ArchivedLogs:Civic Duty

Civic Duty
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Kyinha, Shane
In Absentia	2016-11-08 "Vote while you can."
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. Election Day dawned bright and chilly, but by mid-morning it's a balmy autumn day. Against the backdrop of the beautiful weather, the police tape across the broken glass of the Shuang Wen School's front doors looks perhaps less forbidding than it otherwise might. The bright yellow spray-painted words that flank the door, however, look no less awful for their vivid hue: NO CHINKS on one side, and NO FREAKS on the other. Signs direct prospective voters past this tableau to the school's side entrance and thence the polling place in the auditorium. On the sidewalk, a loose knot of people have gathered, holding picket signs with slogans like KEEP AMERICA HUMAN, MUTIES GO HOME, VOTING IS A /HUMAN/ RIGHT, and variations on that theme. Most of them devote their attention to scrutinizing the thin trickle of foot traffic going into the school, but two of them are staring down a pair of young East Asian women who look similar enough to be sisters. "...this is a polling place," the shorter of the two women is saying, "you can't do this here, it's intimidation. It's /illegal./" "Yeah, just like you," mutters one of the picketers from the other side of the pack. Some of his fellow chuckle. The taller of the two women straightens a little, lifts her head. The curtain of her long black hair falls a little away from the left side of her face, which is heavily scarred as by a severe burn. "There's no reasoning with these people," she says coldly, "come on. I have a ballot to cast." Pulling her companion by the arm, she heads toward the school's side entrance. "Vote while you can," calls the same picketer. "But you better watch yourself tomorrow if that /bitch/ cheats her way to the White House." The taller woman stops, her hand falling to her side. A wave of palpable heat rolls out from her as she shoulders tense. "Summer, no—" the other woman says, whirling on her. Then taking a step back as smoke starts rising from Summer's clothes. "Hey…" says one of the men they had been lecturing. "Mutant!" The others square their shoulders and fix their eyes on the smoke rising from the woman's collar, while she bats at her sleeves nonchalantly. "You better get outta here," says a skinny woman holding a sign that features a crossed-out circle over a stick figure with horns a tail, "/freak./" The group shuffles toward the two young women menacingly. "I don't think that'll be necessary." It's not a particularly threatening voice -- clear, on the high side, calm and firm. The person offering it -- may not perhaps cut the most intimidating of figures either at their diminutive stature; even drawn up to his full height Shane doesn't reach all that high. Currently garbed in heavy dark jeans, heavy odd metal boots, and his dark X-jacket, Shane's chin has tipped up to look at the group as he inserts himself between them and the women. "People are here to vote, and we're going to make sure that happens. Smoothly." A few steps behind Shane, Kyinha cuts perhaps a more intimidating figure. His skin is far darker than the black of his X-jacket or his jeans, making the fiery glow from his eyes and his mouth look all the brighter. "Invest your civic enthusiasm elsewhere." He speaks with a heavy accent that most would find difficult to place. "This isn't helping your community, your city, or your country." Then, more quietly, to the sisters. "Go on inside, hm?" There's not much intimidation to Flicker, either. X-jacket, jeans, tentacle arm mostly hidden in one sleeve. Hair neatly combed. Maybe the fluttering-ghosty way he arrives back outside from within the school is a little bit Alarming. He doesn't address the protesters at all. Doesn't look at them, doesn't acknowledge their presence. Just addresses the sisters, one hand outstretched: "Would you like a lift?" "{Thank you,}" says Summer in quiet Cantonese. Smoke has ceased rising from her clothes, but all the same she adds, "I might still be a bit warm" before accepting the proffered hand. "Autumn." She gathers her sister closer, arm wound protectively around the younger woman's shoulders. "Jesus, you some kinda freak gang?" The largest and strongest looking of the protesters turns the sign in his hands sidewise, like a battle ax that happens to read VOTING IS A /HUMAN/ RIGHT. "You better get out of here, too." "Yeah!" Several of his companions agree, emboldened by his aggressive stance. "We're