Logs:In Which These are transitional years and the dues / will be heavy.

In Which These are transitional years and the dues / will be heavy.
di Prima, Diane. "Revolutionary Letter #10". 1-2. cn: police violence / shooting
Dramatis Personae Matt, Mirror, Lucien, Winona, Scramble, Scott, Shane, Eric, Ion, Taylor, Bug, Anahita, Destiny, Natsumi, B, Mystique, DJ, Heather, Jax, Polaris, Tian-shin, Joshua, Nick	the end of an era "War's coming, and there's no time to wait."
Location Freaktown, and beyond
20 april. 12:45 p.m. the high line. chelsea. "It was never going to last, and I have a certain appreciation for the tenacity of things which outlive all expectations." Matt sips his tea, gazing out placidly over the Hudson. "But Freaktown's days are numbered, and fewer all the time as more refugees trickle in. The American public doesn't like thinking about where those refugees came from, and their duly elected representatives even less, but the shock of it, and the power of that image..." He's holding aloft his thermos and not Sunbeam, but Mirror can use their imagination. "{Well. You've put it to good use, but whatever grace Lassiter bought is also fast running out. If Freaktown falls quietly six months from now, or a year--spin or no, it would pass with little remark in the scheme of things.}" His hand turns gracefully palm-up. "So it goes. But what if it were to happen now?" He cants his head as he glances aside at his companion, bright green eyes steady and thoughtful. "You could do something with that, no?" Mirror has a coffee cupped warm between their hands, and since they arrived they have been very slowly picking at the cardboard sleeve, plucking it idly into shreds. They've seemed almost more engrossed in this activity than in whatever Matt brought them here to discuss, and it's only near the end that they look up finally, swift enough it seems startled. There's a new intrigue in their expression, and as Matt makes his conclusion they are actually giving him full attention. When he concludes they're lifting their cup, sipping slow through a pensive hum. "I was starting to think you were just a pretty accessory for your mother to tote around," they admit freely. They're leaning up against the railing, watching the sun glint off the water. "Darling, with that we could spin such a tale." --- 21 april. 3:03 p.m. texts. (Lucien --> Winona): Do you have any contacts among the Mongrels? (Lucien --> Winona): Or, I suppose, more generally among their autonomous zone. (Winona --> Lucien) I do. Looking for commentary on something? (Lucien --> Winona): No. I think I have happened across some information that might be of imminent use to them. (Lucien --> Winona): I will email you the longer version. It would be quite a boon if you could get the information to someone who might be able to act. --- 21 april. 7:37 p.m. freaktown. Probably, Scramble would prefer to be granting mayorial audiences out in the gazebo, where a lively cookout is getting underway, but that's too many eyes to risk perceiving her right now. But being holed up in her rooms isn't an excuse for being a poor host, and she hands her guest a glass of cold cider before sitting down catty-corner with one of her own. "This was made right down the street by some folks in Apple House. Bit on the nose, but I ain't complaining." She raises the class to Winona. "I ain't never thanked you properly for your part bringing down Prometheus, even if..." Her lips compress and she just drinks the sort-of toast instead of qualifying it further. "I know y'all Blackburners are tight, but Polaris got good opsec and if she pointed you at me it's gotta be urgent." She sets the glass back down and laces her fingers together. "So, give it to me straight." Winona looks down into her glass contemplatively, raises it thankfully towards Scramble before taking a drink. "This is good." She looks out the window towards the activity outside. "Goes to show how people can thrive, find what they're into, given a chance..." There is a tinge of melancholy to this statement, before her voice takes on a harder tone: "Got a reliable source saying that the city is mobilizing. The cops are mobilizing. They're looking to take this place back, and soon. I don't want to see you and your people blindsided by sentinels. See these people," she sweeps her hand towards the outside, "get hurt or worse. War's coming, and there's no time to wait." --- 22 april. 