Logs:Of Raids and Remembering (Or, Crime School)

Of Raids and Remembering (Or, Crime School)
Dramatis Personae Joshua, Kavalam, Roscoe
In Absentia Ryan, Halim, Harm, Charles	2024-05-10 "I did a lot in the labs I didn't want to do." (a little bit after meeting Halim.)
Location <NYC> Ruins of the Seventh District - Lower East Side
There was a police station here, once upon a time, but that was years ago. After its unfortunate demise in the 2020 riots the new seventh district was rebuilt a few blocks away; this site has been tied up in endless city council dickering about what to do with the lot, "memorial to the brave fallen officers" getting a lot of lipservice but not actually a lot of funding traction. It's likely the dickering will continue for some time now that the New Seventh District has also burned. In the meantime, the ruins of the station are currently playing host to a boisterous crafts-and-coffee party-cum-fundraiser, a number of Chimaera artists offering workshops on things from signmaking to graffiti art to making riot shields to a rotating backdrop of leftist musicians. Ryan Black will be on shortly, but at the moment it's a pair of Nuyorican rappers whose current song, "Rebelión", has been pretty easy to follow along in Vibe even for the Spanish-language-impaired. Around the periphery of the gathering there's an also boisterous crowd of counter-protesters gathering, attempting to convince the cops to shut down the very much unpermitted party, but the cops don't seem eager yet to tussle with the mixed group of Mongrels & Company handling Safety tonight. Joshua is at the medic table set up in one corner, but isn't medicking -- no patches, no kit, a beer in his hand. He's dressed comfortable, casual, jeans and sneakers, red kippah with a black flag stitched into it, "דאַלוי פּאָליציי" printed in bold across the front of his tee. He's been chatting with the pair of medics actually staffing the first aid post right now, though turns his attention to the music as they move away to greet a young person wandering up to the tent looking kind of abashed about the large bump they got in their head from climbing-up-and-then-falling-off a remaining bit of Police Station Wall. Probably these folding chairs are meant for Actual Patients, but there's only one patient right now and they have been seated, so. This chair has been yoinked and claimed -- Kavalam does not need medicking, he's plopped himself into it so he can finish the very important and taxing work of picking a team to fight the shadow Suicune in the nearby gym. "Come," he's saying imperiously to Joshua as he slots into the older man's awareness, "join our party. Kill this evil -- wolf... lion... I don't know what it is." Roscoe is sitting in a chair on Kavalam's other side, slouched low and fidgeting with his phone; he has the hood of his sweatshirt up, drawstrings tightened around his face. Perhaps he only downloaded Pokemon Go earlier today, for all he can contribute to this epic showdown is a Pidgey. Perhaps this is why his contribution to Kavalam's request/command -- "We need you" -- sounds unnecessarily dire. Joshua coughs, quiet, clearing his throat several times to rid it of the beer (it's a coffee stout) that he has abruptly attempted to inhale. He scrunches an eye up, peering over at the children. Then down at Kavalam's phone. "Water spirit." He's taking his own phone out without protest, waving it near Kavalam's once he can join the party. Only then is he looking over at Roscoe -- or Roscoe's phone, his own expression growing dire. "Shit. You do." He's somewhat less dire in his actual comportment, resting the phone on his thigh so he can lazily select his team and join the raid, most of his attention still on the music (head slightly bopping, non-phone-encumbered knee slightly bouncing) and sip at his beer. "Lotta crime school in session." The neck of his beer is tipping out towards the various Chimerical offerings. "They should give a workshop on this molotov coffee business. Much better use for coffee, really." Kavalam is nevertheless drinking a coffee of his own through this complaint, seeming to enjoy it perfectly well despite the fact it is not tea. Once the raid starts he is paying little enough attention to it, kind of on autopilot with his tapping. "I came here to collect the Pokemon you owe me, but you can teach some