rasheed ducks the flying bottle, watching its trajectory with a brief furrowing of brow. He tries to approach, too, the second person escorted, but is pushed back by a man angrily yelling at the open door of the -- Open Door. "I think they've made up their mind," he says to Melinda, mild and perhaps a touch regretful. "There are other ways to fight." He still holds a business card between two fingers. "There will always be a dangerous element. We shouldn't prejudice against a whole people group when one person causes a problem - but you've resorted to labels and now there's a huge crowd on the streets," and a riot pending. Melinda's eyes widen when the waterbottle makes its return trip, lips pressed into a fine line, expression melting into concern. She glances at Rasheed and frowns. "It still needs to be said." The flung bottle is flung right /back/, from -- somewhere in the press of crowd. Towards Eric, this time. The freckle-faced youth is stiff and uncertain, angry in his looks towards the shelter but ultimately turning back into the crowd. With a distinctly discomfited look towards all the cameras. "This entertaining to you?" he is sniping irritably towards the nearest picture-taker, trying to make his way through the pack and away from the yelling. Near the front of the crowd a burly young man in a brown knit cap /shoves/ at him, pushing him roughly back towards the door of the shelter. "We don't want your trash," someone calls from behind, in time with the shove. "There will always be a dangerous element, but we don't need to /invite/ it in. We don't allow weapons in the shelter," the woman is telling Melinda crisply. A little less crisply as the young man comes sprawling back onto the sidewalk he just came from. She stands tenser, and does not leave the door. This shove is answered with a snarl from Shane, sharp teeth baring towards the (much!) bigger perpetrator. "Hey," comes with a shove of his own, webbed fingers pressing square to the man's chest and pushing with deceptive strength for his diminutive size. "Fuck's your problem, dude." "Kid," Jim calls back in a dry smoker's voice, "in a scene like this," he snaps a shot of Eric, and a few other fine boys in blue at work, "it can /always/ get uglier." He makes the camera he lifts for another shot of Shane almost the way another person might drop a prankish wink, even cocking his head to the left and his brow /up/ to emphasis it. Though Shane is demonstrating it rather effectively on his own, and Jim is withdrawing prudently, even if a few younger more ambitious photographers rush in to risk life and limb to immortalize the moment. Actually? Tight-smile. Jim takes a picture of the photographers, murmuring under his breath, "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? You happy bastards." He ends up nearer the doors, near Rasheed and Melinda, who are asked two questions: "Having fun yet?" And, "Who's got a light." Because he's got cigarettes covered, his blue eyes set on the first young man out the door, unblinking. "Ugly it is." Tatters grins icely beneath her scarf, her tone one of resigned amusement. "But this one might not go beyond shouting and thr--whoops, nevermind, there it goes." Wigh a grumble she turns to share a look with the blonde girl, who takes a quick glance around to make sure all other eyes are on the confrontation elsewhere, and quickly steps around behind Tatters and vanishes. The bundled figure herself elbows her way through the crowd, firmly speaking a litany of "Oi, s'cuse me, coming through, oi," clearing a path through which she waves those filing out of the shelter. "Through here, folks. Rest of you, out've their way." The displaced crowd seems fairly eager to get out of her way, through whether it's due to her unusual strength or notable smell of sewage is anyone's guess. As the bottle bounces off of Eric's shoulder, he glares and takes a few steps back. He turns and looks around at the crowd, then grabs for the remote microphone at his chest. He pulls it closer to his mouth slightly, as he murmurs down into it. "Patrol to dispatch. Can you get the nearest U-truck out to the Open Door shelter? We've got a 10-50." He gestures his arms backwards towards the crowd towards where the bottle came from. "Back up, back it up," he orders. Not all of the crowd is here for the pleasure of finger-pointing, trouble-making or playing white knight. Some people have to work for a living. FDNY has sent one of their EMS trucks to stand attendance in case the onlookers decide to get handsy. The ambulance is parked cosy to the curb, its lights off and its crew standing vigilant. One of