6:57 p.m. xavier’s school, sub-basement. Training is complete for the day, and most of the team is hitting the showers or leaving the locker rooms, but Scott is still wearing his X-suit by the exit, which probably speaks to the deliberateness of this encounter, if the greeting/request/command that follows -- "Wait a second, Shane," slightly croaky when he swallows a gulp of water too hastily -- is not enough of a tip-off. He stands, twisting the cap back onto his water bottle with quick, purposeful movements, and swallows again; when he speaks again there is less censure in his tone than concern, almost softening his voice. "I know you're up in Riverdale a lot --" the press of his lips here is brief but conspicuous, when so much of his face is hidden behind his visor and hood, but his voice is still low and steady "-- I wanted to check in." Shane may not sweat like most people do but his particular physiology means he is usually more than ready for a post-training shower for comfort, if not hygiene reasons. The fact that today he's hastening to grab his things and head out probably says something about his current schedule, but he doesn't seem impatient -- at first -- when Scott addresses him. "Yessir?" He stops readily near the door, tilting his head back to look up at the much taller man with a go-ahead curious lift of his hairless brow. The mention of Riverdale, though, puts a rapid flutter in his gills, a quick shuttering of his protective inner eyelids. "Pretty sure Freaktown is all out of Get Out Of Jail Free cards." This is sharp now, his claws clicking in quick rat-tat-tat against the shell of the motorcycle helmet hooked to his bag. He gives a small shake of his head, and continues to the door. "So no worries, you can sleep easy knowing none of those homeless suckers is gonna be dodging responsibility anymore." --- 22 april. 9:19 p.m. freaktown outskirts. The crazy eclectic decorations and myriad fairylights of Freaktown are oddly lit tonight, an entire battalion of flashers casting red and blue pulses along the outermost houses of the enclave. There are a number of police from a number of different agencies, the feds and the NYPD currently mostly avoiding each other as much as is currently possible. Several of the former have clearly already been trying to make some more aggressive entry into the space -- but as though there's an invisible wall thrown all around the previously-amorphous boundaries of Freaktown, the feds who have tried entering have simply been stalled on the outskirts. Their numbers have been growing for some short time while, reluctant, the feds have deigned to consult with the NYPD on what particular strain of mutant bullshit is keeping a solidly impassible line between them and the freaks. It's somewhere in here that a nearby string of fairylights shivers -- this means little to the out-of-towners, though no doubt MID is quick enough to take note. It's no surprise to them, at least, when the fluttering lights end in a quiet crackle and Ion -- the PRESIDENT patch gone from his cut, though the rest of his Mongrels patches remain -- appears standing beside their Sergeant. There's an unusually noticeable crackle of sparks around him, though beyond this he seems, for him, particularly sedate -- no boisterous greeting, no fierce grin, no taunting. Just a somewhat drawn face as he ignores the many (many) cops, some of which have reflexively moved for their sidearms. "Banhammer gotta sleep some time, he ain't gonna keep this on lockdown forever," he's telling Eric, direct. "I'm guess you don't want a bloodbath no more than we do. There hell of a lot of people in there though and they gonna need some breathing room to figure their shit out if we don't want this popping off." "Easy, easy," Eric snaps at one of the suits nearby, hand extended. "Jim." This last is directed to one of the other MID officers who takes a step over, between Ion and the scardey-fed. Eric gives Ion a small smile, but the tension around the corners of his lips and his uncomfortable glance back at the line of federal agents reflect a marked departure from his normal, cheery self. "'Lo, Ion. Been a minute since I've seen you 'round. Glad to see you're still breathin'." The sergeant pauses, briefly, taking a step forward. "No, we don't. You can tell all'a 'em, no one's gettin' charged, no one's gettin' cuffs put on. They just need to pack up and leave." Glancing over his shoulder, Eric shoots a glance over to a large white RV parked halfway down the block, festooned with antennae and cameras. "So far, Banhammer got 'em unsure enough that they're listenin' to me and mine." The police officer gives Ion a long look, and shakes his head once, twice. "For now. This drags on…." He does not finish his sentence, but merely jerks his head in the direction of the suit, now arguing with the other MID officer. "We ain't gonna be runnin' this show anymore." --- 23 april. 