ArchivedLogs:Who throws grapes!?

Who throws grapes!?
Dramatis Personae Alice, Alison, Claire, Iolaus, Jackson, Jane, Mirror, Mel
In Absentia	2013-04-04 Iolaus unveils the Mendel Clinic in a speech at Bethesda Terrace. Someone throws... grapes?
Location Bethesda Terrace, Central Park South, New York City
Near the center of Central Park, bordering the lake, stands the Bethesda Terrace and its namesake, the fountain. A popular tourist destination on most days, by the evening-time most of the tourists have cleared out. On top of the red stoned floor of the Terrace, standing across from that fountain, a stage has been erected, tucked against the wall by the stairs. Barracades line the stairs and the area above and in front of the stage, blue, with 'POLICE LINE' on them in bright white blocky letters. The stage is empty except for a small curtained-off area and a single podium at the front with a logo printed onto a white sign hanging from it. 'MENDEL CLINIC', it says in red letters, below the black rising sun and cadesus that together make up the logo of the Mendel Clinic. Police are out in force. Uniformed officers line the barricades, spaced out every few feet, and a crowd has begun to gather in front of the barracades and the stage. There is a fenced off area for press, currently containing a few cameras standing alone, and another, larger and more populous press area next to the road and a bit off to the side. There are a small curtained off area at the back of the stage, and a lone woman standing in front of it. She is in a uniform of sorts as well - a black-grey pair of pants, with a black belt and a thin red stripe running up the side of the legs. There may be a shirt as well, but it is covered up by a thin jacket. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she watches the crowd, suspiciously, eyes flashing. Ms. Claire Basil is currently clad in her usual warm green wool coat, flower hat, and pink-and-white striped scarf. Frizzled gray-red hair pokes out from beneath the hat like some lingering cumulus cloud; a lacquered black cane is clutched in her left hand. She's among the crowds, meandering, watching, /preening/ her mind. Situations like this are ripe for violence, she knows -- and sometimes it helps to spread a bit of clarity. But also, she's just /curious/. And meddlesome. Always with the meddling. Alison does not look like a reporter, although she stands close to where the press are gathered. In a blue sweater and skinny jeans tucked into knee-high boots, she looks more like someone who just stopped to see what the commotion is about. But, she's sporting a press badge, as is the HUGE man behind her, who is easily balancing a skinny teenager with a video camera on his shoulders as he leans forward to hear her over the gathering crowd. "Just keep Anton and the camera pointed at the podium," she's saying. "I want to get all of the ceremony. Do /not/" she adds, fluffing up her hair as she glances towards the target and the suspcious-looking woman, "focus on me. This is about the clinic." The large man grunts, and straightens, ignoring the startled yelp of his passenger. Jackson is definitely not in any sort of uniform. He's bright-bright-bright, eye-catching in a very purple jacket (a patch on its back reads 'not gay as in happy, queer as in fuck you'), black fishnet tights layered over solid silver ones, black capri jeans edged in red. A red t-shirt ('ALL MY HEROES HAVE FBI FILES') over a bell-sleeved black long-sleeved one. He is in the midst of a /group/ of similarly pierced and tattooed youths. One young woman has a sign! ... it says IOLAUS MARRY ME. Some of the others actually have /pertinent/ signs. 'HEALTH CARE FOR ALL'. 'MUTANT RIGHTS /ARE/ HUMAN RIGHTS'. etc. Jackson is signless. He's just rocking absently from heel to toe of his black and red platform sneakers, watching the stage. Watching the crowd. The government is here! Not officially, of course; there are many in the crowd dressed in black, wearing sunglasses. Alice is just another of these in a spring-weight black wool jacket, as is the young man who stands to her right, half a step behind. They remain on the edge of the crowd--never wise to get into the middle of this sort of thing--and observe those up on the stage with great interest. Or so it can be assumed, given the lenses hiding their eyes. The young man is shifting in a way that somehow manages to create a slight buffer of space around the woman he accompanies. Alice doesn't appear to notice--she has a cellphone pressed to her ear and is listening to whomever is speaking on the other end. One young woman stands in the press area, too. Nondescript, dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed. Recorder