ArchivedLogs:Serve And Protect

Serve And Protect
Dramatis Personae Trib, Micah, Jax, Anette
In Absentia	5 September 2014 Troublemakers, police, and mutants, oh my...
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. Here is the Lower East Side: kind of dirty, kind of crowded, kind of sweltering under a day that's been hot and muggy and even now into evening's fading light is reluctant to let /go/ of that. On the sidewalk a scruffy-bearded young man is busking, deep-rich bass well suited to the Santana song he's performing though his guitar playing is not nearly up to snuff. A group of youths are clustered on the steps of an apartment building sharing tacos and horchata and laughing over YouTube videos on one of their tablets. There's sounds of music blaring from an open apartment window, sounds of yelling from another. Traffic comes and traffic goes. And at one door in a rowhome all shabbily peeling paint and dirty brick facing another pair of young men (also laughing) are busily spray-painting the townhouse door: 'MUTIES GO HOME'. Not far away a pair of police officers is ambling around the corner; one eyes the kids but ignores them, turning instead to continue the conversation he's been having with her partner. The Lower East Side is definitely not one of Trib's regular Places To Be. In fact, he hasn't been around this neighborhood in a couple of weeks. Still, here he is, stalking down the street in his usual panther-like gait. Dressed in jeans and a muscle shirt of blue with the number 46 on the chest, the boxer /might/ be heading in the direction of the Mendel Clinic. Certainly his face looks like it could use a doctor's attention, even if the cut over his eye has a butterfly bandage on it, and the shiner below it has already shifted into a brilliantly nauseating display of green and yellow beneath the purple. Trib stops to watch the graffitos as they work, his jaw tightening as he takes in the message. There's a grinding noise as his attention shifts to the cops ignoring the offenders. Clouds begin to gather in the boxer's expression, and he looks as if /he/ might take care of things. If those cops weren't right there, that is -- something that doesn't seem to change no matter how many pointed looks Trib flings their way. And that number is not a low one. Sweltering days are a prescription for ice cream! Having been tipped off to a new unique-flavours ice cream shop nearby recently by Lucien, Micah needed little excuse to lead Jax over in search of what vegan offerings they might have. He is dressed after-work casual: sneakers, bluejeans, chocolate brown T-shirt with a stegosaurus cursing a T-rex for its 'sudden but inevitable betrayal' on it, olive newsboy cap over slightly damp and very messy post-shower auburn hair. He has an ice cream cone in hand, vegan mango in a lovely shade of orange that is doing its best to drip on his hands in an attempt to share the pretty colour with his skin. "Mmn. We'll hafta take Spence sometime, too. He's surprisin'ly into weird-but-tasty flavours for bein' as young as he is. Sure he'd like new ones t'look into." He might not be paying the most attention to his surroundings with husband at one hand and ice cream in the other. Jax's ice cream is pale green with dark sauce dripped over it -- avocado, topped with balsamic glaze. He's dressed colourfully, knee-length wrapped sarong in swirling peacocky shades of green and blue and purple, a white tank dotted with tiny blue hummingbirds. "I think that's the twins' influence. B puts seaweed on top of hir waffles." He /is/ paying attention, guard-training still /present/ even after so long off work, and in Micah's hand his own tightens -- /first/ at seeing the cops, /then/ Trib, /then/ the young graffiti artists. His brows hike up from behind his large dark glasses, and he hesitates only a brief moment before releasing his husband's hand to move closer. "'scuse me." His thick Southern drawl is rather /polite/. "Where exactly is it y'think mutants /come/ from t'go home /to/?" Anette does a good job of staying under the radar and not attracting attention. Other than the fact she's wearing a knee-length leather jacket in the middle of this heat. But otherwise she's pretty unnoticeable. She casually makes her way through, keeping to herself as she keeps herself occupied with people-watching. The graffiti artists get her attention though. She pauses a ways away, watching them work as she decides her next action. After a brief moment, she continues on her way, walking past them and pretending not to care what they're up to. A few feet past, she suddenly pauses and turns her head to an odd angle, looking