1:27 p.m. below new york. With a hardhat (markings long since worn off) and a high vis vest (with the bright colour faded and the reflective stripes having squares cut out from having been repurposed for other projects), Bug is dressed for the job he is trying to emulate. He has drawn up some figures on pages that are held in place on his favourite clipboard, representing the complex space in the underground. "... the area down in this part," one of his reddish bee-bugs lands to indicate where he is indicating, "just needs some clearing out, but it's dry and safe there. I would say a family unit of six or so could be in there." The small bug makes a wide circle and then jumps to another spot, more confined. "This would make a good space for someone who might have overactive powers at certain times. So they can like, still come in, see other people, but then not irradiate everyone." When he flips the page, several more of the fuzzy bugs touch down to crowd in and claim their spaces. His segmented eyes stare with blank contemplation. "We're gonna have to put in a lot of unpaid overtime to get this part sanitary and liveable, boss." Taylor does not look nearly so professional, in jeans and a grungy old a-shirt. He's looking at Bug's sketches with deep contemplation, an expression augmented by the slender arm that rubs under his chin. "Not to eem mention what it's gone take to rustle up food for all these new mouths." It sounds kind of grim, and several of his arms are writhing a little uncomfortably around him. But soon enough he's throwing Bug a fierce smile, one of his serpentine arms bumping the other man's shoulder amiably. "Guess it's a good thing we gonna have no end of spare hands soon, huh?" --- 23 april. 11:31 p.m. freaktown, town square. The ceaseless flash of lights strobing blue and red echoes through the houses and into Town Square are, doubtless, not making this meeting any less tense. It hasn't yet come to blows, though it's certainly seemed dicey on that count at some points. Perhaps it would be more reassuring if it looked like there was imminent danger of another intracommunity scuffle, but at the moment the growing rowdiness seems largely directed outward. The belligerent pitch of the conversation is rising in large part due to the impassioned exhortation currently underway. The man speaking is not large but he is commanding, resonant deep voice and a normally amiable disposition that has won him a lot of friends in his months here. There's an intermittent rumble punctuating his words, adding a shiver of the ground underfoot and rattle of loose pebbles to his deep voice. "-- how many places have we even had for us? How many places any of us had, anywhere? Erry time we get just a little for ourselves --" His fingers snap sharp, along with another brief rattle. "Maybe some y'all can live like that but this the only home some'a us got. Where a bunch a freak ex-cons gone land up, you think? I ain't the man I was but out there all I ever gonna be is a fucking rap sheet with superpowers. But we make a stand here, now, maybe we finally carve out a place we can be us." Anahita has been listening quietly, and though she speaks up now she does not raise her voice. "You are right to want to defend your home. I do, too, but we need to think about what that means." She is standing up and seeking out the gazes of the others who have been calling for arms. "If we go to war, the police will attack not only those who fight, but everyone in this community. If we drive them back, they will send for the state police, and the National Guard, and on and on." She's turned back to the aspiring general of Freaktown. "You know how they see us. The humans would sooner bomb this place to dust than let us keep it. The cost of standing this ground would be the lives of the people who have made it home." The sweep of her hand takes in the gathered residents and implies many more beyond, but ends outstretched toward the man she's addressing, palm-up. "And who can -- and will -- build other homes. It's a harder stand to make, but we can only be us if we help each other survive." --- 24 april. 5:15 p.m. jenner base, kitchen. It looks like Ion hasn't slept in a while, eyes bloodshot and shadowed, clothes too-long lived in. Where this might leave other people more exhausted it seems to have left him more charged. He hasn't stopped moving since he got here, his words coming at a rapidfire pace -- at the least, though, the kitchen is getting thoroughly tidied. He's currently busy scrubbing down the immense cooktop, still talking quick while he does. "{-- been known this wasn't gonna last but the fuck you gonna do, just not give people a home because shit don't last forever? Nothing last forever, still rather do something when people in need now. We gonna find a new thing we gonna build a new thing but mean time there's hell of people gonna be out without nothing. We got space here, yeah? We could step up.}" It's not clear what Destiny actually came to the kitchen to do, other than being in the right place at the right time to hear Ion out. She is perched on a stool out of his way, showing no impatience for his rapid spill of words. "{I helped build Utopia,}" she says when at last he pauses, "{and I know the pain you feel for what's coming is not eased by its inevitability.