them, an older man with a considerable paunch and no hair to speak of looks bored as he slumps behind the wheel. The other, Gina, is on edge and in uniform. She's standing on the step-up into the cab, the passenger door open and acting like a shield. Her fingers drum on the top of the vehicle's cab and her eyes are locked on the tussle rather than the boys in blue doing their sworn duty. "Might want to wake up, Cameron, things are getting fun," she calls down to her partner. He grunts. Melinda clams up around the press, eyeing Jim and his camera when he steps toward them. She glances to the representative from the shelter and shakes her head. She then looks to Rasheed, and finally to the tussle as well. "I don't smoke." Her eyes lock on Shane, her frown deepening. The yellow-eyed woman turns towards Tatters with an almost relieved look, save the wrinkling of her nose as the sewer-figure approaches. She is all too eager to slip her way away from the crowd, though, clutching her bulky taped-together backpack against her chest protectively. The other man, slowly picking himself off the pavement, is not so quick to retreat, staring with a growing and /sullen/ sort of anger at the crowd. At the shelter. "Make up your fucking /minds/," he is gritting, as he dusts his hands off against his pants. There is a shiver through the crowds, his shoulders tense and unhappy at the clicking of cameras around. Near him, a phone drops out of someone's hand to crack against the asphalt. And then another. The next yanks out of Jim's hand and does not drop but /flies/, shattering against the brick wall of the shelter. "Just wanted a place to /sleep/." And another. This one whizzing past Tatters's head to thud into the shoulder of the man in front of Shane. A man who is none too pleased with this new development, lifting a hand to swat towards the flying cellphone but finding nothing left there to hit. "You freaks are," is what he replies to Shane, almost bland for his gruff detachment. Bland, except for the way his hands fly at Shane again. Less shove, more punch, aimed somewhere gut-high. He is not the only restive face in the street. The flying objects are contributing to a steadily spreading air of panic, percolating as it only can in crowds. The punch draws a quiet oof from Shane, yes, slim form doubling at the fist that connects with him. But, perhaps unnervingly, it also draws a /grin/; the strike he issues in return is open-handed, palm slamming towards gut but more pressingly sharp black claws slicing, too. Through clothing, likely, seeking the soft flesh beneath. His smile now is /definitely/ not a cheerful one. "You want to stand down." Sirens sound in the distance, steadily approaching, and Eric darts through the crowd towards the front where the other officers are. He pulls an expandable baton from his waist, though he does not yet open it fully. He stands in a guard's stance in front of doors of the shelter. He turns to say to the officer next to him, "Maloney, ESU is on its way. You and Mitch go and break that fight up. I'll hold the doors until they get here. If it gets ugly, pull out and wait for ESU." "Yes," Rasheed answers Jim distractedly, initially offering the man -- his business card. Before he remembers to put it away and pat his pocket down for a lighter. Which he finds, but does not /offer/, only watching in a bit of wide-eyed nervousness as the camera is yanked from Jim. "-- There are many things that need to be said," he belatedly agrees with Melinda, "-- but this might not be. The most effective place to say them. There are others in the crowd not necessarily invested in fighting. But they are invested in surging forward, apparently having decided to try re/claiming/ the shelter. The woman with Tatters -- and Tatters herself -- are confronted with hands trying to push them /back/ towards the door. Perhaps well intentioned, with explanations (fervent! Earnest!) of helping the mutants take /back/ their home (nevermind that one of them did not even live there.) But rough, too, buoyed by a feverish energy that seems set to bowl its way right /through/ the officers standing guard. Tatters scrubs at her eyes as the hail of small small objects erupts, and hisses as she tries too late to snatch at the man accosting Shane -- and as the boy strikes back and panic erupts around her, she closes her eyes and spends a few seconds concentrating, then unfolds herself and inhales an impossibly long breath before unleashing a hoarse shout of exasperation at a fantastic volume. "EVERYONE SHUT. UP." "/Cameron/!" That's Gina up on the ambulance. The crowd's panic is getting to her and