directly behind her to the kids graffitiing. "I think it's past your bedtime children," she says, giving a quick wink before turning her head forward again and continuing on her way. The kids have been attracting a decent amount of passing stares (glares, thumbs-ups); simply being /looked/ at doesn't really attract their attention until they are actively addressed. One lowers his spray can, brows hiking up as he looks at Jax in -- stark confusion, actually. "Huh?" The other frowns as Anette's head rotates kiiind of unnaturally. "Think it's past /yours/." Maybe snappy comebacks are not their strong suit. The /cops/, though, rather more used to -- or expectant of -- being left alone here on their turf, answer Trib's pointed looks with their own. "You have a problem?" The grinding from Trib's jaw gets a bit louder as Micah and Jax appear, and the latter speaks to the vandals. Annette's appearance doesn't really alter that, but he does have a small lift of his chin for her. But it's the cops that get his primary attention when they speak, the big man swiveling his head to pin the addressing officer with his hawkish stare. "Dunno," he grunts. "Got a problem with vandalism," he notes, jerking a thumb at the kids with the paint. "That shit's illegal, ain't it, Officer?" "Those are two great flavours, but not ones that go great together," Micah opines of the waffles and seaweed combo with a nose-crinkle. "Though adventurous tastes are generally a plus." As if to illustrate, he leans in a bit to sneak a taste of Jax's ice cream concoction. "Mmn. The avocado I knew would be good. The vinegar on ice cream raised some skepticism, tho--" That squeeze of his hand cuts off any further opinions on ice cream. His jaw sets, teeth meeting with his lower lip as Jax addressing the vandals draws his attention to them. The recently-released hand finds new purpose in fishing his TARDIS-cased phone out of his pocket to video the vandalism in progress and the response to Jax's question. There's no telling if it might get uglier, after all. He slowly walks over to set himself up at Jax's side. "Muties go home," Jax chirrups back in oddly cheerful reply. "Right there." He gestures with his ice cream cone towards the graffiti. "Where do you think we should go home /to/? It ain't like there's some mutant homeland we all come from, I was born an' raised Stateside." Despite his cheerful tone he leans just a little bit closer to Micah, a very faint ripple of light shivering around his body. Anette had been hoping to just mess with a few kids quietly but apparently it's going to be bigger than that. But, she knows what side she's on and turns around (all of her), to join the group talking with the cops. "Really, I'm just concerned that kids are out this late at all. Wouldn't want anything to happen to them, right?" she says, her voice sounding perhaps just a bit too concerned to actually be believable. Still, she doesn't want to get too involved or give away her mutation, at least not until there's good cause. "It's dinnertime," one of the officers says, flat and bored in answer to Anette. And the other, who had first addressed Trib, speaks sharper: "You trying to do our fucking jobs?" "We?" Not /entirely/ slow on the uptake, the taller of the youths catches on to this pronoun quickly enough -- tensing, warily, and taking a step back towards the door. The other one takes a step /forward/, chin lifting sharply towards Jax. "So long as you get lost we don't care /where/ you go." His eyes cut over towards Trib and Anette as well. "You want to keep your noses where they fucking belong?" Trib smirks a bit when Anette speaks up, rolling his eyes a bit at her innocent tone. He rolls his neck, offering a small show of teeth at one corner of his mouth when the woman gets closer. The vandal's smart mouth gets a hard glare from the boxer, and he opens his mouth to respond -- only to clap it closed when the police officer speaks to him. That sharp tone evokes a strange reaction from the big man -- his chin drops to his chest, and he rubs at his neck uncomfortably. Like a weight rests there. "No sir," he rumbles, keeping his eyes pointed firmly down at the concrete and speaking in a tone that's remarkably subdued, for Trib. "I was just asking, boss." Red begins to creep in around his ears, and he grinds his teeth with even more noise. "Sorry. I didn't mean nothin' by it." With all the fuss going on over by the officers, Micah quite openly and slowly swings around to get them on screen, too, before returning to the kids. "Says 'go home', though. Folks /are/ home already," he adds, as if Jax's statements somehow weren't clear enough or maybe the kids just won't get it without simpler terms. "Seems rather a waste of everyone's time. 