Logs:HOA Complaints
| HOA Complaints | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2020-11-10 "We may need to pick up more than paint." |
| Location | |
While sometimes a cloud comes by to dim the sun, it otherwise shines brightly on the neighbourhood of Riverdale, illuminating trees with dulling greens fading into autumn's yellow. So too have some of the moods of the neighbours started to turn cold towards some of the newest additions to the neighbourhood, who brought an unwelcome chill to their comfortable and relatively homogenous part of town. The abandoned houses now being occupied are currently under the protection of the Brotherhood, cleaned up by the occupiers to make a safe, comfortable place for mutants in need. One of the Sisters tidies up, zipping around as she tries to root out any dust that is trying to co-occupy the space. Heather has earbuds in, connected to the phone that peeks out of the pocket of her cargo pants, one half patterned with splotches orange and brown with purple and grey pockets, and the other half patterned in splotches purple and grey with orange and brown pockets. Her t-shirt is tie dyed in cyan, purple, magenta and yellow. She pops out one of the earbuds, despite not needing to in order to quickly tap out on her phone's cracked screen a message that plays, "I would like to live in this house." A pause, and then she adds. "I would paint the walls different. Kind of boring." Regan has just recently stepped in from outside, in tan slacks and a drapey white sleeveless blouse, hair loose around her face. Her eyes flick around the walls appraisingly; they shift colors as she looks at them, a warm coral, soft blue, bold purple with green trim. Back to their current drab. "What would you paint them? We can get paint. Might," she allows with a small amused hum, "lose our security deposit." Scramble is emerging from the kitchen with a slice of cold pizza she looks less than enthused about. Despite her rather uninspired meal, she's looking good today -- certainly better than she has most of these last few weeks, in a scarlet short sleeve top with intricate lattice work in a crescent around the collar, somehow not clashing with the black leather cut she wears over top of it, and tight blue jeans cinched with an eye-catching gold belt that matches her bangles and earrings. Her hair is teased out into a glorious round poof and not bound up under a wrap, and she's even got makeup on in striking black and gold. "You n' me both, Sis," she agrees, ambling across the room to look out the bay window. "Well. Don't have to be this house, but..." She glances over her shoulder at Regan, then back at Heather. "It is coming along real nice, even with the neighborhood being how they've been. If we painted up anything outside they'd be ready to throw down." Scramble may not have to wait that long for the neighbors to be riled. There's a quiet rumble of vehicles outside, a trio of large NYPD SUVs pulling up out in front of the house. At first it's only one of them that opens, disgorging a pair of uniformed officers from the cab and a pair of Guardians from the back. There's a clank-clank-clank as the cops -- flesh and metal alike -- approach the door, knock decisively. "NYPD," announces a commanding voice from outside. "We have a report of unauthorized trespassing." Heather raises her goggles to her forehead to rub her eyes when they seem to change in quick succession, and she nods quickly. "I like the purple and green. Nice like grapes. Or if someone did some art. Does anyone paint?" She drinks from a large shaker bottle that she has resting on a nearby windowsill. "I will pay the safety deposit. If someone else pays for the paint." She taps the side of her head a couple of times, her finger makes a loud thud against her skull when she makes the gesture, though she seems none the worse for it. "I do not want to have an encounter with the homeowner's association. Dangerous foes." Evidently, she does not even notice the deep, commanding voice through the door and she says of the knock, her recorded voice's volume turned down, "Is that them?" "As opposed to authorized trespassing?" Regan muses, quiet. She steps back out of line of the door after the knocks, her arms crossing over her chest. "Seems like the homeowner's association does not like our new welcome mat. -- It's the police. I might be able to shoo them off." The human police outside, at least, are playing out a whole vivid scene mentally -- entering the building, finding a pair of nondescript and compliant people to escort back out with them. "Guess they'd complain even more about chickens. These yards have so much room, though." Scramble goes still when the police SUVs pull up. "Well, there goes the neighborhood," she mumbles, also retreating away from easy sight to hover somewhat dubiously beside Regan. "Ain't gonna fool the robots, though." Her head tilts just slightly. "Then again, ain't much there to fool, with these these new ones." Still, her fists and clench and uncleching rhythmically, ready. The human police are a little glassy-eyed outside as they turn to walk their nonexistent charges back toward the trucks. The robots are less easily moved, still standing blankly to stare at the closed front door. Across the street, a skinny woman whose peroxide-blonde hair is a stark contrast to her orange-brown tan. "Did you get them?" she's calling out, loud. "You can't just leave them here it's been ages. Don't tell me nobody's home." "There are several individuals still on the premises," one of the Osbots helpfully reports, drawing several more police officers out of their SUVs. One has a disgruntled frown as he stomps to the door. "The fuck are you playing at," he mutters. This time his banging is heavier -- once, twice, before he kicks the door in. His gun is already drawn, as is that of his partner behind him. "NYPD hands behind your head." Heather's eyebrows raise when further explanation comes, and she zips out of the room and then returns with her goggles down and carrying a metal baseball bat, silver with block letters hand-painted pink of the words: 'FRIENDLY GREETING'. She grips it with one hand, while the other taps out another quiet message for the others. "I can provide a warm welcome to the robots. Humans are too delicate." When the cops kick open the door, there is a blurring at the edge of her silhouette as she prepares for action. Regan is obliging, when the police enter. Eyes wider, hands folding behind her head; she takes several steps back, kneeling by a wall. Right