}" She rotates her cane meditatively between her hands. "{Space we have, but no safe harbor. The Brotherhood has never been a place for civilians, and I do not need to tell you we are in greater peril now than ever. That danger will only grow when we go back on the offensive, as we must do, and sooner than I would like.}" She turns unerringly to him, though her eyes seem to focus on something far more distant. "{I will talk to Mystique and Regan, but right now I don't think we should take in anyone now who isn't ready to fight. For their sake as much as ours.}" --- 25 april. 2:07 p.m. freaktown, town square. This rolling meeting has gotten at once more subdued and more tense as time wears on. The numbers are dwindling, slowly but surely; some of those with other prospects peeling off to new places, some of those without other prospects peeling off in fear of the growing impatience of the police warnings. But those who have stayed -- far too many of them -- are feeling the weight that much more heavily. There's still an occasional call to fight the cops, but at this point it seems mostly for show, a last hurrah of bravado from those feeling most despondent at the thought of Life Outside. For the most part, the ongoing conversation has a tone of exhaustion, of resignation; some people expressing gratitude for the community they've found in the past years, some in desperate search for What Comes Next. Somewhere at the fringe of this conversation, Natsumi is -- just listening, hands wringing restlessly together. Several times she almost seems about to speak, and then does not. At length, somewhere in the middle of a pretty drunk young woman sobbing (her tears hiss alarmingly where they drop onto the pavement) she is getting up, quietly picking up the overstuffed backpack she's been keeping close by her and starting to slip away from the crowd. A quiet voice breaks in as Natsumi starts to go. B is perched on the empty ledge of what used to be one of town square's bustling stalls, its proprietor fled some time back. "You got a plan, or just -- going?" There's no weight of judgment in the question. B's black eyes have fixed thoughtful on the teenager. "It's not gonna be as good as this place, but I do know somewhere safe you can go." --- 25 april. 11:35 p.m. scott’s room, xavier’s school. It is definitely far too late into the night to be making house calls, but it's probably not the impolite hour that has Shane considerably more subdued than his usual. He's got his Mongrels cut on, helmet still tucked under one arm. The sturdy practicality of his tac-pants-and-boots ensemble in stark contrast to his usual dapper clothing is telling even before factoring in his grim expression. "I know we haven't seen eye to eye on -- a lot of this and I know the school's already bursting at the seams but." His gills flutter once and then press down flat. "There's going to be a lot of kids with no place to go soon. We could really use the help." Shane has found Scott ready for bed, in sweats and slippers and a robe, but there is a drawn alertness in his face, in his posture, even in the fact that his hair is still neatly combed. He stands in the doorway, his hand still gripping the doorknob, and though he takes a long, slow breath in it comes out in a soft, quick exhale when he nods. "We have room," he says, and even amends this already dubious claim to -- "We have plenty of room." For a moment he just stares down at the other X-Man, his face unreadable, before his gaze tilts away. "I'll find a way to get them here safe," he promises. "You just -- take care." --- 26 april. 3:19 a.m. freaktown outskirts. As the population within Freaktown has slowly started to ebb, the group outside has grown. While some of the mutants relocating have found less nerve-wracking means of getting out of freaktown, escorted out by those who have means to teleport or fly, some are uneasily braving the gauntlet of police in riot gear as they leave their home. The many different clashing law enforcement agencies have swelled their numbers, and after this long standoff they have only gotten more antsy -- it probably doesn't help that some of the NYPD have been peddling horror stories. The staggering violence the Mongrels are capable of. The baffling things they've heard go down in Freaktown. The terror perpetrated by the Brotherhood members supposedly still lurking among them. As jittery as cops can be around mutants at the best of times, maybe, after all the stories and all the waiting this was inevitable. There's a small knot of people just leaving one of the houses, a middle-aged woman with large black-feathered wings half-sheltering a pair of exhausted-looking older teenagers beneath them. One of the teenagers is emitting a somewhat sickly glow, flickering just a little uneasily brighter and faster as they near the line of police behind the blank walls of their riot shields. In the faceless mass of police it's hard to say who cries out first -- but the "-- is it going to blow" is followed swiftly by someone else entirely: "Get back get back" and the panic is spreading before the trio of mutants has time to Get Back. Once the first shots ring out, the line is turning to chaos -- some cops pushing forward eager to join in the promise of violence while others are scattering back to keep well away from the promise of Dangerous Mutant Powers. In the discord, not even the incoming Sentinels are paying much mind to one cop slipping back away. By the time the tension in Freaktown has shattered into screams, Mystique is long since an anonymous face in the nighttime streets. --- 26 april. 