'Hey you...yeah, stay put.'" This last comes with a pleasant enough smile, almost playful. "I think they're meanin' more along the lines'a just disappear?" Jax suggests this to Micah a little uncertainly, furrowing his brow as though he's trying to give this matter actual consideration. "Which, I mean, a lotta us are capable of /doin'/ but people tend to get a mite twitchy when y'just turn invisible around them. He glances back over his shoulder towards Anette with a faint curl of smile that vanishes at Trib's reply to the cops. "Think we're jus' tryin' to make sure that whoever lives here --" He tips his hand towards the vandalized house, "don't feel threatened in their own home." Anette starts to get a bit annoyed at the cop's defensive tone, and she resists the urge to get snappy. She continues along with her overly polite attitude. "I wouldn't say we're telling you to do your jobs. I just noticed you hadn't spoken to the kids performing a very illegal act yet so I gave you the benefit of the doubt and assumed you hadn't noticed them. Just...consider me a concerned citizen." She turns her head (within human limits) to glance at the graffiti and suddenly grins. "Then again, maybe you're like me and just impressed they could spell both 'muties' and 'home' correctly on the first try." One of the cops puffs up even more at Trib's sudden discomfort. His hand has dropped to his nightstick and he takes a half-step forward towards the bigger man. "Good. /Go home/ sounds like pretty good advice for all of you right now." Evidently 'all of you' except for the spraypaint-wielding youths; he ignores /them/ as one lifts his can to start spraying the house again. The /other/ has his can in hand, too -- though it isn't the house but /Anette/ he wields it towards. The hissing of compressed air comes with a spray of red that streams out towards Anette's leather jacket. "We're," he says to her with a definite smirk, "concerned citizens, too. Concerned about what's happening to our neighborhood." The officers, notably, don't pay this bit of vandalizing any more attention than they had paid the rest. The half-step forward is matched by Trib's immediate half-step backwards. "Yes, sir," he mutters, still unable to make eye contact with the cop. "I'm sorry, boss." The hand on his neck rubs a bit more firmly, the skin beneath his hand reddened either from rubbing or the sudden flush that's stubbornly remaining in place. "Don't fuckin' make it worse," is mumbled at Anette before the hiss of paint being launched gets a flinch from the big man, and he glances at the cop's waist -- first at the nightstick, and then at the taser on his hip. Since it's firmly holstered, Trib spares a small twist of his head to spot the vandal and the incriminating can of paint in his hand. His mouth presses into a line, and he inhales deeply, holding his breath as he waits for whatever's going to happen now. For those close enough to see his expression, it's definitely one of tense, unhappy resignation. "Could be. Y'think a body'd be clear on 'is message 'fore goin' through all the trouble of paintin' it on a wall, though," Micah muses with a small shrug, still calmly filming. He frowns at the cops' advice but doesn't move. "It /is/ concernin'. I hear there's all kindsa things that go on 'round here. Vandalism. Harassment." He winces at the paint as it heads for Anette. "Assault. Like the Wild West out here. Nobody does a thing about it. 'Least that's what I hear." The phone's camera turns on the cops doing nothing, again just for a moment before settling back on the illegal activities in front of him. "Hey." Jax's voice isn't exactly /sharp/, but it does raise slightly when the spray can lifts towards Anette. The stream of paint doesn't actually make it /to/ the jacket, washing up instead against a sudden very /solid/ barrier of translucent prismatic light that shimmers in the air between the kids and the woman to shield Anette from the paint. "Seriously?" The tone in his voice as he glances towards the officers is -- not actually /surprised/ at all, more just resigned. "Thought they was makin' an effort to get the Force /better/ on this kinda thing." Anette quickly turns sharply as she hears the kid approach and the distinctive hiss of the paint can, just in time to see the kid spray an invisible wall. Her fists clench angrily but she glances briefly towards the phone camera and, with a quick breath, manages to quelch her anger. Mostly. "Wow...great job acting on the whole 'serve and protect' thing. No really, I've