in hand, her press tag from the Daily Bugle. She's dressed in plain grey, peacoat, slacks, flats. Her eyes slant briefly to Alison, but then away. Waiting. Kind of expectant. As the articles talking about the clinic have not included pictures, when Iolaus steps around the curtain, the only indication that he is the person they've been waiting for is the rather sharp looking suit he wears, and the smile on his face. He does not get very far, however, for as soon as he rounds his way around the curtain, one of the police officers rounding the stage steps up the stairs and pulls him aside. The police officer is an older man in a white dress shirt with an NYPD logo on the shoulder - an officer of some kind. Their conversation is hushed, inaudible, for the moment, until Iolaus' incredulous voice can be heard - barely - by those closest to the stage. "Cancelled? You're cancelling the permit two minutes before the speech starts?" Claire Basil tilts her head and eyes the podium -- along with the crowd. She doesn't hear what the officer is saying when he takes Iolaus aside, but she's watching the good doctor's face... and she has enough experience to know it's usually /not/ good when the police pulls you aside. She's instantly moving -- toward the denser, rowdier parts of the crowd -- eyebrows already crunched together. Cane tapping, occasionally using it to nudge a person here or there aside. Tap, tap, tap. Alison straightens when the man takes the stage. "That must be Doctor Saavedro," she murmurs to her cameramen, gettting a grunt of agreement from the large man. "He's very good-looking, isn't he? Make sure you get a good shot." When the police officer steps up, she frowns, and glances around, furrowing her brows at those closest to her, including the young woman from the Bugle. Iolaus' words catch her ear, and she frowns as she looks back at the podium. "Convenient," she mutters, looking at the crowd; particularly the fan-club that's gathered. "Mel," she murmurs. A beefy arm shoots out, a minicam in a meaty fist pointed directly at the group. Alison beams. "You are so getting a raise." The Bugle reporter frowns, towards the stage. She slips through the crowd, heading closer. "Excuse me, sir?" Her smile is small, and polite, her words addressed to the white-shirted police officer. "Forgive me -- could you explain what's going on, here?" Alice tilts her head when her assistant leans forward to murmur into the ear not occupied by a phonecall. She still appears to be watching the stage and what is occurring there causes her eyebrows to draw closer to each other, her lips to thin as they're pressed tightly together. A short nod is given to the young man before she waves him back. Jackson glances to the stage as Iolaus appears. His head turns that way, anyway. His eyes are harder to track, hidden behind large mirrored glasses of his own, though the scrunch of his forehead is a giveaway that he is frowning. Or perhaps wincing; his fingertips are rubbing at his eyes. He leans over to murmur something to one of his cadre of RUFFIANS. Or fanclub. Piercey fanclub. Some of them exchange looks. Some of them exchange smiles. They start working their way forward, too, towards the closest barricades to the stage. The police officer ignores the member of the press - isn't that a shock! - as he continues talking in that same steady, low voice. "I'm sorry, but that's what City Hall said. I understand if it's inconvenient, but your permit isn't valid anymore. If you continue, we'll have to shut you down." Iolaus takes a step back, shooting him a look. "Go ahead." he says, simply, frowning at the police officer. "We have a valid permit in hand, Sergeant, and I'm proceeding with the speech until you can bring me the documentation from the city that says it has been cancelled." His voice is louder, now, broadcasting the conversation that the police officer - by his pained expression - would much rather remain quiet. Claire Basil's there, among the throngs, still. Once she's swatted her cane (gently!) here and there, wedged herself forward among some of the louder groups -- put herself in the center of the rowdiest people that are near the barricade -- she starts doing her thing. /Very/ subtly. /Very/ slowly. Do it fast, and people might notice; not just that, but you might give someone who's committed to the task of /making/ trouble an edge you don't want them to have. But do it slowly -- letting her power wash out like an incremental tide, lapping at the minds of those around her -- and the only thing she does is encourage everyone around her to think a little bit more clearly. Take the edge off confusion and anger; let people