3:43 a.m. freaktown. Smoke lazily drifts in a neverending procession across the ground, with the pops and bangs of crowd control weapons serving as the background score to a young couple trying to escape from what was their home until a short while ago, a purple horned toddler hugging tight to their father's chest. The mother's bright violet eyes scans for a path past the approaching sentinels, with rising panic. But before that panic reaches a head, there is the CRASH of impact as Heather's blurring form resolves long enough to bash one of the sentinels back, leaving it tumbling towards one of its compatriots, but not seriously damaged. She pauses long enough to nod at the couple, a silent reassurance that everything will be ok, before her shape again becomes a blur and-- -- crunch. The tumbling Sentinel has been moving hard but it shouldn't be hard enough to fully enmesh it with its companion. But the two are now entangled, too-many-legs rolling like the world's creepiest tumbleweed. There's a third Sentinel incoming but before it actually reaches the family a second blur has swooped in. The descending Sentinel vanishes, reappearing -- --speared on the end of Heather's bat, forming something reminiscent of a mechanical wriggling greathammer. She grips the weapon's handle with both hands to continue the whirling momentum down upon another of the hostile bots. When the 'hammer' comes down, the impact rings out, concrete splits beneath the weight of the strike. Before taking another swing, she unclips and lobs her 'utility belt' back to-- -- Blur #2, snatching it out of the air. One of the pockets flips open; there's a rapid series of small crunches as the last of this barrage of sentinels crumples to the ground just short of the terrified family. A moment later DJ resolves into a brief clarity, just tucking one final unused baseball back into its pouch. When he plucks a recorder off the belt, well. Maybe this evening is chaotic enough that it does not even factor on the weirdness-scale that it's Heather's voice that plays back to the family: "You are safe. You can flee now." --- 26 april. 4:23 a.m. riverdale. Not far away, the air is thick with smoke and gas -- tear-gas canisters and flashbangs filling the air with confusion and pain. The roil has stopped just short of this cluster fleeing Thorne House, though, held in place by an ephemeral-looking but very strong iridescent wall. In the pandemonium Jax is something of a beacon, wreathed in subtly shifting glow, and between the heat and light he's drawing a fiercer barrage from the swarm of incoming Sentinels. None of it is getting through just yet -- he has one hand up, outstretched, as if his command alone could stave off the hostile bots, and though he's wincing at the rat-tat-tat now hammering against his shield, he isn't backing down. Polaris is the last out of the house. Well, almost last. She's half-dragging and half-shielding a small child who in turn is cradling a large crow--for some reason it's not flying away from the terrifying uproar, head ducked low in the dubious shelter of the girl's skinny arm. A frantic man who had been running back toward the house intercepts them, and Polaris delivers child and bird alike to him before turning to assess the scene. Her eyes skip from the fleeing residents to the incoming Sentinels, and before she's even pivoted fully, all manner of metallic detritus lifts from the ground nearby--from spent gas canisters to abandoned garden tools--ready projectiles against inconveniently magnet-proof foes. Then she sees Jax and wavers. Her weapons clatter to the ground as she sets her jaw and turns to catch up with the residents scattering in their panicked flight. "Stay together and follow me!" she cries, and determinedly does not look back. --- 26 april. 