never felt fucking safer in my life," she says, the faux-politeness gone. "I can see my taxes are being put to good use." She glances towards Micah as he brings up the Wild West and rolls her eyes. "No, this is nothing like the Wild West. The people could take care of themselves in the Wild West. Here, we've got no one looking out us and when we try to protect ourselves, we're still fucked. Then again, I'm not sure if I trust my safety to two cops who somehow haven't put together that they should probably at least pretend to do their jobs when there's a rolling camera on them!" At this point, she's seething with anger and practically shouting but she hasn't resorted to violence yet which is a big plus. The kid /spooks/ back when the forcefield appears, dropping his spray can as he scrambles back towards the door. "Jesus fucking /Christ/." /Now/ the officers are looking, gazes drawn back that way by the clattering of the can, the cursing from both Anette and the other kid. "/Fine/," the one who had been speaking to Trib finally responds, stepping forward with his hand dropping now to his handcuffs. "You want us to do our jobs, here. -- Hands in the air. Frisk him." He's speaking to his partner on this last -- though it isn't the vandals he is directing this towards, as he pulls his handcuffs out, but Jax and his glowing shield. When Anette begins to lose her temper, and then handcuffs appear, Trib's expression grows deeply concerned. Perhaps wisely, he keeps his mouth shut. There's another half-step backwards, then, followed by full step, and the big man watches all parties involved carefully. Well, those in front of him, anyway. At this point, he's not really interested in where the vandals have gotten to. His hands flex, and the look he gives Micah is both sympathetic and filled with angry humiliation. He looks as if he might want to say something, but another look at the cops and the handcuffs, and the Looks of Meaning Business, and the big man wobbles in place uncertainly like a man who can (and probably might) rabbit. "Goodness, but he's a jumpy one, isn't he? Attack people an' get all terrified when it just...don't work out like y'wanted." Micah tsks softly, shaking his head. "Oh, /now/ they care." The camera stays on the cops this time, since their activity appears more likely to continue in an unfortunate direction. He summons a rather convincing look of /surprise/ at the cops directing their attention to Jax. "Why in the world would y'think that was /him/?" The smug grin he adds to this question is definitely deliberately misleading...to those who know him well, at least. It's worth a try. Jax opens his mouth, but closes it again with a sharp snap. The shield falls away, his muscles tensing and a distinct pallor to his face as he lifts his hands obligingly -- though one of them by now is rather /sticky/ with drippy-melting ice cream from the cone it still holds. He grimaces as another long drip of melty avocado deliciousness trails down along his arm. His teeth bite down against his lip, breath sucked in between teeth and skin. Frisking him doesn't find much of interest; in pocket-less sarong and only out for a short walk anyway, he's foisted off cell phone and wallet to his husband, leaving nothing under his clothing but a rather extravagant number of piercings. There's a brief hike of his brows when Micah speaks up, but they lower soon after, and he holds his silence. Anette says, "Are you KIDDING me?" she says, staring dumbfounded as the cops suddenly decide to do something. "-THIS- is when you decide to remember what your job is? Geez, I can't imagine why everyone hates you guys." Her fists clench tightly in frustration and her now strangely yellow eyes dart back and forth as she assesses the situation. Caught between wanting to help Jax yet knowing anything she might do will probably only make everything worse, she's left standing there, finally silent. The boys with the spray cans exchange a /smirk/, at least until the first officer tells his partner: "Them, too." There's a long hesitant moment where the kids look like they might /bolt/, but kind of trapped between the group and the door they acquiesce, lowering spray cans to the ground before lifting their hands. Here, though, in the middle of frisking them too, the officers exchange a look. Between each other and then to Micah. "He's the one who said he was a mutant," one of them finally volunteers gruffly; it might be annoyance over this sudden uncertainty that makes the other one bark to Anette, "You want to join them?" On what charges is anyone's guess. He stabs a thumb over towards Trib. "You want to take