focus on the things that are most important to them. When the conversation between Iolaus and the officer gets a bit more heated, Claire's lips grow thin. She clutches her cane with both hands -- and pushes her power out a bit /more/. Little waves of clarity welling up from her, surging across the people around her. In, and out. In, and out. Each pulse a little stronger. The reporter is -- well, recording! All of this. The talking. Then making quiet verbal notes into her recording, too. But mostly she is watching! Because. Press. She does rest a hand against one of the barricades, red nails tapping against it absently. "Good for him," Alison murmurs, a sentiment echoed by her crew in quiet mutters. She doesn't turn to see if the cameras remains on their targets. She knows they are. Alison folds her arms over her stomach and cocks her head, listening intently. Jackson is still rubbing at his temples. Perhaps a little bit /more/ after overhearing this exchange. He looks towards the stage. Towards the woman on stage. And then towards the police dotted along the barricades. His fingers drum against the barricade in front of him, too, his lips pursing. He leans in again to murmur to a purple-haired girl next to him, who leans to murmur to a dreadlocked man beside her, who -- well. The chain continues. Crowd-telephone. Jax leans elbows against the barricades, watching. When those words travel over the crowd--and then through it, passed in a chain of angry and gleeful muttering--Alice's head turns towards the more colorful members of this gathering. In short, she is now watching the pro-mutant activists. Not everyone in the crowd is echoing Alison's sentiments. In fact, the majority of the crowd is /not/, reacting rather positively to the police officer's words. "Good," says a woman standing near Jax's crew of punks, and another man, "Shouldn't have given them the permit in the first place." "-- Shouldn't have given this whole /freakshow/ one," someone else calls, and another, "I bet he's one of them." Iolaus steps away from the officer, passing him and heading up onto the stage. As he passes the police officer, the sergeant looks resigned, and heads away from the stage to go meet up with a knot of police officers not far from the stairs. Iolaus looks out at the crowd, smile back in place on his face, as he makes his way up to the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out to Bethesda Terrace this evening. My name is Iolaus Saavedro, and despite what you may have read in the paper, I am not a mutant." A wide smile. "But tonight is not about me. Tonight is about the Mendel Clinic, the world's first clinic for mutants." His voice is clear and strong, and he looks out at the crowd, eyes sweeping over it. "Health care is a human right that has been recognized for centuries. Over and over, throughout history, politicians, philosophers and theologians repeat the same: heal the sick. Care for those in need." "But life is so rarely clear cut, and rarely so simple. People get lost in the system. People get denied access to the care that they need. People get substandard care. Just as throughout history we see those commandments passed down, we see instances where our profession has failed. From the public spectacle of Tuskeegee and the Nuremberg trials to the quiet, private 'your kind is not welcome here' that has happened through the history of this country, doctors have not always kept true to those oaths." As he begins to speak, there is a shift in the police throughout the Terrace. Some of the officers who were lining the barracades have begun to make their way towards the base of the stairs, not far from the stage. Claire Basil closes her eyes. Her grip on the cane is tighter, now; her knuckles turn bone-white. Her power extends, like a swelling wave -- the inertia generated by the steady tide surging into a peak. She's not a miracle worker; she can't extend her effect over the entire crowd. And her power is not /necessarily/ pacifying. But it /does/ make people tend away from impulse decisions -- kneejerk reactions -- and unnecessary escalation. So long as no one in the crowd /came/ to commit violence, the effect should, she hopes, keep the people -- those around her, at least -- acting less like a mob and more like individuals. But, mmn. The result strains her, and can't be held up forever. Alison frowns at the rather predictable reaction from the crowd, and she steps forward just a bit when Iolaus starts speaking, much to the concern of Mel, who nearly dislodges Anton as he jerks in a half-step after the blonde. Alison doesn't seem to notice, turning instead to gauge the police moving through the crowd. A considering, curious