it doesn't help that her partner rumbles, "Can't go in 'til the cops clear it," and something like, "...what they deserve anyway." As people begin to jostle against the truck's boxy sides, she pulls the door closer to her side and eagle-stares down at the crowd. The hand gripping the door is white-knuckled and her lips are pressed to tightly together they've gone bloodless. She's either tense-- which seems likely-- or concentrating really, really hard. "Oh, fuck-me," first Jim says it in a bizarre cross of disbelief and aggravation, beginning a deceptively mild litany of "no-no-no-" which raises to a more impassioned, "NO, oh, come ON! FUCK!" When his sailing camera becomes cascading /bits/ of camera, and he slams the side of his fist against the wall. Up close, it might be noted he carries no visible press badge, and he mutters to Rasheed, "Thanks anyway, guy, but I'm gonna." Gonna what, isn't elaborated on, his eyes have snapped to something a touch more engaging now that he's lost his bystandard toys. As he wades into the crowd, he's developing a rather unflattering tan. One that flakes as it darkens, elbowing up behind Shane and fitting a hand on his shoulder that is flaky-hard and not composed of human skin, murmuring rapidly at the side of Shane's head, "Kid, don't do this." "I was hoping this was going to be peaceful." Melinda's eyes widen at the destruction of Jim's camera, taking a step back, only to find herself in the way of some of the people trying to retake the shelter. Her attention keeps turning back toward Shane, but finds getting shoved out of the way distracting. When attempting to open her mouth to say something, Tatter's voice catches her attention and she freezes up. "Hell..." she mutters under her breath. The man with Shane snarls as claws skim flesh, perhaps more alarmed than actually pained. He does not, in fact, stand down. He curls up a fist to smash it into Shane's jaw, eliciting a hiss of displeasure as his skin makes contact with Shane's much rougher. Hypocritically, he is glancing to Jim after this blow, saying to Shane: "Listen to the man." Near the ambulance, the surging crowd is growing -- less surgey. It's a slow spreading, the yelling and jostling nearest the boxy truck ebbing downt to a tenser sort of restraint, edgy and restive but not actually /fighting/. There has /been/ fighting, though, or at least tumult, and one wide-eyed woman is now approaching the ambulance with a older man in tow. "-- I think someone's stabbing my friend." She is pointing towards the burly man in front of Shane. In response to Tatters' yelling, someone yells back: "YOU SHUT UP." It's also not the best quip. It comes with a discarded fragment of cellphone flying towards the Morlock. Despite the words of the people by the ambulance, the man has not been stabbed. Yet. But Shane hisses sharp and angry at the blow to his jaw, which, tiny as he is, sends him staggering back against Jim. He jerks his shoulder away, wide-eyed in reflexive irritable-twitch at one more bit of /contact/ in the hectic crowd. His response to being hit is /instinctive/, a quick rake of claws out towards the bigger man, flashing sharp towards -- the man's face. It's the first target of skin he sets eyes on. But animal instinct settles back to a baffled sort of /stare/ at Jim's hand, suddenly comprehending, and he ducks back with a hard "khhh" hiss. "Gorram bastard, that guy was just trying to /leave/," he is protesting to Jim. A little /sullenly/. As the thrown bit of plastic bounces off Tatters' hood -- and as the crowd pointedly fails to quiet down and listen to her -- she raises a hand (and a finger) in the direction of the comeback and resorts to standing as firm as she can against the crowd, slowly wading through it and doing her best to make it to the edge and allow the displaced shelteree to follow behind in her wake. Gina doesn't answer the woman who's come to report the assault and battery. Busy and all-- there's a crowd to be stared at. Cameron finally shakes off his apathy and leans out of the window to squint in the direction the woman has indicated. /He/ doesn't answer her either but he does key the mic on the rig's radio. "Base, we're gonna need back-up out at Open Door." Clearly the portly fellow has no intention of actually engaging with potential injured people until there's less chance of being bloodied, himself. But with a relatively mellow bubble established around the ambulance, Gina finally wakes up and ducks down to hook the strap of her crash bag. Within the shelter of the cabs, heated words are exchanged between the partners, and a tug of war for the bag that