where the two entering police are standing, the floor abruptly gives way, two small but deep pits opening up filled with some sort of spitting-hissing-glowing-steaming type liquid. It might not be real but it certainly gives of a malevolence that suggests if you came across it in a video game you should Not jump in -- regrettably for the officers, they're already standing squarely in the middle. "Have you got an eviction notice, Officers?" Still, Scramble reluctantly complies, following Regan's example and waiting for the officers to stray within the reach of her power. The corner of her mouth twitches up as she watches the floor open up beneath the two offers out of here peripheral vision. The abrupt shrieking of the officers by the doors draws a swarm of police tumbling back out of the vehicles, guns drawn as they pour toward the house. Two more Guardians join the three more pairs of police, tramping over toward the open door as well. "You are illegally trespassing," one of the Osbots already at the door replies, blithely stamping past the screaming officers to march toward Heather, plastic cuffs at the ready. "Do not attempt to resist arrest." Behind, the newly arriving officers are looking -- first bewildered by the screaming, then very alarmed at the sight of the floor. The first to arrive drags one of his companions out of the illusory acid pit as his partner steps around it. "Hands in the air," he's saying, even as the other, at the same time, gun trained on Scramble as he rushes in, orders: "Hands behind your head." Heather's only response to the Osbot that approaches her is in her movement, as her voice is now clipped to her belt. She wields the bat in both hands, and in the blink of an eye has offered the arresting bot a rapid, powerful swing that wooshes menacingly before making contact with the machine. "Tchdwn!" she squeaks gleefully. Regan lifts her brows at the conflicting orders coming from the new influx of police officers. She doesn't move, though she does compress her lips when one of the men draws on Scramble. To the minds of the humans in the room, his gun starts to glow, red-hot as an ember. "Oh, nicely done." Her thin-lipped press shifts into a pleased smile at Heather's swing. "Can we score these?" Scramble puts her hands behind her head and keeps perfectly still while the cop has his gun trained on her, but as the gun starts glowing in his hands she sidesteps quickly and ducks past him, her powers sinking into his mind as he passes within her range, filling him with debilitating horror. "Y'all we hear those robots of yours are real unpredictable, especially in situations they ain't used to. Best keep an eye on them!" The Guardian stumbles backwards at Heather's swing of bat, cracking the wall as it thunks against it. It swings its arm around to fire two quick shots in Heather's direction. "Assaulting a New York City Police officer is against the law," the other robot helpfully informs the room, "please do not attempt to resist arrest." The man who'd just drawn on Scramble drops his gun with a yelp, eyes wide. Breath starting to come faster. He's turning to step over the two cops who had been in the acid-pits, now recovering their breath on the floor as he flees toward the cars. Tries to flee toward the cars, anyway. One of the Osbots outside stops him, turns him around, shoves him and all four other remaining police back inside with the firm admonishment: "We are here to execute an arrest for trespassing. Please comply." This is not easing the tension of the human officers. "On the ground," one of them tries again, though one is grumbling at the robots as another marches towards Scramble to attempt the arrest herself, this time. Another is swinging his gun around a little uncertainly, squinting at vibrating-Heather. "We said down." Heather seems a little surprised as she sidesteps the line where the Guardian's gun is pointing, and she responds by swinging the bat in line to smash its weapon in a swing that would make hall of famers jealous. This done, she starts to zoom towards the doorway and, as she passes the uncertain officer and keeps carefully out of the line of fire, she flicks her finger out to hit the magazine release on the pistol. Her movement finishes momentarily when she thrusts the bat towards the Guardian that is in the doorway to knock it back, helpfully trying to allow the cops the point of exit that they were looking for. "Of course, officers." Regan is ever-so-polite. Hands still behind her head as she slowly lowers herself face-down to the ground. Behind her the apartment is starting to skitter and crawl, ceiling sagging with mold, corners going black with the mass of cockroaches that have teemed out of the corners, a pair of huge rats trailing across the floor. Something green and thick dripping from the ceiling. At one of the officers' hips a radio squawks abruptly urgently with a call across town. "Kind of a fixer-upper, huh?" Scramble sounds almost gleeful about this even as the house disintegrates around them. But she does submit to the instructions, putting her hands up and sinking to her knees as the cop approaches. The moment she's within range, Scramble's power twists the chemistry of her mind toward compulsion, turning their already disgusting surroundings unbearable. "Oh my God --" In the grips of disgust and horror many of the police are fleeing. Some are trying to argue the bots into leaving, first -- though the robots themselves only take heed of this at the radio call, and not the entreaties of their supposed handlers. Two of the officers leave their abandoned firearms and magazines on the ground where they've been dropped as they hasten back to the vehicles. One of the Osbots, at least, takes the time to assure the Brothers: "Trespassing is illegal. The NYPD works to enforce the law, preserve peace, protect the people, reduce fear, and maintain order." A small delay before it attempts -- unsuccessfully -- to reseat the slightly broken door in its splintered doorframe and return to the SUVs with the others. When the cops start to flee, Heather breathes a squeaky sigh of relief. She does lift up her goggles and peaks past the splintered doorframe to look across the street where the bleach blonde across the street is standing. Heather points two fingers to her own eyes and then points out at the spray tanned woman, then resets the door in a way that will allow at least a little bit more privacy. She turns to the others and her recorded voice remarks, "We may need to pick up more than paint." | |