glance is offered to Mel, who slowly shakes his head, indicating the cameras. Alison's eyes narrow, and she steps back with a soft sigh. "This will not end well," she mutters, glaring at Mel over her shoulder. The big man merely shrugs, and nods. Claire is having an effect on Jax's swarm of anarchists, that is true enough. And they're not here to commit violence, that is true enough too! Their murmurs grow, a little faster, a little more urgent, while the sense of clarity trickles through them. Perhaps, then, it is /not/ a knee-jerk impulse decision that has Jackson and two others of the group wrestling the barricade nearest the stage out of its lineup, cracking it open to allow the crowd through. At least, some of the crowd through! The dreadlocked man, burly, tall, ushers his group through the gap hurriedly. He is last to go and with odd politeness replaces the heavy metal gate behind them. The colourful flock of punks and hippies is rushing the stage ahead of the incoming police officers. Though not for violence. They just -- kneel. One knee down, one knee up, arms locked together in a ring around the podium. Not particularly violence. Quiet, even, out of respect for the speech. But a barricade of their own, for the oncoming officers to break through. Jackson is there, in the ring, not front and center in the path of camera-flashes but off to the side nearest the stairs onto the stage. "I'm not certain yet." This is Alice. Alice is murmuring into her phone, finally speaking to the person on the other end. "...someone has brought pacifists. Excellent organization. No. No, call the zoning commissioner and find out just what is going on. Call me back." The phone is snapped shut and slipped into her pocket. It's uncertain if anyone in the crowd came to commit violence. There is no /imminent/ violence forthcoming, at least. But people certainly came to /heckle/, and there are a lot of jeers coming from the audience, now. Also a small shower of -- grapes? Someone is throwing grapes at Iolaus's head. Perhaps they neglected to come prepared with rotten tomatoes. The bugle reporter's eyebrows raise. A small smile curls her lips. She keeps her place at the front of the press area, watching the TERRIFYING ANARCHISTS swarm onto the stage to rio-- oh no wait. Passively sit. Iolaus looks at the shifting crowd as he speaks, and no fear shows in his face. That does not mean it is not feeling it, however. His bodyguard at the back of the stage steps along the side of the stage several steps closer as the ring of people approach past the boundaries of the barricades, though she stops as they all kneel in turn. Annoyance and puzzlement flash across her face, as Iolaus presses on. "Like countless minorities before them, mutants have a difficult time reaching access to health care now. Doors close to them by their appearance, by their talents, when they are in need the most help. We hide behind neat excuses: no insurance, no room, no capacity. Too much danger, too much publicity, too much time." A grape bounces off of his shoulder, but he presses on without paying it heed. Grapes, it seems, are not the most threatening of weapons - and, handily, they leave no marks on his nice suit. His voice gets louder, commanding. "Yes, treating mutants is more expensive than treating non-mutants. Yes, mutants have less insurance and less money than non-mutants. Yes, treating mutants takes more time, and, yes, mutants can be dangerous - especially when they are sick and untreated. That does not excuse us nor lift our obligations. Because of their differences, mutants need /more/ help, not less. They need more skill, more attention, not to be turned away at the doors." The police are on the move, a little knot of them pressing forward towards the anarchists, near the ring at the front of the stage. "Move out of the way." The sergeant orders, sharply. "Move, or you will be placed under arrest and /we/ will move you." One of the police officers has a tazer in his hand. "/Move now!