ends with Gina finally hopping down and plunging into the crowd. She takes her less surgey bubble with her, though the mood of the area has left her leeched of color. "Peaceful." Rasheed seems to have no intention of getting closer to the crowd, lingering near the building with Melinda. "That's always the hope, but. Crowds are volatile enough before you give them a reason. Are --" He hesitates as another -- /something/ -- flies by, frowning at Melinda. "Are you going to stay? It doesn't seem safe, entirely." Which might be an understatement. It is possible the cops should have brought their riot gear. A crowd is descending towards the door, towards Melinda, towards Rasheed, towards the two officers standing there. A few of them seem set on breaking the door down, despite it already being -- wide open. But there is /yelling/ and they are set on Action. Whether or not they have to barge through the baton-wielding cops or the peaceful bystanders to do so. "Yeah!" Jim has the professional yell of a man accustomed to talking over a crowd, and even angry it's not a particularly aggressive volume as he shouts back with /expansive/ sarcasm, "That's great! So let's stir shit up, that'll make it /real/ easy for people t'leave. Let's throw chum in the fucking sha-," he seems to note exactly what the boy he's yelling at looks like and then visibly /decides/ to just go ahead with it, "-rk infested water while we're at it. And you know what? Offense intended!" He has a highly uncomfortable glance to cast towards the large man that had been attacked, and hissing bared teeth or not Jim just goes right on walking towards Shane, driving him away from the altercation, shoving chest to chest if he has to, "Now maybe you wanna take a leaf from Kerchief Kerry over there," he jerks a chin after Tatters, "and get in the wind, huh?" Near Jim and Shane, the large man is -- clapping a hand to his /face/, one side of which has just been laid open by the sharp claws. "Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthe/fuck/," is all the man manages to say, too focused on the blood streaking from cheek down to hand to bother retaliating again or paying much attention to anything else around him. It is a lot of blood. "I don't think so, Eric." One of the other officers says, as the crowd surges forward. The other two officers take out their batons, and all three open them as one. "Close it and lock it," Eric calls, into the shelter. Then, he is back on the radio. "Dispatch, we need ESU dispatched for a riot at the Open Door shelter." One of the other officers shouts, "Hey!" into the crowd, then quickly marches off into the crowd, baton out threateningly, as he quickly advance on Shane and his combatant. Eric and the remaining officer, in the mean time, glare at the advancing crowd. "Step back, or we will use force!" Eric orders. The yellow-eyed woman was following behind Tatters. And then she is shoved /in/ to Tatters, whacked at by a sign that incongruously reads "MUTANT RIGHTS NOW". "There's a boy over there," Melinda admits to Rasheed, concerned, but also wary. "I know him. I can't just take off. I know his dad." She scowls, but does not move toward Shane. The crowd is closing in and she has some sense of self preservation. "Oh hell. What is that photo... guy-person..." She trails off. "I think we're fucked," Mel admits to Rasheed. It's a crush, a throng, moving with its own currents but Gina has certain...advantages to pushing through a riled up crowd. She doesn't /like/ it, every touch brings with it an emotional shock, but she bullies her way towards the pair who'd been exchanging blows. One is bleeding, that's enough for her. Behind her at the rig, Clarence is now standing up and yelling at her but his words are lost in crowd noise. Gina too is speaking but it's a flat, repetitive command of, "Calm down. Calm down," to every person she passes or touches. One eye has begun to twitch but she retains presence of mind enough to already have a square of gauze cupped in her hand, ready to deploy once she reaches Mr. Pottymouth's side. Offense intended or not, the comment draws a grim thin razor-grin from Shane, who steps back as Jim steps forward. His diminutive size likely makes this more stomach-to-chest than chest-to-chest, but he backs up anyway, lifting a hand to press absently against the point on his jaw where a lump is developing. "Nobody was leaving here peacefully, whether I was here or not. I'm not exactly the only one stirring /shit/ around here," comes with no more retreat of step but his feet planted firm in front of Jim. "But I guess you'd just be happier sitting in the back