crimes while we are at it." "Like it's so hard to set something on fire and throw it," Roscoe scoffs, though he's flicking glances around the station ruins with a nervous restlessness that does not exactly scream either 'seasoned protest veteran' or 'molotov cocktail expert', holding his phone with a death grip. "Are you allowed to teach us crimes? What kinds of crimes are allowed for X-Men?" "Coffee's not flammable. Needs extra oomph." Joshua is setting his beer aside as the performers onstage finish, free hand patting his applause against one thigh. "X-Manning is a crime." He takes another gulp of his beer, slouching lower where he sits. His eyes are flicking around the gathering -- only vaguely attending the actual Crime Art Workshops and mostly checking in on the more distant clusters of police and counterprotesters once Ryan has been announced next. "I teach first aid. Often necessary in proximity to crime. The fuck Pokemon do I owe you." He checks in very briefly with the almost-defeated raid boss on his screen. "You're getting a Suicune." "I'm catching this water spirit my own self." Kavalam says this quite severely to Joshua as the boss goes down. He isn't, actually, bothering to catch it yet, just leaving it on his screen as he follows Joshua's look towards the protesters. "You promised. Ages ago. I will take a Xerneas." After a moment of consideration: "Also make Roscoe your friend. He has no Pokemon yet, he will need many. First aid is not a crime." Though here he's pausing, uncertain, his eyes fixed on the police. "... is it?" "I want the Suicune," says Roscoe, as though his Pidgey was instrumental in this victory and would make a very fair trade. He caught the others' glances over at the police and is staring that way, now, worrying at his lip for a moment before turning back to the stage, maybe scanning for a glimpse of Ryan Black, Rockstar before he comes onstage. "Anything can be a crime if the wrong person did it," he says, then -- with no attempt to segue -- "We met Halim." "You'll get one." Joshua is gesturing towards Roscoe's phone screen in indication. "Click the green button. Chuck the ball at it." He gives the cops one more glance, but then is looking to the stage. He plucks his beer back up, fingers drumming absently against it. "Yeah," is a bland agreement with Roscoe. "Crime's a social construct." His fingers clamp hard at the neck of his bottle. His jaw has gone a little bit tighter, his leg jiggling up and down a little faster. It takes a moment before he looks to the boys, heavy brow wrinkled before it lifts in silent questioning. Kavalam is frowning -- probably not at the Pokemon, he's tipping his phone screen slightly in Roscoe's direction to demonstrate the Pokeball Throwing -- but back over toward the cops. Then Joshua. Then the medics discussing Potential Concussion Aftercare with their patient. "I will learn your criminal medicine," he offers as if this is great favor he is doing for Joshua. He's not really looking at his phone at the mention of Halim, though his head bows he's peeking sidelong looks toward Joshua. "He has been staying up in the cranky wing. He says he knew you. Was he one of your shitfucks." Roscoe throws the Pokeball and acquires the Suicune. His leg is starting to bounce restlessly too, not quite in sync with Joshua's. "He recognized me," is all he has to add to this list. "Harm can get you a training schedule." Joshua rests the beer on his bouncing knee, but then lifts it again for another swallow. At a delay, his head shakes. "Man helped bust me from Franklin." Kavalam's frown deepens. Now he's looking directly at Joshua, quite still in contrast to the others' bouncing. He starts to speak, but something in Joshua's long face halts this, and instead gulps at his coffee. "At Lassiter he was working." "How can you tell if someone had their mind --" Roscoe lifts one hand to make a vague clawing gesture before withdrawing it back into his baggy sleeve and dropping it back to his lap, grimacing. "He said mutant labor is more profitable than --" this sentence is shrugged off, too, but Roscoe is giving Joshua a sort of intense stare, his face only pinched with the suggestion of a frown. "I did a lot in the labs I didn't want to do." "He had his mind." This is a little bit clipped, almost immediately on the tail of Roscoe's question. Joshua doesn't make