/" Claire's eyes open ever-so-slightly at the sound of the barricades moving; when the colorful people start slipping out of the crowd through it, her eyes open just a /bit/ wider. And then, when she sees them kneeling -- and sees the approaching force of police officers -- and, for a moment, even catches sight of Jackson from the corner of her vision...! She frowns. Not in disapproval, but rather, concern. And then -- slowly yet surely -- she moves the eye of her power's effect. Away from the crowd around her, and toward the people kneeling in front of the police. A slow swell, followed by a wash of clarity -- one that might lap all the way up to Iolaus on stage. Not that any of them /need/ it, but, well. If anyone's going to have to wrestle with fear... And now she's focusing on fewer people, too. Which makes it sharper, more /apparent/. When the police start shouting and baring tazers, Claire grimaces -- and /slams/ her power down on the people up front. As much as she can give -- an invisible, concussive blow of clarity and focus on the anarchists. Alison smiles when the pacifists form their barrier. "Oh, that's beautiful," she says. "Anton, make sure you get a good shot of that." Anton makes an affirmative gesture, leaning forward over Mel's head to assist the zoom feature. He gets a really good shot of those grapes bouncing off Iolaus' head before the camera corrects to catch Jackson in his lynchpin position. Then to the police as they begin to advance on the subdued ring of protection, something which makes Alison frown, and reclaim that half-step forward. Perhaps unsurprisingly, none of the kids blocking the police's way to Iolaus move. Arms locked, posture steady. Most of them do not look at the approaching police, but look out to the crowd. One dugs a rebounding grape. Another girl with a short-cropped black pixie-cut opens her mouth, instead. Snapping her teeth together once like hey! aim here! Omnom grape. "Yessir," Jackson says, quiet and calmly polite, tipping his head back to look up to the sergeant. "We'll be on our way soon as this man finishes his speech." Iolaus turns to look at the police officers, before he continues. "The Mendel Clinic is to be an institution where their needs can be met, where they an reach doctors with the training and the understanding of the special needs that they have. Where they can, for the first time, have a place where the doctors, nurses, and all the staff are there to help and understand. I am proud to count myself as a member of the staff of the Mendel Clinic." The police have had enough of this non-compliance funtime. "Arrest him." The sergeant says, pointing at Iolaus. The police around him take this message literally. They take the stage, stepping over and shoving the protesters out of the way. Some of the police officers do it gingerly, some do it roughly. The one with the tazer out seems to know what he wants to do, as Jackson's statement is rewarded by a tazer pressed into his shoulderblade and discharged. It does not take the police long to get on the stage, and Iolaus turns, giving them a look. "I think that's my cane, ladies and gentlemen." he says, and there is a slight waver in his voice. The sergeant advances on him, handcuffs in hand. Alison makes a noise of dismay when Jackson is tazed, and Iolaus is surrounded by the police. "Thugs," she says, in a dark voice, and the crease between her eyebrows is a deep line. Her hand curls into a fist, one finger extended. Mel makes a strangled sort of noise, but Alison ignores him, her eyes narrowing as she regards the scene. "This is ridiculous," she says to no one in particular, and the extended finger is tapped thoughfully against her thigh as she considers the scene. The protesters do not /fight/ this treatment, though they don't make it easy to get through them, either. Rising when the police arrive, shoulders squared. Which, really, just means a farther /fall/ when they are shoved, that much worse-looking for the myriad cameras in the audience. Jackson falls the hardest, teeth clenched and muscles twitching at the jolt; the two on either side of him let him fall. They have done this before; it's a quick unlocking-relocking that leaves their line unbroken. Jax's sunglasses fall off, when he drops, skittering across stage to fall onto the ground. A series of softly-spoken French curse words erupt from Claire, lost in the rumble of the crowd; her eyes close again, simply maintaining as much of her power on the protesters as she can manage -- trying to keep them sharp, focused, clear, and calm. There's not much else she can do. Not without putting lives at risk, at least. In spite of Claire's best efforts, a cheer goes up from members of the crowd. A good number of voices, all raised to egg the police on. Iolaus' bodyguard makes no move to intervene as his hands are cuffed and he is led off of the stage. Iolaus looks towards the cameras, but with the crowd all around him, he makes no move to speak. As the sergeant exits the stage, the police stop shoving around the protesters and move to escort Iolaus on his way towards the squad cars above. Iolaus' bodyguard jumps down off of the stage and retrieves Jax's sunglasses then goes to push her way through the once-line of protesters to pull Jax away from the push of the crowd. Ohlook more grapes! Being hurled towards Iolaus as he is pulled away. Also