with your camera, taking /pictures/ while other people get shoved around." His claws, at least, have retracted to tiny points at the end of his webbed fingers, but his sharp teeth are still bared, more irritable than threatening. The man is still cursing when Gina arrives, a low pained stream-of-consciousness ramble of swears. As much as faces bleed, it is hard to tell initially with his hand clamped over his cheek how bad the damage really /is/; Gina's arrival calms him enough to briefly cease swearing but this segues only into: "Did you see that freak, what the fuck. He should be in /jail/." He takes a hand from his face to stab a bloody finger towards Shane. A large flap of skin hangs open off his face when he does. Tatters stops as her charge is thwacked into her and leans back to yank the sign from the protester' hand, then proceeds to use it as a plow to help her force her way through the crowd. As she passes through Gina's bubble of serenity her pace slows and she utters a sigh of relief, taking a moment to reach up and scratch at her scalp beneath her hood...but as they move in opposite directions and she leaves the area of effect, her stride turns back into a stomp and her grumpiness resumes, at least for a few seconds before she has a 'wait, what?' moment. After a breath she shrugs off the oddness and finally staggers out of the sea of people, shaking her head and murmering a "Good luck" to the yellow-eyed woman before she steels herself and wades back into the crowd, keeping an eye out for anyone else who needs muscly assistance. Meanwhile, a smallish blonde girl steps out of...well, it's not entirely clear where she came from, but now she's standing by Melinda and Rasheed, hands her pockets and worried eyes on the crowd. She doesn't say anything, but nods in agreement with Melinda's assessment of the situation. In jail, Shane might soon be. The police officer closes on Shane quickly, baton extended as he shoves through the crowd. "Hey, you," he says, pointing the baton at Shane. The officer grabs Shane roughly by the arm with the baton free hand, yanking it around back behind him. "You're under arrest for assault," he says, stepping quickly behind Shane. Eric, in the mean while, has one hand on his baton and the other on the taser at his side. "Back up, back the hell up," he shouts at the crowd. "You better get behind us," he says, taking a step forward to gesture Melinda and Rasheed. One angry protester gets a little bit close, pushing Eric, and is rewarded with a baton to the stomach and side, and a shove backwards. It's easier to focus on one person rather than an entire crowd. Gina hooks her free hand around Bloody Face's wrist and works to muscle him back behind the police line. "Calm /down/," she tells him with no little amount of will behind the order. "Cameron!" Her partner is nowhere to be seen, leaving her to maneuver her patient, avoid being jostled, dig for more wraps and tend to her patient. The eye-twitching only worsens, here in the thick of it. "Here, back against the wall before you keel over..." "Whatever you say, kiddo," Jim is muttering with his head turned to watch Gina reach the wounded man, "Just like I'm sure you'd rather be one of the assholes doing the shoving. But we don't always get our way, huh. Yeesh." He got a glance at the skin-flap hanging open, baring his teeth in a recognizable 'yikes' face, which might also sort of be wincing callously at the cursing the man finally remembers to make. And then an officer is pressing up behind Shane and possibly there are many options Jim could stop and ponder if he felt like it. But instead he just acts, ducking his head and ramming his shoulder hard into the officer. There is something considerably harder than flesh and bone that makes the impact. "You know someone there? Do they need help? Getting out?" Rasheed is surveying the crowd although, thin and wiry in his neat-pressed suit it is hard to see what help /he/ might offer in such a situation. He doesn't seem inclined to try, stepping back all too willingly behind Eric. And perhaps double-taking at the girl suddenly beside them. "-- What -- did you --" Blink. Melinda moves back as well, staring at the girl with them and gesturing her to follow. "Come on. Keep back." She looks toward Rasheed. "I... Fuck, the kid can take care of himself mostly, but this is turning into a mob." She scowls behind the police line, keeping an eye on the blue teen, but losing sight of him in the crowd. "yeah, this seems like it was the best way to handle a simple incident," Mel grouses to the shelter staff. Shane hisses when the hand clamps down on