the clawing gesture, though his fingers flex against his bottle. "Came out of Penfield the year before me." He's still just slouched in his chair, which makes the small lift of his shoulder look oddly casual. "One of my closest friends, once. Thought he died in Mendeleev after they snatched us back but." His wrist is rotating slowly, and though he almost lifts his beer again he flicks a quick glance to the counter protesters and then sets the half-finished bottle down on the ground. He finally looks back at Roscoe, mouth pulling a little longer in a grimace. "Yeah. Labs had a lot of ways of fucking us. And mutant labor's profitable." Kavalam flicks at the lid of his coffee cup, turning his frown now to Roscoe. He nods, slow. "That. Sucks." His eloquent assessment is almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd once the much-awaited rockstar has taken the stage, and he continues flicking slow at the rim of his cup-lid as he waits for the applause and screaming to die somewhat down. "He says that the Professor fixed-up his brain. If you --" He's looking away again now, head tilting slightly to the first strains of music. "A little while longer he will be at the school, yah?" Roscoe hunches his shoulders almost imperceptibly higher, eyes just slightly wider behind his hood. "I'm sorry," comes out very quiet; perhaps it is entirely lost in the sudden flood of noise. His eyes have dropped away from Joshua, maybe, the eyelids lowered but his face still pointed with unnerving accuracy. "He's out of a job right now," he adds. Joshua nods again, slow. His hand, freed of beer now, has dropped to his side, fidgeting restlessly with one of his tzitzit. "They --" he begins, but then glances to Kavalam. His mouth tightens. "He doesn't remember me. Wasn't sure if he'd..." His head shakes, quick. He glances sideways to the kids again. "Would it be fucked up. For you. If he stuck around." His mouth is pulling slightly to the side. "Lot of us did a lot of shit in the labs. Getting it doesn't mean you want to see some of your labmates' faces again." "He doesn't..." Kavalam's eyes go wider, now. He takes his glasses off, rubbing them against the hem of his shirt, and his "I'm sorry," is soft as well. He shifts a little uncomfortably where he sits, but pushes through this unease to doggedly continue Not Being Flip: "I think coming out of those places, many things will be fucked up a long time. It is still better, though --" Now he's looking around the party, the protest signs and the fierce graffiti harmonizing with the passionate defiance being sung onstage. "To make it less fucked up. Where we can. I think he may have a hard time finding other places people get it." Roscoe's eyes have darted aside to Kavalam, now, the movement kind of creepy under his eyelids, but he says nothing. "Yeah." It's all Joshua says, for a time. Maybe he's listening to the music, his face vaguely turned that way, but his absent bopping in time has not resumed. After a time, his eyes flick to the counter-protesters -- a small frown knitting his brows as he looks at their increasing hostility. He doesn't move, but he's sitting up a little more alert in his seat. "Bigots jonesing for a fight. Give you a lift, you not in a violence mood." Kavalam is contemplating the protesters intently -- at first it's kind of curious, scrutinizing what in their shift from angry to differently-angry has prompted Joshua's tension. The curiosity gives way to a displeased frown. He looks to Roscoe, a little tenser himself -- then to Joshua -- then to the line of riot cops. He holds out his hand, kind of grateful in his expression even if his tone as he stands is chiding: "Do not get killed." Roscoe looks from the crowd to the cops back to Joshua -- "Would you let me stay if I was?" is probably not a serious question; he stands and brandishes his hand, too. Joshua hffs, at this. He's standing, too. Dropping his calloused hands into the teenagers' and glancing towards -- -- the mansion's front door, which is very abruptly there, the cheerful sounds of recreation from the lawn still startlingly quiet next to the noise of the concert. "Be good to learn first aid, first." And then, chin lifting casually to the kids, he's gone. Kavalam's expression is lingering on thoughtful, as Joshua goes. It's a bit at odds with his woeful: "I forgot to trade his Pokemon."