some rocks? Hopefully they only hit Iolaus and not the police. Alice's assistant escorts her out of the crowd as people begin to jostle forward, trying to get a better look at the show. She's taking her phone out of her pocket again and looking down at it--only to find herself sped /further/ way as rocks begin to fly. For a moment, the woman looks Very Cross indeed but then she's been bustled off away from the relatively mild chaos towards a waiting car. Jackson is pretty limp for the pulling. Kind of a twitchy deadweight. It takes a moment for him to crack his eye open. This is /not/ helping his Hive-migraine. "Nrgh," he tells Jane. Mel growls when rocks begin to fly, and steps forward, actually taking Alison by the arm and pulling her away from the crowd. She struggles, but follows, looking up to make sure that Anton is getting everything. The teenager looks excited as he films, zooming in on rock-throwers and their target, then panning quickly to where Jackson is being helped to his feet. "Gotta go," Mel grunts in a voice like a rockslide, and he's hauling her further along, towards the outer edge of the crowd. Some of the rocks do hit the police officers, as well as one or two hitting against Iolaus' side. The group of police standing at the barracades comes out, yelling in the direction that the rocks came from. "Hey! Put those down or I'm going to put /you/ down." Iolaus is hurried up to the police officers' cars and placed in the back, and the car is quickly driven off. A police officer stands up on stage and heads for the microphone. "This is an unlawful assembly. Disperse immediately." "Rocks," Claire says absently, one eye popping open. "Of course. Rocks." She stays, of course. Taking a step back into the crowd, keeping her power maintained on the remaining protesters. Trying to stay on guard in case things get violent in her immediate vicinity. When the police start to move forward, her power wavers again, extending outward, growing weaker but affecting more people. But it's a lot to keep track of -- and her head is starting to ache. Jackson is not dispering. Because, well, Recently Tazed. Also recently unhived. These things do not compound pleasantly. He is sort of struggling to -- nope. Not his feet. Knees. Then back down. More police begin pouring onto the terrace from the street, the reinforcements coming with riot shields and helmets strapped on. "Disperse, now." The police officer at the microphone says once more, and the riot police begin streaming down into the crowd, ushering people upwards and out the exits of the terrace. Jane glances up at them with a large frown and leans down. "Guarding him doesn't mean from the /police/." she growls, grabbing Jackson by the shoulders as she tries to haul him to his feet, an arm wrapped tight around him to support him. More police begin pouring onto the terrace from the street, the reinforcements coming with riot shields and helmets strapped on. "Disperse, now." The police officer at the microphone says once more, and the riot police begin streaming down into the crowd, ushering people upwards and out the exits of the terrace. Jane glances up at them with a large frown and leans down. "Guarding him doesn't mean from the /police/." she growls, grabbing Jackson by the shoulders as she tries to haul him to his feet, an arm wrapped tight around him to support him. The Bugle reporter is dispersing. Neat! Orderly. Ducking a rock as she goes. Still with a smile on her face. It almost looks amused! Alison frowns as more police appear, and she shakes her head. "This is...not right," she says to her body guard, who is more interested in getting through the crowd than responding with more than a shrug. Alison moves along briskly, aided by the meaty fist clamped around her arm. "I need to talk to our guy at City Hall," she says as they clear the edge of the crowd, Mel pushing past the plastic shields as if they were merely swinging doors. "I want to know why they shut this down." She skips a few steps ahead to reach in the pocket of the large man's jacket, fishing out a phone. Pressing a number on the screen, she puts it to her ear. "Gene? It's Alison. What's the name of that guy who works in the mayor's office?" And still she's being hauled away. Anton, however, has his camera on the action. Nnergh probablytimetogo. Claire's grip on her cane slackens; her eyes come back into focus. She turns and /moves/ toward the nearest available exit, away from dispersing people, away from police officers -- cane clicking, tapping with each step. Tap, tap, tap. "Didn't do that for /him/," Jackson says. He's leaning heavily on Jane. Very heavily. Stumblewobblestumble, but at least he's moving.