him, claws reflexively shooting back out as his eyes widen, his posture drops lower, one hand instinctively comes up towards the officer. Until he notes the /uniform/ his new assailant is wearing, and drops his hand with /lightning/ speed. But then Jim is ramming forward, and now it is /Shane's/ turn to protest, a disgruntled growl accompanying his wrestling twist away from the officer and the hands he clamps on the bigger man to /yank/ back, alarmingly strong for his size. "Holyshit holyshit that's a /cop/ don't you're gonna /die/ holy shit are /you/ /crazy/." BleedingFaceMan backs up, as instructed, though he looks fairly like he might keel over anyway, sagging back against the brick. "There was a fight," he finally has the presence of mind (?) to say, frowning at Gina. "I'm -- calm." He sounds a bit /puzzled/ by this discovery. "I think my friend's in there somewhere." The blonde girl just grins and retreats behind the line of policefolk, quietly opening the shelter door (wasn't that locked a minute ago?) and slipping inside, gesturing for the trapped pair to follow. Sirens sound, and blue flashing lights swarm as three police cars come rolling in. Two are large, ambulance size trucks with EMERGENCY SERVICES UNIT emblazoned on them, and the other is a normal looking Ford with a blue light on the dash. Riot police swam out of the ambulances, in full gear with shields. They immediately form into an arrow-shaped formation, and a commanding voice comes over the loud speakers on one of the trucks. "This is a disorderly gathering. Disperse immediately or face arrest." The officers, for now, are leaving one side of the street open for people to leave from. That may not be the case for long. The arresting officer stumbles as the other man body checks him and all of a sudden there are CLAWS waytooclose to his face. He hits out with the baton, striking out at Jim with full-force towards the knees. Then out comes a good old friend the tazer. "Get /down/ on your knees or I will taze you!" he orders the two of them, pointing the weapon at the two of them with one hand. "There was," Gina agrees as her hands fly between the bag and her patient's head. Pads are being applied, gauze is being wound, and all the while chaos continues behind her. Maybe it helps to keep her back to it. "Cavalry's coming, they'll find your friend. You stay put. You're probably pretty tired, aren't you? Calm and tired. Sit down if you need to. Hey! Hey, Shield!" It takes her a moment of glancing around before her gaze locks on Eric. One of her bloodied hands stays pressed to the man's gauze-enfolded head. "My partner needs to get our gurney in here." Assuming, of course, that Cameron has got his act together and is bringing the heavy duty medicing gear. Tatters scoots (as gracefully as one can through the press of people) around the confrontation with the police officer and ends up emerging from the press near Gina. She nods to the pair (and to the nearby officer) and does the best she can to help -- in this case, by standing with her arms crossed between the injured and the crowd, helping to provide them with a bit more space. Jim doesn't need to be told twice. Actually, he doesn't need to be told once. A baton to the knee has a way of wiping all slates clean with your nervous system, informing Shane somewhere out there in the sphere of not-in-pain, "Oh, well, that was dumb," through his teeth as he clutches his leg. His, pavement, old friend. "No /shit/," Shane answers, grimacing as he lifts his (sharp-clawed) hands in front of him and sinks down to his knees. Which is a precarious position to try and stay in, someone else in the crowd jostling him from behind to send him lurching forward /towards/ the cop, one hand splaying out on the sidewalk to catch his balance. "I don't know if I should thank you," he mutters through clenched razor-teeth, "that was dumb as shit." Rasheed eyes Melinda. And eyes the crowd. And eyes the /riot cops/ ordering the crowd to disperse. And eyes the blonde woman holding the door open. He holds his hand out, silent invitation for Melinda to remove herself from the situation. He seems keen on getting inside, himself. It miiight be because of the gas masks on the riot police's faces. The officer has plasticuffs out in an instant, and he - roughly - pushes Jim to the ground with a booted foot. He crouches down to grab one of Jim's hand, then the other, cuffing them securely behind the other man's back. Perhaps a bit tighter than necessary. "You're under arrest for assault of a police officer." This is emphasized with a kick to the other man's side. He then turns to Shane, pulling