a lesson from your big friend there, /he/ knows how to behave." There's the smallest of pained noises from Trib when Anette begins to speak up on Jax's behalf, and the look the big man gives her very definitely suggests that she take his lead. When the cop points him out as that very same model of good behavior, there's a darkening of the red in his neck and ears, and he jams his chin into his chest even harder. His entire frame tenses; muscles coiling for /some/ sort of response as he watches the frisking mutely from behind the curtain of his hair. "Last I checked, callin' yourself a mutant or just /bein'/ a mutant weren't neither of 'em an arrestable offense. There's a lotta people 'round. Never know just who might be one. An'...goodness but some abilities got /range/ on 'em, too." Micah shifts his expression suddenly to exaggerated wide-eyed innocence behind his phone. "So the question stands. Why'n the world would y'think that was /him/?" He even goes so far as to lick a trail of melting mango from his ice cream cone before it meets with his hand. Jax's fingers tighten. His breath hisses in and out slowly again. The glob of remaining ice cream in his (partially broken, from his tighter grip) cone topples from its melty precarious perch and splats to the ground. There's a very small twitch at the side of his mouth when the officer calls notice to Trib's Good Behavior, and he tips his head up towards the sky. "You should know by now bein' Mutant In Public's good /as/ a crime." The next small twitch of his lips is /upward/, directed over towards Anette. "S'a mystery." Anette glances towards the boys when they appear to finally be getting what they deserve before turning back to the cops. "About time...look, why don't you let pretty boy here go on his way? He's clearly no threat to anyone. Now that everything is taken care of, we'll be on our way, hm?" Seeing the vandals punished seems to have soothed her temper by lightyears. "You don't want all of this going viral on YouTube, do you?" Even after handcuffing the pair of vandals the cops look a little uncertain. It takes a moment of quiet conferencing between each other before they turn back to Micah. Jax is dismissed with an /actual/ shooing gesture as though /he'd/ been the one harassing the officers. "C'mon, smartass." It's kind of /impatient/ the way the officer gestures to Micah to raise his hands instead. The others are also dismissed, now, an also-gruff, "Being on your way sounds good." Trib's eyes narrow as Anette makes her point about Jax being a non-threat, and his lips purse thoughtfully as he waits to see what /that/ brings about. He's still coiled tightly, and when the cop dismisses the group, he moves fast enough that it's surprising that there's not a Trib-shaped cloud of dust and his softly grunted "Thank /Christ/." left hanging in his wake. He's no longer moving in the direction of the Clinic, but he doesn't seem to care. He doesn't even look back to see if anyone is following. He is simply /gone/. It takes a great exercise of will to suppress a victorious smile when the cops shoo Jax off. Micah passes his phone and ice cream to Jax with slow, small movements in order to have empty hands to raise as directed. "M'I under arrest?" he checks since the cops haven't clearly stated their purpose yet. "I'm not consentin' to a search." Neither is he resisting, however, regardless of what the officers answer. It's all an exercise in simple obedience and not saying too much from this point on. Jax's expression has closed off into a very steady blankness. His very sticky hand claims Micah's ice cream, the cleaner one capturing the phone so that now /he/ can continue the recording, backing away to a safer distance near Anette. "Thanks," he murmurs under his breath to her. If he's overly /concerned/ about his husband's impending -- arrest? -- he doesn't say anything, just holds the phone-camera steady and -- licks at Micah's drippy-melty ice cream, since his own is gone. "Anytime," Anette mumbles back to Jax, standing back and deciding she's done with outbursts for the time being as she watches how the cops handle...whatever they're about to do to Micah. "Remind me to mention that grabbing the camera was genius," she quickly adds. "Yes." It's a simple and blunt answer from one of the officers; the other one starts the typical litany of Rights for the arrestees. Outside of maybe cinching the handcuffs a little tighter than strictly necessary, they are at least not overly /rough/ with Micah -- or the others -- through this process. /Maybe/ it's the camera. It's probably going to be a long and tedious evening after this, though.