taking this neighborhood back," says the woman with the no-horned-and-tailed-people sign. "I mean it," says the large man. "Go away!" And so saying, he swings his sign at Shane and Kyinha. Shane's black eyes open up wider, huge inky pools of black only slightly glistening for the startle-quick-blink of nictitating membranes over them. His movement is not the rapid shimmer of Flicker's but by human standards it's lightning-fast all the same -- a ducking sidestep, one hand coming up as he shifts out of the way of the swing. Not to block, exactly; there's a quiet zzzp-thwip, a string of white that shoots out from his wrist just beneath the cuff of his jacket, and a strong sticky strand of web-glue seizes upon the sign; he yanks it sharply forward. "I also mean it. We're just here to make sure people get to vote. Like the /law/ says they can. We don't /want/ to fight." Shane's tug yanks the sign right out of the large man's hands, and he cries out in surprise. Then disgust, his face twisting as he regards the sticky webbing attached to the sign. "You can't bully us with your, your..." he sputters, flailing one huge hand at Shane. The six other picketers surge forward, hefting their signs. Three fan out in a bid to surround Shane, and three do the same to Kyinha. The next to actually strike is the skinny woman, who thrusts her sign at Kyinha as though it were a bayonette. The large man, disarmed, hangs back and watches the developments with a shrewd eye. Kyinha takes half a step back and drops his weight low. He does not seems very fussed by the prospect of being flanked, though the glow behind his eyes and teeth grows brighter, and a faint fiery halo develops around him. "You /really/ don't want to --" he assures his would-be assailants calmly, or tries to, and is cut off by the skinny woman's attack. "-- do this." He turns aside so that the thrust goes past him and, as it does so, strikes the sign post down in a bid to knock it from the woman's grasp. Though not as impressive as Summer's, the heat coming off of him is sensible to anyone within two steps of him. "It won't bother me." A very small flash of smile across Flicker's scarred face. He reaches out a little further -- perhaps also a little alarmingly, his limb telescoping outward to meet Summer's hand and wrap snugly around her wrist. It's only then that he spares the knot of humans a quick backwards glance -- or, really, spares it for his teammates. Casual, really, a small sweeping check right before he -- and Summer, and Autumn -- vanish in a flutter. If the election volunteers inside are in the least startled by the sudden appearance of Flicker and his passengers, they give no sign of it, though many of the queuing voters start with gasps, and a few of them gawp openly. Summer bows deeply. "I hope they don't give you too much trouble," she says, though the small twist of a smile on her lips suggests she doesn't think it very /likely/ the X-Men will encounter much trouble. Autumn, still shaken, and now blushing somewhat, ducks her head shyly in a half-bow. Outside, the skinny woman who had attacked Kyinha loses her grip on her sign, which crashes to the ground. "He hit me!" she cries. "This freak attacked me!" The two men to either side of her both step toward Kyinha now, one swinging his picket sign like a baseball bat and the other jabbing it like a spear. "Well that, does it," the large man growls, "you got a fight whether you want it or not. We're not going to let some mutant gang take over this neighborhood." The three protesters circling Shane also start flailing at him with the flimsy plastic and cardboard ends of their picket signs, though their attacks have far more enthusiasm than skill. A slight flick of wrist puts Shane's stolen sign in his own grip. His gills flutter quickly; he swings his sign upward in deft quick motions, parrying the flailing signs away. His teeth have bared, now, sharp and clenched. A small hiss escapes between them as the sharp plastic edge of a sign slices down against his gills. The continued downward motion of the attacking sign pulls against his jacket, scrapes up an edge of the "I Voted / Yo Voté" sticker plastered on his chest. Shane's nose wrinkles; the small upward tick of his lips bares his teeth just a little more. His sign bats a little harder at the one that just hit him; he ignores one falling on his back. "I /live/ here," he says patiently. "I own a home. A business. I'm part of the civic association. You're a little -- nnff -- /late/, don't you think?" Flicker acknowledges the election volunteers inside with a small tip of his head, a quick smile. He returns Summer's bow with a nod as he deposits the sisters at the back of the line. "I think they'll be fine. {Sorry} for the trouble." He stops to talk to a volunteer near the entrance quietly: "{If things get seriously ugly, you have our numbers, yeah?