out a metal pair of cuffs. "Hands behind your back," he orders. The other officer next to Eric steps down and pushes his way through the crowd. "What the hell are you doing in the middle of this?" he growls out to the paramedic. This police officer waves to the riot cops, who, batons thumping against the shields, begin to march into the crowd. Some of the crowd is scattering, at the forward march of the riot cops, ducking out the mouth that the cops have left to escape the chaos. Some, though -- mostly clustering around the door of the shelter -- are determinedly staying. One scruffy-bearded even seems to be attempting to -- chain himself to the door. With a bike lock. Next to him a smaller woman is exasperatedly trying to wrest the chain-lock away from him. Melinda slips inside with Rasheed and the woman, waiting until the door is shut tight behind them before reaching into her back and fishing around for her cellphone. She sends a text message out, then finds a window to press up against to continue to watch the riot and the police and the aftermath. Gina's reserve is not what it could be at the moment, nor her etiquette-- Tatters regard and the woman's helpfulness are seen but unanswered thanks to the poor manners of triage. The eye that had been twitching has brought its mate into the fun; she has the look of someone who is rapidly approaching migraine stage. "Waiting for my God damned /gurney/!" she informs grumpy cop. Never mind that wheeling a cot through the scrum is likely to be impossible. She has demanded that the gurney appear and so it had better-- those last wispy shreds of calm that had been trailing behind her have long since dissipated. The medic doesn't appear to notice their lack either as she turns back to her patient, clamping her hand down on a fresh pad of gauze as the first few layers soak through. "Oh, gr-Rgh!-eat," ribs constricting against the kick, Jim utters this against the pavement, which matches his graying hair rather fetchingly. In the way where it really doesn't at all. "Looks like we'll have plenty of time to think about it," he strain-growls to Shane, giving himself over without a fight into the sweet hands of the law. As the riot squad marches onto the scene, Tatters looks back over her shoulder with a look of concern, mostly hidden as it is behind her scarf. "Is it safe to carry him? I can move him if I need to." Between checking phones and watching the events outside, it's not entirely clear when the blonde girl leaves, but eventually she's just not there anymore. Shane is breathing through his teeth, slow and constricted, the gills at the sides of his neck fluttering open and closed uselessly. His claws slide out further as he moves his hands behind his back, huge black eyes fixed steadily on the police officer. "-- I'm gonna miss curfew," he realizes in sudden absurd worry. "Wellp. I guess detention isn't going to be worse than this." Rasheed has slipped inside after Melinda, unobtrusive and safely out of the path of riot cops, though he watches them intently through a window. For now. Likely where he will stay until the chaos has passed and he can return home sans teargassing. The cuffs lock securely around Shane's wrists just as the riot police begin to storm through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. The officers break a path through to the handcuffed people and the paramedic, then pause there for a moment as other police swoop in to haul Jim and Shane off to the back of one of the patrol cars. Eric relaxes slightly at the front as the riot police begin to break up the crowd, and he closes his baton on the ground next to him and holsters it once more. Then his brow furrows, looking into the crowd at the handcuffed protesters, and he blinks several times. "What the..." he mutters to himself, and he begins heading in that direction. On the heels of the riot police is Cameron, gurney in town piled high with an assortment of blue-emblazoned bags. Paramedics don't run but he's walking quickly and puffing by the time he reaches Gina. He's also muttering as he begins to pass equipment over, a quiet but steady stream of invective broken only by his need to catch his breath. Gina does not answer in kind-- she's gone grim and silent, at least until it occurs to her that there's someone right there who just spoke to her /without/ swearing. "We've got him," she tells Tatters, tone drained of everything. She sounds flat rather than just exhausted as a result. "Watch your ass out here." That's her parting piece of advice as she and her partner heave calm and tired guy up onto the gurney to wheel him off to their rig.