4:41 a.m. toni's place. riverdale. Tian-shin isn't dressed for court today, but she still looks more put-together than one might expect of an outlaw biker. But then again, the club she's prospecting for is often not what one might expect. She's also not doing anything obviously outlawed, kneeling on the front lawn of a local Freaktown ally's house loading up a collapsible wagon with bottled water and snacks for the next shift of volunteers. It's important work, no doubt, but she's compulsively checking her phone every time it chirps--which is frequently, given the sheer number of Signal groups she's currently in--and every time she hears gunshots from Freaktown, whether it chirps or not. The latest notification is from the legal aid group, and she rises to peer anxiously toward the commotion as if she might somehow spot the bright green hats of the legal observers requesting backup. A small amount of the chaos from Freaktown is, abruptly, here on the lawn. The pair of residents Joshua has brought back here are bleary-eyed, one cursing steadily but quietly; the other, louder, has uneasy prickles of echoed pain that accompany her louder wails. Joshua does not appear to be tear gassed himself but his shoulders have clenched against the intermittent empathic spillover. He glances to Tian-shin, and the small press of his lips is not unsympathetic as she looks towards the besieged autonomous zone. "You're gonna be busy as hell soon enough," he's proclaiming, kind of grim. "C'mon, could use a hand with some eye flushes." --- 26 april. 5:21 a.m. freaktown. The holdouts skew young and angry, but many of Sundew House's last defenders might well have fled before now if they weren't justly afraid of running the gauntlet while monster. Nick is not literally barking orders, but his cajoling has grown steadily more urgent as the human cops swarm the streets, moving from house to house. He and Taylor finally manage to usher the terrified monsterlings out the back door just before the cops smash their way in through the front. Unfortunately, another drove has come clattering around the side of the house to box them in, ungainly with armor and shields but bristling with guns to compensate. "We're just trying to get out," Nick is telling the faceless riot cops as calmly as he can, keeping his body between them and the knot of residents--some of whom also lack recognizable faces. But however calm he sounds, his hackles are up and his ears are back and the whites of his wolfish eyes are showing as they flick left and right in desperate search of an escape. And the cops are gripping their guns tighter. Later, they will probably say they were afraid for their lives, and it was really that freak showing its teeth like a cornered animal that pushed one of them into squeezing the trigger first. If the cops weren't afraid for their lives before, they definitely are the moment Taylor bursts out the door. One of his arms is shoving Nick forward just as the first shots ring out, and several more are unfurling in unnervingly long serpentine writhe. The fact that all of his arms are stretching up does not, apparently, reassure the police much, but at least their attention has been firmly commandeered away from the others. His arms splay out wider, a thick and motile shield that roils in the gap between the police and the monsterlings. In Nick's mind his voice has a sharp edge of panic: << Run. >> It's a stark contrast to his spoken words, carefully level though his eyes are wide with fear: "They just kids, they just wanna get --" The deafening report of bullets drowns out the end of this sentence. --- 29 april. 8:41 p.m. riverdale. Freaktown's gazebo is still standing, and many of the string lights dotted around its posts are even still lit, patchy spots that blaze all the brighter for the strange absence, here, of strobing police lights. Mismatched furniture is scattered in varying states of upside-down and broken and pushed aside, all around the clearing; the fire pit and garden are marred with skid marks and footprints; the trellis has been toppled and trampled over, leaving its many cheerful decorations -- silk flowers and ribbons, hammered tin ornaments, now-broken glass, fabric pennants -- scattered and half-buried in the mud. Probably most of the people now prowling Freaktown, at this point, are strangers here, and probably so is Scott, who stands a little distance away from the gazebo, his stance sturdy and his hands tucked into the pockets of his old, worn motorcycle jacket; there is no X emblazoned on it. In the darkness, Scott would be easy to overlook if not for the faint glow of his visor, gazing steadily across the way at the gazebo. After a long, still moment, he bows his head, just a little. The slight flickering of the string lights were once a familiar tell, around here. Right now there's noone left here among the stragglers in what once was Freaktown to recognize the flutter as much -- just one more bit of the lively neighborhood gone to ruin after the battle. The fluttering ends in a faint cracklepop, and then Scott has company. Ion's a little thinner, a little more scarred, plus one beard and down one hand, but the crisp ozone tinge that accompanies him is still the same as last Scott saw him. He has a black band tied across his own well-loved Mongrels cut, and the ragged ends of the cotton ripple slightly in the breeze. "One day, man. We --" Wherever this was ending it just cuts off in a ragged exhale. His hand claps to Scott's shoulder, firm and heavy. "One day."