}" He's out the door again in another quick blip, scanning the area outside with a small furrow of brow -- looking more towards people aiming to get in than the actual fighting going on. Kyinha ducks under the swinging sign and vaults backward over the jabbing one. He lands in a handstand and then springs back to his feet, clear of his attackers, but while airborne he kicks at the nearest sign. Once he’s regained his footing, he glances sidewise at Shane, then back at the large man who’s stayed out of the fray. “What would you call your little posse, here just to keep people from voting?” "{Have it,}" says the volunteer, nodding first and then shaking her head, "{hope we don't need it!}" Outside, some onlookers have gathered a safe distance from the fray. It's hard to tell which, if any, of them had a mind to get past the picketers and X-Men for voting purposes. Several have their phones aimed at the brawlers, recording video, and many more are busy texting or tweeting. None of Shane's opponents are competent fencers, but there /are/ three of them, and when they're not getting in each other's way, they're steadily forcing Shane back. The tallest of them gets particularly excited and swings his sign ('MUTIES GO HOME', reads the printed plastic portion, mounted on a stick somewhat longer and sturdier than the others) in an overhand chop, slow but powerful. The large man crosses his arms. "Well, we're here to let you know you don't own this town. New York was built by human sweat and human blood, and you got no place here." Kyinha's kick connects, and while he does not successfully dislodge the sign from its wielder, he does knock it far enough astray to be spared being buffeted with it for a moment. His third attacker follows him doggedly, still jabbing at him and growling "Go back to hell or wherever you came from." "Business owner --" Shane repeats, slightly breathless though he still manages an exaggerated patience here. "/And/ a house. And an arts -- never -- mind." His words come more choppily as the sign thunks down heavily against his own, hammering him slightly lower, slightly harder back. "I have /several/. Places. Here. Fff." He takes his next step not back but /up/, a faint hum from his boots now lifting him -- up out of the reach of the signs and over the attackers in a sudden stronger jump. Jump, and hover -- higher out of the reach of the flailing signs with a small irritated growl, his next /thwp-splats/ aren't aimed to disarm but globs of strong sticky glue to pin the attackers' feet in place. "They tell me," he offers helpfully, "that if you really feel strongly, the thing to do is vote." Two of Shane's opponents were already stumbling back as he lifted up into the air, mouths hanging open. "Jesus, this one /flies/, too!" one of them exclaims, dismayed. "No, that's /hover/ tech," says another, pointing at his boots. He sounds /kind/ of excited, and seems about ready to gush about said tech when the web glue sticks his feet to the ground. He manages to keep his balance, if only barely, but the other two fall down at once when they instinctively try to back away and fail. "I already voted," says one of them, almost sulkily, from where he sits on the sidewalk. The large man has produced his mobile phone. "I'm calling the police," he proclaims loudly, "that'll show you trying to intimidate law-abiding human citizens." Seeing the fight wind down, a few young Latinxs start skirting around it to get at the polling place. But one of them stops and frowns at the large man as he dials. "Hey they didn't do nothing wrong! You see how many people got that shit on camera? You on YouTube now, motherfucker!" "Make sure to tell them you were attacking people trying to get into the polls," Flicker suggests lightly, nudging the door open to hold it for the people starting to approach. "I'm sure that'll just make their /day/." The large man hesitates, and then slowly lowers his phone and puts it away, casting a surreptitious glance at the onlookers filming. Then his attention snaps to the two of his crew still harrying Kyinha. "Enough. Get the others unstuck so we can get out of here. I'll bring the van around." He casts one more dirty at Shane, shakes his head in disgust, and storms off.